Page 6 of The Duke Disaster (The League of Extraordinary Widows #1)

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O liver took a sip of the wine, a poor vintage he didn’t care for, but it gave him something to do as he observed Celia sail through the crush at the Bastrop ball. Her chin was lifted, daring anyone to offer her challenge. The subtle green hue of her gown only drew attention to the flame of her hair.

His fingers twitched at the sight of that bright riot of curls. Leaves drifting from the trees surrounding Hartwood House in autumn. The harvest. A warm fire. The lull between the heat of the summer and winter’s chill.

Dear God, I sound like some idiot poet.

Why not just devise an ode to her bosom? Because there was a great deal to be said on that matter as well. Half the gentlemen in the ballroom likely had an opinion.

He turned his attention to the left side of the room, to anyone other than Celia Barnes. His discussion with her, in which Oliver had attempted to impress upon Celia the importance of discretion, appeared to have had little effect. The cut of her gown this evening was proof enough. As was the wicked smile lifting one side of her luscious mouth as she greeted an acquaintance. Practically an open invitation to bed her.

Luscious .

Disgusted with himself at his unwelcome interest, Oliver looked down into his wine, only to see a fly floating about the purple liquid. He handed the glass off to a passing servant.

“As I informed you, Your Grace,” Lord Claremont said, appearing beside him. “She is determined to flaunt herself, like a courtesan parading her wares. Lady Claremont and I did what we could, of course, but now that Celia is no longer under our roof and Percival is dead…” He shrugged, which only emphasized the sag of his shoulders.

“You did not exaggerate, Claremont.” Oliver’s gaze followed the drift of Celia’s skirts.

“When she first arrived in London, she was much more malleable. Stuttering about, mannerless with no concept of polite behavior. Thankfully, Lady Claremont and I kept her close so she did not stray and embarrass us all, a likelihood, given her personality. One has only to look at her hair to see what sort of woman she is.”

“One wonders why Percival wed her, with so many faults,” he mused to Claremont.

Oliver hadn’t thought much about the reasons a Barnes would have to wed a young lady such as Celia. Nor why Percival would have abandoned her so quickly. He hadn’t given his distant relation a thought for years until he had been asked to secure Percival a position with the East India Company. An invitation to his wedding had followed shortly thereafter. As the head of the Barnes family, Oliver had been obligated to attend.

Until the current uproar, he hadn’t spared Celia a thought.

“My brother was prone to flights of fancy,” Claremont snipped. “Have her tossed out of that house. She’s no right to it.”

Oliver raised a brow at his tone. “And the house isn’t yours either, Claremont. I’ll decide who has a right to it.” Claremont was a member of the poorer branch of the Barnes family. He’d sent a letter to Oliver years ago requesting the use of the house where Celia currently resided for his younger brother, Percival.

Claremont’s mouth rippled, but he stayed silent.

The house belonged to the Duke of Hartwood and had been used by various family members over the years, Percival being the most recent. Everything right down to the cutlery at Celia’s dinner table belonged to Oliver. The gown she wore this evening, which was making every male at this ball crazed with lust, had been paid for by him. Oliver’s London solicitor had taken care of Celia, just as he had the four other widows in the Barnes extended family, without bothering the duke with any of the details. Exactly as he’d been instructed.

Celia threw back her head in a boisterous laugh, displaying the creamy expanse of her throat, oblivious to the snapping fans and low whispers.

A lady who brays like a mule is inviting the wrong sort of attention .

The duchess had held firm opinions on women such as Celia.

Oliver looked up, meeting her eyes from across the ballroom.

Celia lifted a glass of champagne in his direction, a smile on her lips.

Not a toast.

A declaration of war.

Celia flitted about the ballroom, sipping her champagne and searching the crowd for Mr. Elliot. Minerva had long since abandoned her for the charms of Captain Linder and his wife. When last she checked, her friend had been busy asking the good captain where she might take fencing lessons.

She cast a glance at her bodice, ensuring everything was tucked in properly. The neckline was cut so low and sharp, Celia worried one of her breasts might escape confinement if she moved the wrong way. Heartlesswood might have her tarred and feathered if she exposed a body part, no matter how unintentional.

Elliot, however, would be delighted .

Since her arrival, there had been no sign of Heartlesswood, though she was certain he was looming about somewhere. Perhaps terrorizing an unlucky Barnes cousin or a young lady who hadn’t curtsied to his satisfaction. His displeasure would deflate the poor girl like a popped soap bubble.

Celia spied Dulcetta, her former sister-in-law, making her way through the ballroom from the other direction, mouth pressed together so tightly, her lips appeared to shrivel. She halted briefly and seemed to steel herself before continuing forward. Celia’s eyes followed her path to where it ended at the Duke of Hartwood and Lord Claremont.

