Page 7 of The Duke Disaster (The League of Extraordinary Widows #1)

6

“ Y our Grace.” Lady Helen dipped at Oliver’s appearance.

He took her proffered hand, though his fingertips still twitched at the memory of Celia beneath them. What on earth had possessed him to force her into a dance? Clearly, the last thing she’d wished was to be twirled around the ballroom by him. Now the scent of lilies clung to his coat and he’d— intentionally —pressed his knee…

Taking a deep breath, Oliver tried to smile at Helen.

Whatever Oliver thought about Celia Barnes—a nd he had a multitude of opinions, none of them good —certain parts of his anatomy did not feel the same. He’d wanted to touch her. Twist a copper ringlet around his finger. The tiny freckle nearly hidden by the valley of her breasts, begged for his mouth.

I am losing my mind. Celia Barnes is a menace.

Had it been a century or more ago, Oliver would have accused her of witchcraft. No one would have disputed it.

“Lady Helen.” Oliver greeted the woman he meant to wed. “I am pleased to see you.”

A tiny bit of pink rose in her cheeks. Exactly the right amount. She modestly lowered her eyes. She was perfect in every way that mattered to him. The duchess would have been overjoyed.

Lady Helen had been Oliver’s choice out of the dozens of young ladies who had been presented to him. She would make not just a good duchess, but an outstanding one. Spectacular pedigree that could be traced back to William the Conqueror. Cultured. Spoke French and German. Well-versed in a variety of subjects. Shared Oliver’s strict adherence to duty and responsibility.

And her dowry was rather enormous. Not that Oliver needed the funds. It was more the principle involved.

He didn’t love her. That particular emotion had eluded him for the entirety of his thirty-three years. But Helen would be an excellent partner and was beautiful enough that bedding her to beget an heir would not be a chore. His regard for Helen was akin to the appreciation of a priceless Grecian urn. She was obedient. Modest. Helen would never consider raising her voice to him. Or use a disrespectful tone.

Unlike the troublesome woman standing next to Lord Claremont.

“May I present Mrs. Barnes,” he said, introducing Celia to Helen. “Widow of Lord Claremont’s brother, Percival.”

“Lady Helen, a pleasure.” Celia bobbed politely. Apparently, she did possess manners, just not when dealing directly with Oliver.

Helen inclined her head gracefully, eyes narrowing as she took in Celia. A thoroughbred taking the measure of a wild pony. “Mrs. Barnes.”

Lady Claremont’s mouth pursed at the sight of Celia.

Claremont bestowed a tiny jerk of his weak chin. “Mrs. Barnes.”

The blatant dismissal of Celia irritated Oliver. She was still a Barnes, no matter how much they all wished she was not. In public, he expected Claremont and his wife to hide their obvious dislike. He would tolerate nothing less than a united front. No cracks in the Barnes wall, so to speak. Cracks, such as the absolute loathing Claremont obviously had for his brother’s widow, were not for public consumption. Or fodder for the gossips.

“Enjoy your evening,” Celia said abruptly, lingering over Oliver with a rueful smile. “Your Grace, I must find Lady Glenville. We arrived together. Please excuse me.” She sauntered away, skirts swinging about, before Oliver could stop her.

Claremont let out a grunt of relief.

“I am surprised,” Lady Helen murmured.

“Surprised, my lady?” Oliver smoothed down his cravat and noticed, with horror, the long strand of copper hair attached to his sleeve. Like an invasive vine of some sort. He stared at it for the longest time before brushing it away.

“The unusual shade of Mrs. Barnes’s hair, Your Grace. I thought it to be an exaggeration. A bold color one does not usually find in nature.”

“You find it to be impossible?” Helen’s insinuation that Celia dyed her hair annoyed him. First, the hue was found in nature, many times over. Autumn leaves, for example. Secondly, the color of Celia’s hair was the only pleasing thing about her.

Nothing about her pleases me.

“I first encountered Mrs. Barnes on her wedding day, my lady. I can assure you, the shade has not altered since. Nor her personality.”

“She can barely make a proper curtsey, Your Grace.” Helen made a soft noise in her throat. “I realize the cut of her gown is considered fashionable…” The words dripped with disdain. “But I find the neckline inappropriate. Mrs. Barnes courts disaster, according to my father.” Helen surveyed him with accusation. “Yet you danced with her.”

“I am the head of the Barnes family. It would have seemed odd had I not danced with my relative’s widow upon my arrival in London.”

Also, I wanted to touch her.

I still do.

Entirely horrifying.

“Given recent events, a show of unity was required,” he continued. “The Barnes family must stand together. I did not realize I needed to explain myself to you.”

Helen’s chin dipped. The soft blush across her cheeks returned. “Of course not, Your Grace.” Her fingers brushed his sleeve. “Forgive me. Your wisdom in these matters far exceeds my own. I only meant to make an observation. I joined Lady Claremont for tea earlier this week, and she was kind enough to explain matters to me.”

A perfectly suitable answer. Yet, Oliver found himself to be more annoyed than before. Helen had no right to question him. Nor did he care to have Claremont’s wife discussing family matters over tea. He had not offered for Helen yet, though most assumed he would.

“Did she?”

The chill in his voice had Lady Helen lowering her eyes once more. “I understand you must…stomach the behavior of Mrs. Barnes at present, given she is still a member of your family, but perhaps steps can be taken to remedy the situation.” Helen swallowed. “Lord Atherby believes the wisest course is to have Mrs. Barnes remarry.”

Oliver had considered the same, but he didn’t care for Helen making the suggestion. “I will take that under advisement.”

His eyes settled once more on Celia, who, in the short time she’d left his circle to join her friend, had managed to draw a small crowd of male admirers. Like bees to honey. How many of them were her lovers?

Oliver’s fingers drummed along one thigh, annoyance pricking his skin, a result of Celia’s presence. He pressed his heels into the marble floor beneath his feet, lest he march across the ballroom and once more drag her away.

“You see, Your Grace.” Claremont sidled closer to Oliver, nodding at Celia. “Something must be done about Mrs. Barnes.”