The Accidental Duke (The Mad Matchmaking Men of Waterloo Book 1)

by Devlin, Barbara

  “His Grace fears his son’s mental capacity wanes, by the minute, and Swanborough must ensure the continuity of his line, else a cousin, twice removed, is to inherit the title.” Father pressed a fist to his mouth and shook his head. “But you need not fret, because I secured His Grace’s promise to shelter you beneath his roof, that he might safeguard you, after your nuptials.”

  “You cannot be serious.” Reflecting on the brief moments spent in Anthony’s company, Arabella deemed him harmless. “Lord Rockingham is the best of men, and he is a war hero.”

  “That may have been true, once.” Papa offered a smile that did not fool her for an instant. To her dismay, he genuinely believed Anthony posed a threat. “Combat has a way of altering a man, forever distorting his concept of reality, but Swanborough has a plan to deal with his son.”

  “Oh?” Arabella came alert and recalled Anthony’s tender story. “I am not sure anyone need deal with Lord Rockingham, because he is kind and gentle.”

  “But he is much changed, thus Swanborough feels the situation is grave.” Father cleared his throat and unbuttoned his coat. “Given the unique predicament, His Grace is prepared to offer compensation.”

  “Indeed, you are fortunate, in that your commitment is minimal.” With an expression of inexplicable delight, Mama lifted her chin. “His Grace broached the possibility of a substantial financial incentive, should you produce a healthy male babe within the first year of your union. Your child will receive the finest care and education, and he will be the future Duke of Swanborough, while you will be given a small estate in Kent, a townhouse in London, and a generous annual income.”

  “I beg your pardon? You speak as if any offspring I birth will not reside with me. Know that if I am to be a mother, I would know my child.” As her ears pealed with a carillon of panic, Arabella feared she might swoon, and she sympathized with Anthony’s earlier reaction. Then something nefarious occurred to her. “And what of Lord Rockingham? What is to become of him?”

  “He is of no concern to you.” Never had she thought her father cruel, but his response, flippantly uttered, gave her pause. “Just fulfill your duty and have done with it.”

  “How can you say that?” Anger sparked, and she stifled an undignified curse, lest she incurred her sire’s wrath, and she needed an ally. But what could Arabella do to save her friend and possible husband-to-be from his own relation and an unknown fate? While she had no wish to marry Anthony, she wanted to help him. “Father, you taught me to honor my commitments, and the marriage sacrament is the most important promise I can pledge in my life. I cannot abandon my husband once the vows have been spoken, and never would I surrender my child, to the duke or anyone else.”

  “Arabella, we have no choice.” For as long as she could remember, her father had been her protector, her hero, but now he looked so weak. “I signed the contracts, and you belong to Lord Rockingham. However, Swanborough intends to save you from his son, and for that I am grateful. Rest assured, His Grace will make certain his son receives the best mental care at a facility equipped to handle him.”

  “But I require no such service, and Lord Rockingham is misunderstood and does not deserve to be institutionalized.” Horrified by the prospect of Anthony’s imprisonment, given he was a good man, she had no real explanation for his strange behavior, and that was part of the problem. Perhaps, if she could account for his unpredictable moods, she could spare him a stay at an asylum. Not for an instant would she permit anyone to commit her fiancé, but how could she fight His Grace? Glancing at the passing storefronts, she pounced on an idea. “Papa, I am distressed by the revelations you shared, and I wonder if we might divert to Finsbury Square, because I would visit the Temple of the Muses and procure a new book.” She scooted to the edge of her seat and deployed her dependable pout. “You know my fondness for reading, and it helps me relax.”

  “Oh, do let us patronize the bookseller, Richard.” Mama patted his arm. “I would love to peruse the cookbooks.”

  “All right.” Cupping a hand to his mouth, Papa shouted, “Oy. Take us to Finsbury Square.”

  In a matter of minutes, the driver drew the landau to a halt before the familiar domed establishment in which she had spent many a cherished afternoon. As usual, she did not wait for the footman, opting instead to leap to the sidewalk, to her mother’s protestations, whereupon Arabella all but ran into the shop.

  Inside, she rounded the massive circular counter and strolled down one of the main aisles, bypassing row upon row of fiction, until she located the appropriate topic to suit her purpose. Beneath a sign marking the medical section, she scanned scores of titles, searching for a clue amid a rather large collection of books, which focused on such tantalizing subjects as bloodletting, excess vapors, and constipation.

