Page 4 of The Duke Disaster (The League of Extraordinary Widows #1)

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O liver sipped the brandy he’d been given by the butler, Kemp, lips wrinkling as blandness covered his tongue.

Swill. Absolute swill.

The sideboard in the drawing room was in complete disarray. It was possible the butler couldn’t find anything decent in such chaos.

Holding out the snifter to the butler quivering before him, Oliver said, “I’d prefer something that doesn’t taste as if it came from the depths of the Thames. Do not pretend to not know my meaning.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Kemp bowed before shuffling through several decanters, retrieving one full of amber liquid from the very back. He poured a glass and waited for Oliver’s approval.

Oliver took a sip. Much better. He hadn’t thought Mrs. Barnes would have such a refined palate. “You are dismissed, Kemp. Oh, and…” He ran the tip of his finger over the edge of the table beside him. “Do something about the dust.”

“Your Grace?” The butler’s eyes bugged.

“This entire room, as well as the house, could use a good cleaning. Hire more maids if you must. I recommend the use of beeswax.”

The butler bowed and scurried away.

The Widow Barnes was a flighty, vapid creature, according to Claremont, in addition to her other unwelcome traits. Sir Richard Barnes, a second cousin, described her as nothing more than a country bumpkin, as was reflected in her lack of modesty and decorum. Claremont had struggled to teach her manners. A modicum of reserve.

Sir Richard, a bastion of propriety, had grown concerned her peccadilloes would reflect poorly on his appointment to the treasury.

Oliver swished the expensive brandy around in his mouth. The opinions of the remainder of the Barnes cousins were much the same. Several had suggested sending her to America with the rest of the rabble.

While he doubted Celia Barnes had so much sway in government affairs and Sir Richard was, much like Claremont, prone to exaggeration, she was tainting the Barnes reputation. Soiling it, in fact. Causing unnecessary gossip. Speculation. Lord Atherby had made mention of Mrs. Barnes upon Oliver’s arrival in London, issuing subtle demands that something be done about the errant widow.

Oliver’s fingers curled in annoyance.

The sight of Mrs. Barnes, hair spilling over her shoulders, still reeking of champagne and God knows what else, looking as if she’d just awoken from a night spent with a lover, had been most…provoking. The display of silk stockings, petticoats and gown, strewn about her bedroom had infused him with irritation. Mrs. Barnes had little regard for her situation. She’d sat, half-naked?—

Oliver took another swallow of the brandy.

— daring to stare at him in defiance, pretending not to understand the severity of the situation. He’d had the inclination to take Mrs. Barnes by the shoulders and shake some sense into her, which would have had the sheet falling to her lap, revealing all that lovely, creamy skin.

Oliver crossed and uncrossed his legs. Took another sip of brandy. The roar of lust for such a creature was…most unwelcome.

She’d been far more modest at her wedding breakfast to that idiot Percival, except for the mulish tilt of her chin. A dead giveaway to her true personality. What a trial she must have been for her brother, Lord Kensworth, for he was the only person who’d seemed overjoyed at the union. So bloody pleased to have someone take his sister but trying not to show it. Mrs. Barnes reminded Oliver of a weed which had suddenly sprung up in the well-tended flower beds of the Barnes family.

She must be plucked out.

Mrs. Barnes had been mentioned in the gossip columns precisely ten times in the last two weeks. Edmonds had kept the newspapers for Oliver, having correctly surmised his employer might wish to refer to them. Claremont should have summoned him sooner. Clearly, the earl was not capable of dealing with his brother’s widow.

Last night, dining with Claremont and his timid mouse of a wife, Oliver had been subjected to a retelling of the entire garden party incident while attempting to enjoy the pheasant. Which was impossible. The meat had been overcooked and dry. According to Claremont, Celia had tumbled into the fountain, which served as a centerpiece of the party, after having imbibed too much champagne, much to the horror and amusement of the other guests.

Amusement.

Perhaps that was why Mrs. Barnes still received invitations. Once Oliver made his displeasure known, there would be no more amusement over her antics.

