Page 3 of The Duke Disaster (The League of Extraordinary Widows #1)

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“ M rs. Barnes has not yet come down.”

The words echoed up the stairs from the foyer below, waking Celia with a start. Kemp was an excellent butler, but he had a habit of speaking far too loudly at times, given his previous occupation as actor. Covent Garden’s loss was Celia’s gain. He was a far better butler than that dreary soul who managed Lord Claremont’s household.

Snuggling deeper beneath the sheets, Celia stretched out her toes. Dancing was wonderful, but hours of it tended to make her feet sore. The same was true of champagne, which gave one a headache of overindulgence. Celia never tasted champagne until the end of her mourning, but she had immediately found it far more suitable for her than the watered down ratafia Lady Claremont had always insisted upon.

A Barnes did not drink to excess.

Celia giggled into her pillow.

The first thing she had done as mistress of her own home was to spoil herself with champagne. Admittedly, last night—she rubbed at her temples—she may have had one glass too many. Dancing until the wee hours hadn’t helped either. But what a perfectly marvelous evening. A different attractive gentleman for every dance. A gossamer blue gown which fit like a glove and floated seductively across the floor as she’d deliberately flashed her ankles. Delightful.

The crowd surrounding the dance floor had boasted several of the Barnes cousins, all scowling in her direction.

“I don’t care,” came the clipped, icy tone floating up from the foyer. “Fetch her immediately.”

Her room was dark, with only a sliver of light filtering through the curtains. She glanced at her bedside clock, trying to make out the time.

Barely noon .

She flopped onto her back, uncaring who stormed about downstairs. Kemp would get rid of whoever dared to call so early. Tracing a finger along her lips, Celia smiled.

Lord Paul and his amorous attentions could still be felt. Not only was he an excellent dancer, but also a man who knew his way around a lady’s mouth. His proficiency at kissing had led Celia to the conclusion that Lord Paul would be experienced in other more intimate matters. He was rather delicious, with his mane of golden hair and bright cerulean eyes. He didn’t have the shoulders of Lord Jameson, of course, but he made up for it with the skill of his lips.

A most excellent candidate to be her lover.

She’d had every intention of allowing Lord Paul liberties with her person, but Lady Claremont had descended upon them. Dulcetta, a name which matched her dull personality, had not yet relinquished her self-appointed role of Celia’s keeper. Hissing in outrage like a wet cat at Celia, clasped as she had been in Lord Paul’s arms on the terrace, Dulcetta had demanded she come inside. The mood broken, Lord Paul had hurriedly made his apologies and departed, likely wondering why on earth a widow needed a chaperone.

Celia wondered the same and hoped he would call upon her.

“Fetch her, or I will do so myself.”

Her visitor’s voice seemed vaguely familiar, but she’d never heard Lord Claremont sound quite so commanding. Distraught about the garden party incident, no doubt. Claremont liked to stop by her home unannounced, hoping to catch her in the throes of an illicit affair.

She hoped someday he might. But it probably wouldn’t be with Lord Paul.

Another sigh escaped her. Pity .

Celia wanted, somewhat desperately, to take a lover. Finding the right man, however, was proving much harder than she’d hoped. It didn’t help that Percival’s priggish brother and overzealous sister-in-law continued to dog her steps. She no longer lived under their roof. She was a widow of means. She had her own household. Percival was dead. Celia’s existence should no longer be the concern of the Barnes family.

If Claremont had arrived to lecture Celia once more on the fountain incident at the Fenton garden party, he could save his breath. She had apologized for what had been nothing more than an accident. Too many glasses of champagne, the tossing of a coin into the fountain for a wish—which had been for a lover, of course—and her slipper had caught on a bit of stone. She’d fallen into the fountain, thankfully shallow but freezing despite the sunny day. Dressed in a pale green, somewhat diaphanous gown—perfect for a garden party though not for swimming in a fountain—it hadn’t been until she’d stood that Celia had realized the thin silk and tulle, when wet, were transparent .

