Page 30 of The Duke Disaster (The League of Extraordinary Widows #1)

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E very bone in Oliver’s body screamed for him to follow Celia, but he did not. He leaned back against the wall, so stunned he couldn’t think clearly. The words they’d hurled at each other were so awful and unthinkable. He wished every one could be taken back.

You are the only lover I’ve had.

Slowly he took the stairs back to Atherby’s box. Every step a struggle. The gossip columns were filled with her escapades. Her lovers. If nothing else, she had been wed to Percival for nearly four years before his death.

I disgusted Percival so much, he couldn’t bear to touch me.

Celia wasn’t lying. He saw the truth in the tears hovering in her eyes. The pain in every word she spoke. So much of her, his autumn , suddenly made so much sense. Celia collected male admirers because she felt unwanted. Undesirable . Because of Percival and Oliver’s own family.

I want her .

The realization, far too late, had Oliver stumbling as he reached Atherby’s box.

He nodded at Claremont, considering whether to ask about Percival’s accident, but it wasn’t the time or place. Taking his seat beside Lady Helen, because he couldn’t very well go running after Celia, he deliberately kept as much distance between them as possible. When Celia did not return, a disappointed Shaddick departed before the end of the performance.

Oliver barely heard the opera taking place below. Nor Helen trying to gain his attention. He replayed the night he and Celia had become lovers, examining every touch and sound. When he’d taken her, she’d stiffened at first, but Oliver, in his arrogance, had assumed it to be due to the size of his cock. Not the breaching of her maidenhead.

Because Percival had never touched her.

She has good reason to hate all of us. Especially me.

“Your Grace.” Sir Richard, seated directly behind him, leaned forward. “Might I say, on behalf of the Barnes cousins, it is gratifying to see that our fears were unfounded. You have altered your course, so to speak.”

Oliver didn’t bother to turn his head. “Altered my course?”

“In the matter of Mrs. Barnes.” Sir Richard’s wine-soaked breath met his nose. “Corrected, I might say.” Sir Richard’s voice lowered further. “She has some appeal, like most women of her kind.”

Sir Richard was insulting Celia and had no idea his life was in danger.

“When I mentioned my concerns to Lord Claremont,” the older man continued, “after seeing your carriage more often than necessary at the home of Mrs. Barnes, he assured me that matters would soon be resolved.”

“How kind of Claremont to do so.” Oliver had an acute inkling of how Celia must have felt upon her arrival in London. Watched. Criticized. Having others determine what was best for her. He had never once considered that he was subjected to the same. Because as the Duke of Hartwood, Oliver should have been above it all. How humbling to find he was not.

“Lady Helen is an excellent match. Truthfully, she reminds me of the duchess. She has the same regal bearing and exacting nature. Perfect, dare I say.”

The words left a horrible, oily sensation in Oliver’s stomach. Nothing at all to do with the mushrooms in his omelet this morning, but about marrying Helen. He’d known for some time—hadn’t he?—that he didn’t want to wed her. No matter how bloody perfect.

The opinion of Edmonds should have carried more weight.

Oliver could almost hear the duchess screaming from Hell.

“A reminder, Sir Richard,” he said, tone deceptively soft. “Cousin or not, if you see fit to interfere in my personal affairs again, you will wish you had not. Spying on me . A duke.”

“Your Grace?—”

“Silence. You forget yourself,” Oliver said. “If you persist, Sir Richard, in dictating to me, I will be forced to strip you of everything. Your position in the treasury is due to my efforts. I can easily make it go away. I think you, as well as the Barnes cousins, forget that while you may be branches on the Barnes family tree, I am the bloody tree .”

The older man’s mouth trembled, but he did not speak.

Good to know he wasn’t a complete idiot.

“I am not the duchess. She valued your opinions. I do not.” Oliver turned his head, dismissing his cousin.

Sir Richard fell back with a gasp. A moment later, the older man stood and hurried to the other side of the box, glancing in Oliver’s direction with no small amount of fear. The other cousins gathered around him, whispering amongst themselves.

This was what Celia had been made to endure. Derision and judgement by a flock of molting pigeons.

“Your Grace,” Lady Helen murmured. “If I may, your rebuke of Sir Richard was quite harsh, given he has only your best interests at heart.”

“It is none of his affair.” Oliver glanced pointedly at her. “Nor is it yours, my lady.”

His control was fragile. Hanging by a thread.

“I don’t care for your tone, Your Grace.” Helen’s lips formed a perfect rosette as she raised her chin. When Oliver said nothing, she continued. “I hold no illusions about the affairs of titled gentlemen, but in future, I will demand discretion.” Her hands fluttered prettily about. “Father and I both agree that Mrs. Barnes must be banished from London.”

“You are in agreement?” Oliver nodded as if considering. “On banishment?”

Emboldened, Helen said, “Shaddick will take her. He doesn’t seem to mind her reputation. We can be rid of her, which I believe is preferable for everyone. The Barnes cousins agree.”

“Do they?” Oliver gazed at Helen’s stunning features filled with icy disdain. “You are very much like the duchess.”

Helen preened assuming his words to be a compliment.

“So you will—cease your attraction to her. Immediately. Or I will refuse when you offer for me. Perhaps accept another gentleman.”

A completely idle threat, given her ambition to be a duchess. But her words did relieve some of Oliver’s guilt. He’d never questioned what she did when he was not in London, but apparently, it was juggling her other suitors. Amazing how little he cared.

“Well within your rights,” Oliver countered. “We are not betrothed.” Nor would they ever be.

“Your Grace…” She grabbed at his sleeve with a panicked look. “But?—”

Oliver stood, not listening to anything else Helen might say. He had much to consider. Matters that required his attention. And while most wouldn’t have cared at all why Percival Barnes had wed Celia or how it had come about, Oliver couldn’t put it aside.

He would start with Kensworth.

“Good evening, Lady Helen.” Oliver bowed, uncaring if he ever saw her again. “Enjoy the remainder of the performance.”