She laughed, loudly, at no one in particular, hoping to draw Hartwood’s attention. When he turned towards her, Celia pierced him with a withering look and raised her glass of champagne.

Take that, you priggish, arrogant ?—

“Have you saved me a dance, Mrs. Barnes?”

“Mr. Elliot.” Terribly handsome and something of a rake, given his good looks, Mr. Elliot also possessed the loveliest blue eyes. “Did I promise you a dance? I confess, I don’t recall.”

Elliot was a favorable choice to be her lover. Not only a spectacular kisser, Elliot had a dry wit but a sensitive nature, owing to the fact he had three sisters. If he danced her out to the terrace tonight, which Celia would encourage him to do, he would be granted liberties.

“You most certainly did, madam.” His eyes drifted downward, gliding over the display of her bosom. “Might I say that your gown is stunning?”

“You may.”

“Though,” Elliot leaned closer. “It is a bit warm in here, don’t you agree? Bastrop never bothers to open the windows. He has some idea about the miasma of the Thames drifting in and making us all ill.”

“A valid concern,” Celia replied.

“The gardens might cool us off and mitigate such foul humors.” He shot her a rakish look. “The scent of flowers keeps such odors at bay, and the cooler air is certain to revive you.” Elliot took her hand, tucking it into his arm. “I can’t have you wilting, Mrs. Barnes.”

“I’d never forgive you if you did.” Celia tossed back the rest of her champagne, uncaring who watched, not even Lady Ipps, who didn’t bother to hide her disapproval.

As Elliot walked her in the direction of the terrace doors leading to the gardens, he put his wit to good use with his ribald observations about some of the other guests they passed on their way.

“Stop,” Celia said, playfully swatting his arm. “I shall fall over into a fit of laugher if you continue and create a scene.”

“I shall catch you,” Elliot replied gallantly.

Celia valued a good sense of humor. Life was difficult enough. No need to go about in a somber mood. Pity that Heartlesswood had never learned such a lesson. Stoicism was greatly overrated.

The air shifted ominously behind her. “There you are, Mrs. Barnes.” The icy tone brushed along her bare shoulders, freezing her in place.

Drat.

She and Elliot had nearly made it to the terrace unscathed. Celia turned to a tight-lipped Hartwood, thinking what a shame it was that a man with such a beautiful mouth seemed to rarely smile.

Stop looking at his mouth.

A trace of bergamot tickled her nostrils, mixing with a hint of leather. She adored the smell of bergamot but didn’t care for the scent on Hartwood. It didn’t mix well with all his arrogance.

“Your Grace.” Celia lowered herself politely, not missing the way the gold of his eyes flicked over her with a flash of heat before his gaze quickly shuttered. “I didn’t realize you were in attendance. There was no black cloud hovering over the Bastrop residence.”

“Black cloud?” he returned.

“The one heralding your presence. Like an ill wind.”

“Your Grace,” Elliot choked out, paling at Celia’s words as he bowed. “Robert Elliot.”

That hawkish gaze drilled into Elliot for a moment before dismissing the younger man. “I apologize for the intrusion, but Mrs. Barnes has promised me this dance.”

Celia did not release Elliot’s arm. “Did I? I don’t recall.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Elliot said politely, plucking her hands from his sleeve. “I’m in the mood for a game of whist.” He bowed. “Mrs. Barnes. Your Grace.”

Celia clamped her lips shut as Elliot took his leave, wandering off in the direction of the room set aside for cards. She let out a squeak as Hartwood took her arm in an iron grip, dragging her a few steps farther and pushing her into a dark alcove.

“Was that entirely necessary?” she hissed, trying to free herself and ignoring the way her skin jumped at his touch.

“Entirely,” Hartwood shot back. “I can see you did not take our earlier conversation to heart, Mrs. Barnes. I believe I advised you not to dress in a manner that would make a courtesan blush.”

“You must know courtesans far better than I, Your Grace. Madame Lucien assures me this is a fashionable cut, not that I owe your Ducal Prudishness any explanation.”

His lips parted, nostrils flaring. “My ducal?—”

“I haven’t the time to explain fashion to you. If you like, I can book an appointment with my modiste, where you may question her endlessly about necklines and bosoms.”

Lines appeared around his mouth. The corner of his eye twitched.

“Or I have several fashion magazines at home. I’ll lend them to you if you wish— oof .”

He pinned her against the wall with his body, clearly incensed, so close the buttons of his coat pressed into Celia’s breasts, sending a jolt down her mid-section. Warm bergamot flowed over her, along with a great deal of menace.