The lack of corset, in hindsight, had been an unwise decision, but she’d wanted to be able to breathe properly. Her chemise had also been quite thin. Only a layer or two of petticoats, given the day’s warmth, because she hadn’t wanted to become overheated.

Again, the entire affair had been an accident .

The low murmur of Kemp’s voice raised an octave and became excessively deferential. Boots sounded on the tile of the foyer before marching with military precision up the stairs.

Oh, dear. Claremont must be incensed.

Celia sat straight up in bed, her hair falling about her shoulders in disarray. She dimly recalled pulling out the pins and tossing them carelessly about the room after sending her maid, Therese, to bed, given the lateness of the hour. But at least Therese had tossed a nightgown over Celia’s head before departing. That was something.

She nibbled on her bottom lip, eyeing the door with trepidation.

Claremont had been furious over the garden party. He and Dulcetta had called upon Celia the following day, spending the better part of an hour on a stern reprimand. Celia had listened calmly, munching on Cook’s excellent currant scones. Pretended great remorse. Perhaps this visit was about Lord Paul stealing a kiss on the terrace. It was such a minor circumstance, despite Dulcetta’s wailing. Celia couldn’t imagine Claremont would?—

The heavy tread grew ominously closer.

Steeling her shoulders, the sheet dropped an inch or so, but Celia made no effort to cover herself. This was completely unacceptable, even for Claremont. If he wanted to invade her bedroom, her sanctuary, he should be prepared for the circumstances.

The door flew open so forcefully, a painting on one wall trembled.

A tiny shriek popped from her lips. Oh. Goodness. That isn’t Claremont.

Far too broad and of a much greater height. Claremont could look Celia in the eye, and his form was lumpy, like a bowl of porridge. Percival’s brother possessed the posture of a turtle. One that never smiled and was far too bitter for a decent soup.

The man striding into her room blocked what little light came through the curtains with his large form. His features were impossible to make out. He could be a common thief who had forced his way into her home. Possibly she was being robbed.

Kemp stood just outside her room, wringing his hands.

Shouldn’t he be trying to defend her? Or…putting a stop to this stranger’s entry into her room?

“Kemp,” Celia uttered in a commanding tone. “Summon William and William.”

That sounded ridiculous, though somewhat amusing. The two young lads she employed as staff coincidentally shared the same name.

“Madam,” Kemp stuttered, peering around the door, “I?—”

“This is uncalled for.” Celia sputtered, pointing at her uninvited guest. Could it be one of the Barnes cousins? No , none of them possessed such magnificent shoulders. “You cannot just barge into my home?—”

Her intruder strode directly to the window and tore open the curtains with a snap, then made a sound of annoyance and turned to face her.

Sunlight flooded the room, making the ache in her temples that much worse. The light was behind him, still conveniently keeping his features shadowed. She squinted, unable to make him out clearly, other than the emerald stickpin winking at her from the area of his neck.

I must limit how many glasses of champagne I consume in the future.

“Kemp,” she said, shielding her eyes. “Send for a Bow Street runner. Or the constable. My modesty and reputation are in danger.”

What if one of the Barnes cousins had arrived, come to do her physical harm for the fountain incident?

Celia allowed herself a small moment of triumph, imagining their discomfort.

But she saw no pistol. No sword. Though she could be easily strangled by a cravat or a bedsheet. But murder, even hers, would cause an enormous scandal. The Barnes cousins would never risk such a thing.

“You have little care for your modesty, madam, as recent events would dictate.” The sound of her visitor’s voice, like boulders falling over sheets of ice, pierced her ears. “And even less for your reputation.”

Oh. No. Celia recognized that patrician tone, dripping with arrogance, though she’d only heard it one other time. At her wedding.

Anyone but him.

He took a step closer, the sunlight finally revealing the harsh lines of his face.

Good lord. He might strangle me.