After falling in the fountain, Mrs. Barnes had proceeded to splash about in the water, though Claremont claimed the structure to have been barely larger than a birdbath. The material of her gown, transparent when wet, had revealed more than was polite, especially the omission of her corset.

Wet silk clinging to every one of her curves. Undergarments on display, as well as a lack of modesty. Splashing playfully at several gentlemen, one of whom was Lord Jameson. The young viscount had gallantly given Mrs. Barnes his coat and helped her out of the water.

God only knows what happened between the pair later. But Oliver could speculate.

The remainder of the brandy disappeared down his throat.

He had several options. The first would be to banish Mrs. Barnes from London, if not England. The Continent, perhaps. The problem with the plan was that given her personality, Mrs. Barnes would only continue to embarrass the family. Not ideal, since there were quite a few Barneses who served Her Majesty’s government in diplomatic capacities. Oliver considered he might be able to induce Kensworth to take his sister back and keep her in the country.

Ridiculous . Kensworth’s giddiness at the wedding told Oliver the answer would be no.

The second was marriage to a respectable gentleman, a solution put forth by Claremont and Lord Atherby. She would no longer bear the Barnes name and thus could no longer taint it. But, as Oliver pointed out, Mrs. Barnes was a widow. Forcing her to remarry would be difficult.

The last, and final option, was to impress upon Mrs. Barnes the importance of discretion. Mrs. Barnes was free to sow her wild oats, so to speak, as long as she ceased her outlandish behavior. The Barnes name could no longer be bandied about the gossip columns. Threats would be required. It was unlikely Mrs. Barnes was aware that Oliver not only owned the house she lived in but that her generous allowance came from him, not her husband or Claremont.

Percival Barnes had barely had a farthing to his name. Claremont was little better.

Oliver would begin with diplomacy. If Mrs. Barnes knew of the precariousness of her situation, perhaps she might relent. The issue would be solved with little effort or fuss. The Barnes cousins would no longer beat at his door like a pack of duns demanding he do something. Atherby would be pleased. Oliver’s courtship of Lady Helen could move forward.

Pouring another glass of the brandy, he stared at the disorganized sideboard, fingers twitching at his sides.

An aberration .

The decanters were quickly rearranged in a much more appropriate manner, according to height and the color of the spirits inside. Far more pleasing to the eye.

“Your Grace.” Celia entered the room.

Even her name sounded…unseemly. Decadent. Troublesome .

Oliver pointedly glanced at the clock sitting on the mantel above the fireplace, a large weighty monstrosity made of Blue John. Far too gaudy. The bloody thing wasn’t even centered, which ruined the entire look of that side of the room.

“Are you unable to correctly tell time, Mrs. Barnes?”

Celia sailed towards Oliver with a tilt of her chin but no remorse, eyes sparkling at him in challenge. The folds of her dress fanned out as she came closer, giving glimpses of trim, silk-clad ankles. The neckline was modest, rare for Mrs. Barnes, according to Claremont. Bosom, entirely magnificent.

And her hair.

Leaves of autumn now teased into soft curls that framed her face, the remainder of that glorious mass piled atop her head.

Smoke and maple leaves .

The entire lower half of his body grew taut in appreciation.

“I’d be thrilled to give you a lesson.” Oliver came to his feet, a hint of lilies hovering in the air around him. An ache rippled down his thighs, annoying him further.

“A lesson, Your Grace?” She blinked innocently at him.

“Yes, Mrs. Barnes. In how to tell time. You should have been down when the big hand reached the six.” He turned away from all that lily-scented skin and strode to the fireplace, moving the clock so that it was centered directly beneath the landscape hanging above. A poorly done painting. Oliver had stared at it repeatedly, trying to decide whether it was a field of cornflowers or the ocean.

Much better.

“You did ask that I make myself presentable, Your Grace. Such things take time, do they not? I wouldn’t dare offend you by not readying myself properly to receive you.”

Why does everything she says resonate with sexual innuendo?

She settled across from him on the settee. All innocence and lilies. A small bit of copper fell near her temple, mocking Oliver. His forefinger bent slightly, thinking how satisfactory it would be to tug on that strand of hair before tucking it back into her coiffure.