“I advised you to court discretion for your own sake as well as that of the Barnes family, and yet the entire ballroom witnessed you throwing yourself at Elliot. And yes, I’m familiar with the Earl of Warren’s son. A libertine through and through.”

“He was escorting me outside for a breath of air. Lady Pensworth is inviting young gentlemen beneath her skirts at the refreshment table. And Mrs. Calper’s gown is far more revealing than mine.” She inclined her head towards an older voluptuous widow. “Perhaps they would appreciate your counsel, because I do not.” Celia’s annoyance was rapidly turning into anger at his intrusion into her evening.

“Neither carries the Barnes name.” His voice lowered dangerously, purring over her skin in an unexpectedly delicious manner, considering the circumstances. “I believe,” he said, pulling her back towards the ballroom and the music just beginning, “this is our dance.”

Celia tried to shake his hold. “I do not wish to dance with you.”

“I”—his fingers tightened further—“insist.”

There was no point in struggling. Doing so would only cause a scene, which would, in turn, prove his point. She refused to give him the satisfaction. Instead, Celia pasted a false, worshipful look on her features, as if overjoyed to be dragged about by a duke.

Once they reached the corner of the crowded ballroom, Hartwood swept her into his arms, the tips of his fingers pressing into her skin through the silk, his grasp firm as if expecting Celia to leave him on the dance floor.

Honestly, she was considering it. As an alternative, she stepped on his foot. “Oh, I beg your pardon.”

Hartwood muttered something under his breath, spinning Celia expertly, moving her about the floor as if he’d been born executing the complicated steps instead of terrorizing everyone in London.

“You dance well,” she sniffed, hoping to mollify him.

“Tutors from the time I was ten.” Her skirts whipped around his long legs in a far too intimate manner, trapping their bodies together for a moment. “The duchess insisted.”

“I haven’t any doubt.”

The Duchess of Hartwood had passed away before Celia became a member of her intolerable family. But she had overheard enough on occasion from the Barnes cousins and Dulcetta to know the passing of the duchess had been met with great celebration. She was not missed nor mourned, which Celia found sad despite the woman’s reputation.

“I suppose as a duke,” she said, “you are expected to dance well so you may put the rest of us to shame. I imagine you had tutors in Latin. History. Intimidation tactics.”

The corner of Hartwell’s mouth twitched ever so slightly before reverting to his usual scowl of disapproval. But just that small hint of amusement had softened his features.

He spun her once more, deftly wedging his leg between hers to press between her thighs.

Celia inhaled sharply as her body pulsed gently in response. Searching for any sign the action had been deliberate, she found none. His features were completely composed, but the gold of his eyes glinted sharply as he pulled her an inch closer.

“You forgot to include torture, Mrs. Barnes.”

“I expect you didn’t need a tutor for that, Your Grace. I think it an innate talent.”

Another twitch of his lips. “You will force me to take harsher measures if you cannot practice discretion, Mrs. Barnes.” The fingers of his hand brushed over hers in a light caress, which had to have been accidental. “Unless you prefer torture.”

“That doesn’t sound appealing at all, Your Grace,” she said as a whisper of lightning danced over her arms. Now she was well and truly warm, and it had little to do with the fact that there was little air circulating in the ballroom. She turned her head, trying to dispel the odd heat trickling over her skin, and caught sight of a stunning ash blonde standing beside Lord Claremont. Perfect posture. Exquisitely, modestly dressed in pale pink. Haughty attitude, as evidenced by the way her tiny button of a nose lifted in the air, eyes following Hartwood about the ballroom.

“Lady Helen awaits you, Your Grace.” Celia nodded.

A dark brown lock fell over his brow, making him look a bit rakish. Dangerous, even. Nearly as breathtaking as that hint of a smile. There was a curious hum inside Celia, increasing in frequency the longer she remained in his arms.

“Do not test me further, Mrs. Barnes. I’ve little patience when my family’s reputation is threatened. I do not care if you bed Elliot, just do not make a spectacle of yourself in doing so.”

Celia blinked, his words having the effect of a bucket of cold water tossed over her head. Attracted to Hartwood? Good lord. No .

She detested him.

Before the last notes of the music faded away, Hartwood led Celia off the dance floor, stiffly offered a nearly non-existent bow in her direction, and released her.

“Thank you for the dance, Mrs. Barnes. Have you greeted Lord and Lady Claremont yet? Allow me.”

Celia gritted her teeth, wanting desperately to walk off in the opposite direction but knowing she could not do so without being overtly rude.

Claremont and Dulcetta were less than overjoyed to see her, but that wasn’t anything unusual. She would politely converse until such time as she could slip away once more. Hopefully, Elliot would still be lurking about.