Dark hair the color of fresh turned earth, precisely trimmed so that not one errant strand dared touch his ears. Mouth dripping with dislike. Eyes such a light brown they appeared gold— she recalled those well enough . The bold nose, coarse and out of place on his stern aristocratic features remained the only hint that the Barnes family owed their pedigree to a peasant centuries ago.

Celia took a trembling breath. She knew every inch of that face though it was a bit older now. He’d spent the entirety of the meal after her wedding ceremony glowering at her from across the table, as if Celia were a worm found in the perfect apple of the Barnes family.

She would have preferred the odious Claremont and Dulcetta to this. Thomas Barnes. That pompous prig, Sir Richard. Even a half-dozen of the Barnes cousins clustering around her bed would have been preferable.

I should not have had that last glass of champagne.

“Your Grace,” she stuttered at the ominous form of the Duke of Hartwood.

Hartwood narrowed his eyes, rather like a hawk about to sink talons into a plump field mouse before tearing the poor rodent to pieces.

I am the mouse .

“Noon, Mrs. Barnes.” The duke’s gaze drifted over the riot of Celia’s curls spilling over her shoulders and her general appearance with a great deal of repugnance.

She immediately hitched the sheet to her chin.

A sneer pulled at his lovely mouth. The same mouth Celia recalled from her wedding breakfast. Hartwood, oddly enough, had full, rather sensuous lips. Completely wasted on a man of his nature. Which was that of an overparticular ogre.

Do not look at his mouth .

“I—” Celia stammered. Hartwood was somewhat…intimidating. His presence on her wedding day had cast a pall over everyone assembled. The cousins had practically fallen to their knees in worship before him.

Honestly, a few might have. Celia couldn’t recall.

Percival had lived in fear of Hartwood. Maybe that was why her husband had abandoned her immediately after their abysmal marriage. The duke had made clear his dislike of Celia at the ceremony. Percival had done the same later that evening. Repulsive. That was the word her new husband used to describe why he couldn’t bear to touch her.

That’s not important at present, Celia.

“I am only surprised to find you alone,” Hartwood drawled in his snotty, self-important way. “An unusual occurrence, I understand.”

Celia sat up straighter at the insult. She was not a harlot. And even if she were, it was none of the duke’s affair. “Get out,” she said, a bit more waspishly than one should speak to a duke. “Your Grace,” she added.

Hartwood’s appearance in her chambers was vastly inappropriate, duke or not.

The golden eyes raked over the unkept nest of her hair, judgement in every line of his body. “You have a quarter-hour to make yourself presentable. I’ll await you in the drawing room.”

“I am not one of your servants, Your Grace,” Celia responded bravely. “You cannot order me about in my own home.”

“Do not make me come back up these stairs, Mrs. Barnes. If I do, I shall be forced to dress you myself.” Dislike oozed from his lips as if just the thought of touching her disgusted him. “A quarter-hour. Cease your outrage at having a gentleman in your bedchamber. I doubt I’m the first. Or even the dozenth.”

Celia’s mouth popped open. Arrogant and rude.

He glanced around her chambers, eyes alighting on the pile of silk she’d worn last night, now lying in a crumpled heap on the floor. The vanity, with brushes, combs, and ribbons strewn about. The tiny pots of paint for her lips. He shook his head. “Employ a better maid, Mrs. Barnes.”

“The hour was late. I sent her to bed.” Celia wasn’t sure why she felt the need to defend Therese or the state of her private rooms to this pompous, priggish?—

“Like walking into a pig’s sty.” He interrupted her thoughts with a shake of his perfect head.

A squeak of indignation left her. The audacity .

Spinning on his heel, Hartwood marched past Kemp, the sound of his boots echoing throughout the house as he made his way to the drawing room.

Celia clutched the sheet. “Bloody stick up his bum. Don’t know how he can walk.”

“Madam?” Kemp gave her a wide-eyed look.

“Never mind, Kemp. Find Therese and send her to me.”