  When so many promising volumes yielded naught but disappointment, she resorted to a random perusal of the inventory, yet she found only more frustration. Just when she prepared to cede the quest, her gaze lit upon an intriguing leather-bound tome labeled Soldier’s Nostalgia and Other Battlefield Maladies by Dominique Jean Larrey.

  “Could it be so simple?” Biting her lip, Arabella pulled the heavy treatise from the shelf and opened to the table of contents. Scanning the various chapter headings, she squealed with excitement and turned to the overview. “Oh, dear. The author is a French physician, which I suspect Anthony will not appreciate. Then again, I need not apprise him of my sources.” Thus, she gave her attention to the journal and devoured the introduction.

  According to Dr. Larrey, combat experiences often resulted in a mental disorder typified by anxiety, stupor, heart palpitations, fever, loss of appetite, disturbed sleep, interminable thoughts of home, and excess melancholia. Further, the condition progressed in three stages. First, the afflicted soldier suffered heightened excitement and imagination, followed by a period of fever and prominent gastrointestinal distress, succeeded by acute frustration and depression.

  “Upon my word.” She gulped. “No wonder Lord Rockingham is irritable.”

  While she had no knowledge of the initial two phases as they pertained to her reluctant fiancé, she had spent enough time in Anthony’s company to form a considerable opinion on the final episode, which he possessed with a vengeance. Smiling, she slammed shut the book, tucked it under her arm, and hurried to the novels section.

  After locating a sufficiently flowery title that would garner her father’s immediate disdain, thus ensuring he would ignore her other pick, she met her parents at the counter.

  “Ah, there you are, my dear.” Papa glanced at the top selection, wrinkled his nose, and snorted. “Oh, no. ‘A Most Noble Swain for Her Delicate Heart.’ Sounds awful, but I suppose I should be delighted that you read, and I am glad you found something that interests you.”

  “Worry not, Papa.” Arabella clucked her tongue. “I found exactly what I wanted.”

  Chapter Three

  Nestled in Berkley Square, Gunter’s Tea Shop boasted a large selection of English, French, and Italian sweetmeats. On a warm afternoon, Mayfair society gathered to partake of various confections and the requisite accompanying gossip, in another superficial display of opulence. Anthony enjoyed the former but loathed the latter, yet he tolerated the outing for Arabella, although he understood not his desire to make her happy, when any extended association with him was bound to result in misery.

  A server delivered their order, an assortment of ice creams and sorbets arranged in a set of Sèvres tasses à glace, situated on a plateau au bouret. More ridiculous pomp for naught more than dessert, when a simple bowl would suffice. His always fetching fiancée chose a bombe ice, the mold of which bore more than a passing resemblance to a particularly proud part of his anatomy, and he clenched his gut as she innocently licked the erotic shape.

  In the blink of an eye, he surrendered to an altogether strange sensation, as he envisioned the delicate lady, nestled between his thighs, on her knees, and his body came alive for the first time since before Water
loo. Gazing at him with her wide baby blues that saw far more than he wished, she bent, parted her plump, rosy lips, and took him deeper into the hot enclave of her mouth, and he—

  “This épine-vinette is delicious.” Trailing her little pink tongue about the bulbous tip of her ice, she moaned, and he almost spilled his seed in his breeches. “And how is the neige de pistachio?”

  “Quite good.” Reluctant to abandon the captivating reverie, he jolted to the present. With a small silver spoon, he sampled a healthy portion and noted her intense scrutiny. “What are you looking at?”

  “I was wondering about your appetite, given we are to be married.” She peered at their mothers, who turned their chairs and commenced discussing the latest on-dit, no doubt to encourage the couple. In a low voice, Arabella asked, “Do you suffer any gastrointestinal maladies of which I should be aware when planning menus? Likewise, do you have any favorite dishes I should insert into the regular rotation?”

  “You presume our union a forgone conclusion.” Beneath the pointed stares their presence garnered because he was the heir to the dukedom of Swanborough, acute melancholia blanketed him in a thick cloud of gloom, and he pushed aside the treat. He had to find a way out of the betrothal, if for no other reason than to spare the graceful lady, even though she remained undeterred. “Did we not agree to identify a suitable excuse to end our engagement, or does the title tempt you?”

  “We did, but I am befuddled, Lord Rockingham.” Elegant and sensuous, at once, she posed an irresistible lure, yet she remained ignorant of her charms, and that drew him to her as a bee to honey. If only he could escape the past and begin anew, they might have a chance at happiness, but nothing could erase the hideous recollections of Waterloo. He had to set her free. “And if you insult me again with your rude suggestions, which reflect worse on your reputation than mine, I shall be too happy to cooperate with my father and yours, and you will have to manage on your own, with no ally. See how far that gets you from the parson’s noose.”