“I did. I am only surprised at your obedience.” He rose once more to refill his glass. If Oliver continued to be in Celia’s company, he might well become a sot. No wonder Percival fled to India as if the devil were at his heels. Why would any Barnes wed such a woman?

Celia’s eyes followed Oliver, narrowing as she took in the rearrangement of her sideboard. When he plucked the decanter holding the expensive brandy she’d deliberately had her butler hide, a frown drifted across her lips.

Good . Oliver’s appearance wasn’t meant to be pleasant.

“Allow me be blunt, Mrs. Barnes.” He took a sip, sighing in satisfaction.

Celia flinched.

“I do not wish to be here, Mrs. Barnes.”

“Then why are you here, Your Grace?”

Flippant little ?—

“You, Mrs. Barnes.” His eyes flicked coldly over her. “Summoned by my family to London because of you .”

“Not entirely, Your Grace.” Her chin lifted. “Lady Helen Robb beckoned, as did your responsibilities in Parliament. I’m told a betrothal is in the works. Congratulations.”

“Don’t try to deflect, Mrs. Barnes. Lord Claremont has kept me apprised of your antics. As have the London papers.” Oliver moved back towards his chair, forcing his gaze from the way her breasts rose and fell with each breath she took.

“Is this about the garden party, Your Grace?” One brow lifted. “As I explained to Lord Claremont, repeatedly, falling into the fountain was an accident. The guests were instructed to toss a coin and make a wish. In doing so, I stumbled and fell into the water, which was rather cold. I assure you, my actions were not intentional.”

“Too much champagne, I believe, was the culprit. Are you a sot?”

Her cheeks pinked. “I merely enjoy the taste of champagne.”

“Perhaps in the future, ratafia might be a better choice.”

“No, thank you.”

He ignored her response. “Once you tripped, falling into the water, you did not immediately ask for assistance. Instead, you proceeded to splash about like a trout on the end of a hook. I believe you asked at least two gentlemen to join you, which…thankfully, neither did.”

The flush deepened, stretching over her cheeks. “A jest, Your Grace. I was mortified at my clumsiness. Better to laugh at myself than have everyone else do so. But I’m sure you wouldn’t understand.”

Oliver’s fingers dug into the glass he held. No one dared speak to him in such a fashion, except Edmonds, but he was merely a butler and didn’t count.

“Not that it is any of your affair,” she continued. “Frankly I’m not sure why you would even care. I am merely a widow attempting to recover from the grief of having lost her husband.”

A sound of derision left him. “Percival lived in India, departing almost immediately after your marriage. With good reason, I’m sure.” He paused. “His visits to England were, according to Lord Claremont, few and brief.”

She inhaled sharply, his words hitting their mark.

“Mrs. Barnes.” Oliver studied her over his brandy. “Allow me to clarify one point before we continue. I do not care with whom you fall into a fountain, nor whom you invite to your bed. Half the men in London have been between your sheets, I understand,” he said crudely. “What I do care about is the Barnes family, of which you are currently and unfortunately a member. My family has a duty to Queen and country. We are large. Influential. Respectable . We serve in Her Majesty’s ministry. Parliament. Diplomatic posts around the empire. I am not about to allow the woman referred to as the Barnes Bawd ?—”

She jerked her chin away from him.

“Oh, didn’t you know?” he said smoothly. “The gossips are entirely clever with their names. Can you imagine, sitting at White’s?—”

“No, I cannot, Your Grace,” she snipped, turning back to him.

Celia was the most aggravating woman he’d ever met. Stubborn. Mutinous. The duchess would have torn her to shreds were she still alive.

“I do not care to have my family name bandied about in such a manner.”

“Rather impolite.” Celia straightened her spine, which only served to draw attention to her bosom which was entirely magnificent. “The bandying part, I mean.”

“Do you find this funny, Mrs. Barnes? Tainting the reputation of the finest family in all of England? And cease that. It won’t work.” He made a circle with one forefinger in the general direction of her bosom.

Celia’s forehead wrinkled. “What won’t work?”

“Your ridiculous posturing. I’m sure such maneuvers work on most gentlemen, but not me.”

