Page 9 of The Duke Disaster (The League of Extraordinary Widows #1)

8

C elia observed the crowd at the Drury Lane theater with a practiced eye.

Lady Martin’s gown was absolutely exquisite, a shimmering patterned silk the color of a plum. Glorious. Aside from the fashion, Celia adored attending plays, especially comedies. It was probably why she’d hired Kemp, who had once trod the boards of this very theater.

Unfortunately, tonight’s event was a rather dull drama, with the lead actor emoting as if he were addressing Parliament. Kemp would have done far better were he still acting and not running her household. The gentleman directly behind Celia was snoring, and every so often, his companion, probably his wife, would nudge him awake.

Celia spotted several acquaintances over the course of the evening: Lady Manville, Lord Jameson, who nodded politely but did not approach Celia considering he was newly betrothed— what a shame —Mrs. Dunhurst, a widow, much like herself, and a handful of Barnes cousins, whom she intentionally avoided.

Lord and Lady Claremont’s carriage arrived just as Celia entered the theater on Lord Chester’s arm, her escort for the evening, which had her hurrying inside to avoid her former keepers. But thankfully, there was no sign of the Duke of Hartwood.

Falling back in her seat, Celia took a deep breath, much relieved at being able to enjoy her evening. Chester was a widower. Entirely appropriate. He was somewhat older than Celia, closer in age to Percival, but attractive and possessed lovely creases at the corners of his eyes, meaning he laughed often.

Humor and a sense of gaiety were important. Enjoyment of one’s life. All tenets that Celia’s mother had espoused frequently before her death. Once Mama was gone, happiness had been in short supply at the Kensworth estate. Laughter had been rarely heard, the house so cold and quiet that Celia had found it hard to believe the halls had ever been full of light.

The only person all that dreary somberness seemed to suit was Celia’s older, stuffy, half-brother.

James should have been a Barnes. He’s certainly dour enough.

Pushing aside such thoughts, Celia finished the glass of champagne in her hand. Her second.

“Shall I fetch you another, Mrs. Barnes?”

Attentive. Another thing about Chester she liked, along with the bits of silver winking in his otherwise dark hair. If he anticipated her needs just as well in bed, Chester would make an excellent lover. He struck her as the sort of gentleman who would take his time.

“You are too kind, my lord. But I should wait until intermission. Champagne tends to go straight to my head.”

“Mine as well, Mrs. Barnes.” Chester winked at her. “I learned when I was only a lad. I stole a bottle of champagne once from my father, given to him by the Marquess of Penton. I took the bottle to the stables and drank the entire thing with Lady May.”

“Lady May?”

Chester laughed. “My horse. I was all of fourteen. Champagne is now reserved for special occasions.” His eyes roamed over Celia. “Such as this evening. Given that you enjoy the theater, Mrs. Barnes, I’m surprised we didn’t meet earlier. I frequently attend performances, though there aren’t nearly as many as there used to be.”

“Mr. Barnes didn’t care for the stage.”

Percival had cared little for Celia as well, but that was hardly the point.

“I was acquainted with your husband,” Chester said. “If I may be so bold, he didn’t strike me as a man who enjoyed such frivolity.” He nodded in the direction of the actor prancing about some distance away.

“Not in the least, my lord. If you were friends, you know that Percival, along with every other member of the Barnes family, cared little for such pleasures. After we wed, he accepted a position with the East India Company. Percival was rarely in London.”

She left unspoken that Percival had never sent for her. The sympathy on Chester’s face told Celia he was already aware. Everyone in London knew she’d been discarded.

“Forgive me, but I never cared for Barnes.”

She shared Chester’s opinion, but tarnishing Percival’s memory would serve no one, even if her late husband didn’t deserve such consideration. “You are forgiven.” Celia rolled her shoulders. “We were not a good match, my lord. I don’t think we realized until it was too late. And I would have despised India. I resided with Lord Claremont and his wife while Percival was away.”

I was challenged to wed the most inappropriate bride possible, one who would make my family cringe. I’ve never lost a wager. I didn’t intend to start with you.

The words still stung, hurled at Celia’s half-naked body on their wedding night, along with any pretense their marriage had been made for affection.

