Page 32 of The Duke Disaster (The League of Extraordinary Widows #1)

31

C elia returned from her trip to the modiste, handing her gloves and cloak to Kemp. “There are a few packages in the carriage. Have William or William fetch them.”

“Yes, madam.”

The whispers hadn’t been too terrible at Madame Lucien’s, as she’d viewed a selection of fabric swatches for a new wardrobe. She was having some sturdier clothing made, necessary if she meant to stay with Eleanor for some time and feed chickens. Absently, she leafed through the letters in the silver salver by the door, looking for a precise, masculine hand.

Nothing. Not since the roses.

The ache in her heart hadn’t abated since the opera. The heated words on the steps with Hartwood had been ugly and bruising. Hissing out that he’d taken her maidenhead, in public where anyone might have come upon them, had been mortifying. Only an hour before, she’d resolved to not damage his reputation further. But—Celia had been so terribly, utterly destroyed. Their affair, though brief, had been full of love, at least on her part. To have him think her a harlot—think her feeling for him was so inconsequential, that Celia could immediately take another man to her bed—had stung as nothing else ever had. She had wept bitterly the entire carriage ride home.

And then the roses had arrived.

My autumn. I beg your forgiveness.

Heartlesswood would never beg for anything, least of all from Celia.

“Send Therese up, will you? I know she’s in the kitchens with Meeks.” Her maid had taken up with Celia’s groom. She didn’t mind. She was happy for Therese. A bit envious. But someone in this bloody house deserved to be happy.

“Yes, madam.” Kemp cast a look up the stairs, brow wrinkling.

“Something amiss, Kemp?” Her butler was behaving oddly.

“No, madam.” He bowed and rushed off to the kitchens to fetch Therese.

Shaking her head, Celia went up.

She had done a good job of keeping occupied since the end of her relationship with the duke, though she had little desire to attend a ball or other society gathering. Not only because of the talk still surrounding her, but Celia didn’t want to see the Barnes cousins. Or Atherby. Claremont. Definitely not Lady Helen.

Her hand clutched the banister.

Celia’s involvement with Oliver had always had an end. The breaking of her heart had been a foregone conclusion. She’d known that. The roses had been an apology, she’d finally decided, for having ended things between them in such a cold manner, not anything else.

“He’s probably busy tidying up for Lady Helen at this very moment. Putting up her books. Checking for dust,” she said out loud, closing the door behind her.

“Ridiculous. Helen is far too neat. She’d never leave her underthings lying about.”

Celia jumped at Oliver’s voice, coming from the general area of her bed. Rose petals, all apricot and tinged with bits of orange and red, were strewn over the coverlet and across the rug.

Oh.

“Olive—” she whispered before she could help it, heart pounding madly about in her chest. “Your Grace. You’ve made quite a mess,” she said tartly, regaining her composure. “I hope you intend to clean things up.”

“You were right the first time. I am Oliver—to you. No one else.” He appeared from behind her bed curtains as more petals spilled from the bed. Impeccably dressed as always. Beautiful to Celia in a way no other man had ever been.

“This is meant as a grand romantic gesture.” One golden eye winked at her. “But the sight of all these petals tossed about is inciting me to pick them up. I’m practicing restraint.”

A grand romantic gesture, from a duke who wasn’t known for them.

“Why are you here?” Her throat grew tight. “Romantic gestures aside. Won’t Lady Helen be distraught?”

“I’ve no idea,” he said with a shrug. “Helen isn’t my concern any longer. She’s betrothed to Lord Digby. Or will be.” He brushed a hand through his hair, mussing the strands. So unlike him. “I never wanted to marry her. I only thought I should .”

A hitch occurred in Celia’s chest. “I see.”

“Don’t be angry with Kemp.” Oliver’s lovely mouth turned up at the edges. “I barged in. Reminded him I was a duke. Then I insisted he help me bring all these roses up the stairs.” He looked away from her.

“Why, Your Grace?” Celia didn’t dare give voice to her hope, despite the petals strewn everywhere.

“I regret every ugly word we spoke to each other, Celia.” His palm flattened on his chest, right over his heart, as he turned back to her.

“Yes, now that you no longer think I’m a harlot?—”

“Stop,” he interrupted. “I was jealous of Shaddick. Not my finest moment. But that does not excuse me. I know this.”