“I couldn’t refuse him, Mrs. Barnes,” Kemp apologized. “He is the Duke of Hartwood. He reminded me that—ultimately, I am in his employ.”

That sanctimonious block of ice.

“You are not to blame, Kemp. His Grace has all the subtlety of a brick to the head. Stomping about and making demands. I’m only surprised that Heartlesswood didn’t bring Lord Claremont with him to hold his bloody hat.”

Kemp’s brows disappeared into his hairline at her words. “Madam,” he whispered, horrified.

Poor Kemp looked as if he might faint. The rest of her staff was probably cowering in the kitchens. This was outrageous.

“Do not permit him entry again.”

The butler paled. “But he is the duke.”

“I’m aware. Now, go downstairs and pretend to see to his comfort. Offer the duke a brandy, but not the Pierre Ferrand . Not the cognac. It is far too expensive to be wasted on him. He’ll only find some fault with it anyway. I’ll be down presently.”

Kemp nodded and hurried away.

Crows had lined the trees yesterday as Celia walked the park. She’d ignored the signs of Hartwood’s impending visit.

“I refuse to fuss over him as everyone else does.” She threw back the sheets. Hartwood had struck her as a bully at their first meeting, and her opinion had not changed. Pushing down his rigid view of the world on everyone else. His version of perfection. Celia glanced around her room, deciding there was nothing wrong with a little mess. She liked clutter. A bit of disorder. It made things interesting. More importantly, this was her home. The first place that had ever belonged to her and wasn’t subject to the demands of anyone else.

Heartlesswood might terrorize the Barnes cousins, but he would not do so to her.

Celia pressed a hand to her heart to still its rapid pace.

Nothing good could possibly come from the duke’s visit. What Celia knew about Hartwood, besides his exacting nature and sensuous lips?—

Enough of that, Celia.

—was that he managed the vast Barnes family with an iron fist, as his mother, the duchess, had before him. When Celia had lived with the Claremonts and the great Duke of Hartwood had been in town—a rarity—Lord Claremont had run about like a nervous chicken attempting to escape the pot. Dulcetta had agonized over every detail of the house. The maids had worked around the clock until not a speck of dust or dirt could be found. Entire beds in the gardens had been replanted because His Grace preferred shrubbery to peonies.

And Celia? She had been sent to her rooms so as not to be seen, the risk of offending the duke far too great.

The duchess, Hartwood’s mother, had by all accounts been far worse. Her tolerance for anything less than perfection had been non-existent. Dulcetta had once mentioned that when she and Claremont were newly married, the duchess had visited. The Claremont foyer had been found wanting. A decorator had been summoned before Dulcetta could even pour tea. The duchess, without even asking, had instructed the hall and drawing room be repainted and refurbished to her specifications. On her way out the door, she’d reprimanded Dulcetta for her posture, the quality of the tea, and the stale taste of the scones. The entire tale had her almost feeling sorry for Dulcetta.

Celia was not about to cower before the duke. Once weakness was shown for his autocratic behavior, he would stomp all over her with his large, booted feet. “A bath, please, Therese,” she said when her maid appeared. “I danced quite a bit last night.”

“But, madam…” She looked out the door as if she could see Hartwood pacing below. “The duke?—”

“Can cool his heels. When one arrives uninvited, one cannot expect to be received immediately. Besides, His Grace will be horrified if I am not made presentable before appearing to subjugate myself before him.”

“Madam?”

Celia gave a careless wave of her hand, though she felt anything but flippant. “I can’t greet him smelling of champagne, can I?” She doubted Hartwood had ever even tasted champagne. Or danced.

Well, yes. The stick up his bum would preclude dancing.

Therese bobbed and hurried out of the room.

Hartwood, Celia mused as she went to the window, looked the sort to linger about the edges of the ballroom, staring down anyone who glanced in his direction and didn’t appropriately bow and scrape before him.

“I do not intend to do so,” Celia whispered, taking in the view. “His Grace will be most disappointed.”