She paused for a moment, considering, then stretched a bit, regarding Oliver as his eyes once more lingered briefly where they should not. “Clearly.”

Oliver glared at her.

“You imply I am some sort of a…a lightskirt, which is unfounded. Like most men of your ilk?—”

“My ilk?”

“—you find it far easier to blame a woman for fanning your base desires than taking responsibility yourself. Somewhat hypocritical, I think.”

How dare she speak to him in such a way.

“What is more, how I conduct myself is none of your affair, Your Grace, nor that of your prudish family. Frankly, their service to England is all that can recommend the Barnes cousins, for they lack empathy, graciousness, and any shred of welcome. I’m sure it brings you great satisfaction to have them all bow to your whims, never questioning your authority or the tenets by which you force them to live their lives. But that is no longer my existence. I am a widow, one who does not need to be chastised as if she were some girl in her first Season.”

Celia Barnes was a disease that must be contained. Far too stubborn for her own good. Disrespectful of his authority. Oliver was trying to be kind.

“Then stop behaving as one.” Ice flowed from him. “You’ve blatantly disregarded all propriety. I cannot allow your soiling of the Barnes name to continue.”

“What will you do?” She leveled a waspish gaze at him. “Punish me?”

Arousal flooded him, the sort Oliver didn’t want and rarely experienced. But the vision of a disobedient Celia , spread across his lap, skirts up, his palm striking the luscious expanse of her buttocks, had a quiver shoot through him. Her backside, much like the rest of her, would be creamy. Lush. His cock sat like a rock inside his trousers at the mere thought of touching her.

Damn.

Oliver didn’t care for Celia Barnes, hadn’t liked her the moment he’d spotted her at Percival’s side, about to be wed. He liked her even less now. Unfortunately, his cock had not received the message.

It’s that bloody hair.

“An interesting thought.” Shifting on the chair once more, Oliver crossed his legs and adjusted his coat. “Had you been discreet in your affairs, Mrs. Barnes, I would not be here. If your dalliances were conducted quietly, your behavior that of a mature woman and not a spoiled, self-serving child starved for attention?—”

A choked sound came from her.

“This conversation would not be necessary. You, Mrs. Barnes, are a disgrace.” Oliver finished his brandy, setting the glass on the table before him.

She came to her feet and paced over to the window, arms crossed, pausing only to regard him blandly. “Are you quite finished, Your Grace?” A small tremble to her words was the only sign Oliver had managed to strike a nerve. But Celia did not buckle. He admired her for that. Standing up to him. None of the Barnes cousins would dare to do so. If nothing else, she possessed backbone.

“Please make your point, Your Grace. I haven’t all day.”

She hadn’t all day?

Brave to the point of stupidity. She also had a freckle, hovering just above the deep valley of her breasts. Which made him wonder how many others were tucked away on her generous form.

Damn it.

Oliver stood, clasping his hands behind his back, not caring to be further unsettled by Mrs. Barnes. “I am staying in London for the foreseeable future. You will curtail your behavior. Act accordingly. Or there will be severe consequences.”

“Are you threatening me with your company, Your Grace?”

He stalked closer to the window, pausing before he got too close, the scent of lilies sticking in his nostrils.

Lilies. A most detestable bloom.

“I wish to apprise you of facts you may not be aware of, Mrs. Barnes. This house, your staff, and I daresay your ridiculous modiste bills, even your freedom to live as a widow of means, is not because of Percival Barnes. Nor Lord Claremont. Your husband left you no widow’s portion.”

Celia paled, distress finally showing on her features.

“All this…” He waved a hand in the air indicating the chaos of her drawing room. The sight of it made his eye twitch. Nothing in order. Books stacked haphazardly. Not to mention the sideboard. “It all comes from the Barnes family coffers. My coffers. It won’t be a great deal of fun to be a merry destitute widow, will it?”

“Is that a threat, Your Grace?”

“It is, Mrs. Barnes. Take it to heart.” The freckle taunted him. The curl begged him to come closer. All of which made him coldly furious. “Heed my advice.” Oliver spun on his heel and walked to the door, anxious to be away from her. “And stop dressing like a harlot.”