There was such a troubled, pained look on his features.

“I said some terrible things as well, Your Grace.” She had. Thought them too. “I am not blameless.”

“Why didn’t you tell me, Celia?” His voice sounded scratchy. Torn. “I would have taken greater care. Been gentler.”

“No, you would have left. Never come near me again.” Celia looked down at her hands, deciding that if there was ever a time for honesty, it was now. “I wanted to take a lover once Percival was gone. I was—lonely. But I came to the conclusion that the reason I hadn’t was…” Her fingers trailed over her heart. “Well, I needed to feel.” Her hand jerked from her chest. “I wanted it to be you.”

Something flashed in the gold of his eyes. “Just as I—am happy it was you.” A sad smile pulled at his mouth. “I was untouched in other ways.” He paused. “I had a brandy with your brother. Kensworth.”

“James?” Celia said, confused by Oliver’s comment and why on earth he’d have a brandy with her brother. “Shaddick mentioned he was in London.”

“I nearly bashed his head against a table, but you know how I feel about a mess. Then I spoke to Claremont. I know why Percival Barnes wed you.”

“As do I. To win a wager.” Celia hated to even say it out loud. Though her husband was long gone, his rejection still pained her. “Quite humiliating to be the worst Percival could come up with.”

“He lied,” Oliver said. “There wasn’t any wager, only an accident at Harrow which left Percival unable to bed a woman. You weren’t to know or even guess. Thus, he came up with another reason why he couldn’t bed you. Disgust.”

Celia blinked, feeling the air leave her lungs. “Percival couldn’t?—”

“No. Your marriage was meant to hide that little tidbit—at Claremont’s suggestion. You might have been the queen herself, and Percival could not have consummated your marriage. It had little to do with you,” he finished gently. “He was being blackmailed by one of his classmates from Harrow who knew of his injury.”

She flopped down on the bed, sprinkling rose petals across the floor. “That’s why he went to India, isn’t it?”

“Partially. Your brother was aware of Percival’s condition.”

“Yet James still—” A choked sob left her. Her brother had deliberately wed her to a man whom he’d known could never truly be her husband. Left her to the Claremonts. Refused to take her back.

“How James must hate me. I don’t know why I’m surprised.” She wiped at a tear running down her cheek. “Do you know he never once…embraced me? Not even when our father died. He left me just sitting there, alone, weeping at Father’s bedside, and went back to London. Told me to stop behaving like a child.” She looked at Oliver. “But I was a child.”

“Kensworth will find things have become difficult for him in London. As will Claremont.” A thread of steel laced Oliver’s words. “Pissing off a duke generally has that effect. Percival, unfortunately, is beyond my reach.” He sat beside her amid the rose petals. “I promise to tell you everything, each detail if you wish to hear it…but later.”

Celia clutched a pillow to her chest. Her eyes trailed over her bedroom. Brush and comb lined up on her vanity. The small pots of powders and creams she used neatly arranged. The pins scattered across the top once more in their jar.

Oliver’s method of controlling his emotions. While Celia had allowed hers to erupt in fountain dancing, flirtation, and a great deal of champagne.

“I thought I kicked that”—he nodded to the pillow—“so far beneath your bed that it would never be found. I should have tossed it in the fire.” Oliver looked down at one of the feather tassels, the stern lines of his face softening. He seemed so at peace today. Relaxed.

“I regret to inform you, Your Grace.” She pointed down. “There is dirt on the hem of your trousers.”

“I don’t care, Celia. What I mean to say is…I do care. Far too much. And—I don’t want to think about it.”

She gave him a tentative smile, heart reaching for his. “Not everything must be perfect.”

“You are.” He took her hand, pressing a kiss to her wrist. “Will you allow me to tell you a story, my autumn ? About Douglas Barnes, eighth Duke of Hartwood?” He tilted his head, brushing absently at an errant wave of hair. “Hard to believe, I’m sure, but my parents were not a love match.” Oliver gave her a wry smile.

Celia’s heart fluttered gently in response. “Surprising.”

“I’m sure it is, given what you must know about the duchess. I inherited at the age of ten after my father was hit by a carriage. I think I’ve told you as much.”

“Go on.” Celia wanted to curl herself around Oliver, press her cheek to his chest. Listen to each breath. No matter how this conversation ended, she loved him.