“The Barnes family is difficult to navigate, is it not? At the very least, you didn’t have to suffer the Duchess of Hartwood.”

“Fortunate, I’m told.”

“Indeed, Mrs. Barnes. She had to approve every match made by a Barnes or the wedding could not take place. Pedigrees were studied. The potential to produce heirs. Dowries must be of a specific amount. Not a hint of scandal for at least a generation.”

Dulcetta had hinted as much. “I only knew the duchess ruled the family with a gloved fist. Percival never spoke of her. He barely mentioned Hartwood. And Claremont was never forthcoming.”

“There are so many Barnes cousins that, according to talk, she kept a team of solicitors whose sole responsibility was to report on family members to her. The slightest hint of a misstep and the unlucky Barnes relative was called forth to explain themselves.”

Mr. Thomas Barnes. Sir Richard Barnes. Mr. Nigel Barnes. William Barnes. Dozens more faces all bearing the Barnes nose but whose names escaped her. Stiff, unwelcoming individuals. Critical of Celia, as Percival had known they would be. Obsessed with appearances. Reputation. Preening over their own self-importance. But it seems they had good reason.

“The duchess wielded a great deal of influence in London. She’d destroy a young lady’s entire Season for trifling matters. A laugh too loud. A gown in a shade she didn’t care for.” Chester waved his hand. “My late wife ran afoul of her once at a charity auction. She objected to the arrangement of items to be auctioned, coldly declaring Lady Chester obviously lacked the intelligence to put things in their proper place. As you can imagine, after that, Lady Chester took great pleasure in recounting gossip about the duchess to me with a healthy dose of dislike.”

Celia thought of the way Hartwood had moved the clock on her mantel. His deliberation over the arrangement of the decanters on her sideboard. The absolute disgust at seeing the chaos of her bedroom— which he should never have entered .

“Were you ever introduced?” she asked.

“No, fortunately, although I did witness the severe dressing-down she gave to a young gentleman. His cravat was not twisted properly, though it looked fine to me. A speck of dirt on the toe of one boot. Oh, and he smelled of horse, which since he’d just come back from riding shouldn’t have been unusual. She admonished him quite publicly.”

What a horrid woman.

“And before you ask, Mrs. Barnes, I was not the gentleman in question.” He cast a sideways look at her. “It was Hartwood.”

“The duke?” she said, surprised.

“My youngest brother is about the same age as Hartwood and they both attended Eton. I merely happened to be at the school to retrieve Eddie when the duchess decided to surprise her son with an unannounced visit. Upbraided him in front of half a dozen other lads and the headmaster. She withdrew him shortly after, declaring Eton was not the proper environment for a duke.”

An unexpected rush of sympathy filled Celia.

She didn’t like Hartwood. Yes, he smelled delicious, rather handsome in a horribly stern way, and he could certainly glide about a ballroom, but she knew what it was to live with constant disapproval. Never meeting the expectations of someone else because…well, it was impossible. She’d tried.

I still don’t want him moving around the clock in my drawing room.

“I’ve imparted enough gossip.” Chester’s arm brushed against hers. “Forgive me. My late wife used to say I was worse than an elderly matron whispering secrets over tea. Now, let us turn our attention to this play. The lead actor is rather?—”

“Awful?” Celia blurted out.

Chester burst into soft laughter. “I was going to say the same thing.”

The remainder of the evening passed pleasantly, with no more mention of the Barnes cousins, Hartwood, or the duchess. The play, the actor—both were abysmal, but Lord Chester’s company was not. He spoke with great affection of his late wife, whom he had obviously adored, along with their two children. He and Lady Chester had traveled extensively together and spent an entire year in Rome. He had the most amusing story about a bottle of wine, the Tiber river, and a gold merchant.

“Come now, my lord.” Celia wiped the tears from her eyes. “You cannot expect me to believe you lost an entire wheel of cheese while touring the ruins.”

“It is true.” Chester pressed a hand to his heart. “I swear it. Lady Chester had to chase it down between two stone columns. Imagine my surprise to learn that my dear wife had not only learned to speak the language but to curse in it as well.”

Celia laughed again, pleased at how well the evening had gone thus far. Chester had potential as a lover. And best of all, there had been no sign of Hartwood.