“What I may have neglected to mention is that the carriage was headed not for him, but for a young lady. At least, that’s what I suspect. Her name was Sarah. They were lovers, my father and Sarah. And I think, had he been able, he would have left the duchess to be with her.” Oliver absently traced a small circle along the top of her hand. “Because he loved her.”

“How could you know such a thing?” Celia said quietly.

“He had to. My father raced across the street and pushed her out of the path of that carriage, which ran over him instead.” Oliver exhaled slowly. “I don’t know what became of Sarah, but for weeks after my father’s death I saw her sitting at his grave. She always brought flowers. Talked to him. I should have approached her, but I was too afraid of the duchess.”

He slid down to the floor before her, hands trailing along her thighs. “I—thought about what I would do. If that carriage was headed towards you, Celia. I—I would gladly let those wheels crush me over and over to spare you.”

“Oliver…” she tossed the pillow aside and cupped his face.

“I cannot exist in a world where you are not, Celia. I would not survive it. Nor do I wish to.”

He loved her. Celia could see it in every tortured line of his body and the intensity shining from the depths of his eyes. Gently, she pressed a kiss to his lips. “I love you too, Oliver.”

A shuddering sigh came out of him. He put his head in her lap, hands curling around her thighs. “I know you do not want to ever marry again but—I ask that you consider it.”

Celia pulled her hands away. “You can’t be serious. I told you no more suitors and?—”

“ I am your suitor. I want to be your husband. I’ve just said…things.” He sat back and started to pick up the petals, arranging them in a pile. “Will you consider me?”

“But you’re a duke.”

“I’m aware.”

“There would be…a great deal of talk, Oliver. The Barnes cousins would riot.” Not to mention that the idea of marriage had been one Celia refused to think about ever again.

“I don’t care if they riot.” He frowned. “I realize I am controlling. Rigid. I have a tendency towards…tidiness.”

“Obsession is a better word.”

“I detest these ridiculous pillows,” he said into her lap. “The feathers are a hazard.”

“Are you trying to deter me?” Celia ran her fingers through his hair. There really wasn’t any choice for her to make. If she loved Oliver, and she did, it would have to be marriage. The alternative was to be his mistress, knowing that one day, he would need to wed and sire an heir. And she would lose him. “There is nothing wrong with the pillow. I adore the feathers,” she replied tartly.

“Will you at least consider marriage to me? A duchess, especially mine, will have a great deal of freedom to do as she pleases. You’ll outrank nearly everyone.”

“That does sound promising, Your Grace.”

“Will you forgive me?” His arms wrapped securely around her waist once more. “For every terrible thing my family has done to you. I am heartily sorry.” His voice thickened. “For Percival and Claremont. Even Kensworth.”

“You didn’t know.” She held him tight. Celia would never let him go, this man who needed her love as much as she needed his. Her duke had championed Celia in a way no one else ever had. Oliver was worth every moment of Percival and the Claremonts.

His eyes went a lovely shade of gold, shimmering in the light of her room.

“Celia Barnes. I am in love with you,” he whispered. “Irrevocably. Endlessly.” He placed a palm over his heart again. “Please forgive me. For all of it. I want to marry you, my autumn . You are”—his fingers stretched across his heart—“ here . A place no one else has ever dared to venture. I?— ”

“Stop talking, Your Grace. This instant.” Celia pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “I insist. Don’t ruin it.”

“You can lord it over the Barnes cousins.” His words were muffled by her skirts.

“I have one condition,” she murmured, both terrified and blissfully happy. An odd combination. But it was quite a thing to go from being a notorious widow to a duchess.

“Anything.”

She could hear the sincerity, the gentle acceptance. He would give her anything, her dour, fastidious duke. Challenge anyone for her. “The harvest festival at your estate must return, and when it does, you’ll escort me. Dance, because you do so splendidly. Drink cider with me under the moon. Take liberties with my person under a tree.”

“Done.”

He lifted his head and kissed her softly, mouth deepening on hers until Celia moaned and tugged at his hair. Oliver came to his feet, and they fell to the bed in a mess of tangled limbs, breathing in the scent of the roses and each other. There would be challenges. Society would not take kindly to their marriage. The talk would be horrific. The Barnes cousins might mutiny.

But nothing was perfect.