  “You are right, Lady Arabella, and I am ashamed of my behavior.” Duly chastised, he savored another taste of the ice. How he adored her temper, which he surmised took everything within her to control, given her brief but glorious outburst in her drawing room. What he would give to unleash that raw power in another more intimate realm, to sample the fire within her, to let it warm him, to divert him from his ugly reality, if only for a little while. Indeed, she was a rare glimpse of sunshine on a cloudy day. “Please, accept my apology. I cannot afford to offend you, because you are my only friend.”

  “Am I?” After a quick glance about the room, she scooted closer. “I do so wish to be your friend. As such, I must be honest with you. Our fathers conspire to negotiate hasty nuptials, that I might give birth to your heir, and I know not how to circumvent their plan.”

  “I know, because I have been unable to seize upon any means to avoid the contractual obligation enacted by our sires, and I am aware of their aim.” In fact, he had spent countless hours trying to devise a solution to their quandary, with no success. Short of a miracle, Arabella would be his wife, unless he resorted to drastic measures. “English law binds us to a fate not of our making, and we may be trapped. If we must wed, I will do everything I can to protect you.”

  “And I vouchsafe the same, my lord.” Under cover of the table and its linens, she reached for his hand, and he calmed at her mere touch, which never failed to soothe him. “But I am surprised by your reaction, because I would rattle the rooftops from here to Brighton, were I informed of such a nefarious plot against me. Rest assured, I will never let anyone harm you.”

  “You think me in need of your defense?” That surprised him, because his was the stronger sex. Then again, she was not like most women. And her comments, forceful in nature, struck him as rather odd, given noblemen traded in flesh, with routine, to ensure the future of their lineage. “Trust me, Lady Arabella, I may be a lot of things, including an addlepated lack wit, according to my father, but there is still fight left in me. If all else fails, I can run away, where no one will ever find me, and I would do so to save you.”

  “If it comes to that, I shall be forever in your debt.” Squeezing his fingers, she smiled, and in that elementary act he found refuge and courage, because his closest relations treated him with fear and the accompanying telltale distance. “However, I would have your promise to contact me, that I might know you are all right, and your pledge to find a measure of happiness, because you deserve it.”

  “You have my word.” In truth, Anthony doubted he could stay away, because she seemed to be the only one interested in his wellbeing, and he had formed a genuine fondness for her in the brief tenure of their acquaintance. Indeed, he liked her. “May I state something rather forward?”

  “When have you not?” She gasped when he drew imaginary circles on her palm, and he savored her response. Oh, what he would do with her, were she to grace his bed.

  “Point taken.” He chuckled, as he regarded her high cheekbones and ivory complexion. In another time, he would have pursued her with relish. “You would have made a very fine Duchess of Swanborough.”

  “Praise, indeed.” In that instant, Arabella withdrew from his grip in what struck him as a farewell, of sorts. “Do you know where you will go?”

  “Back to the Continent, I suppose.” Gazing at the world beyond the window, he pondered the possibilities of his future, which no longer possessed the lure it once had, and he sighed. “In some respects, I feel as if I left the best part of myself at Waterloo, amid the mud and blood, and, with a little luck, I might be able to reclaim what I lost if I return to the site and stare down my demons.”

  “I would argue your assertion, because I consider you the best of men, but what I would give to stand at your side when you do,” she whispered, and despite his plans, he ached to kiss her. “What of your parents? Will you not miss them?”

  “No more than they will miss me, I suspect.” Then a particular notion gave him pause, as a stylishly garbed couple entered the establishment. “What will happen to you, in my absence?”

  “I gather my father will negotiate another union, and I shall marry, unless I devise a plot to avoid it.” The resignation in her response struck him as a wicked blow to the cheek, yet she maintained her characteristic poise, and Anthony realized he had grossly underestimated her inner fortitude. Indeed, she was a diamond of the first water. “Thus, my fate remains the same, regardless of your machinations and flight to freedom. My options are few, and I must obey, but I will hold true to my beliefs that my sex is equal to yours, no matter who I call husband.”

  “No doubt.” With a spoon, he scraped the last of the pistachio ice cream from the dish and marveled at his relaxed state. In her company, he always enjoyed tranquility. “I hope your father chooses wisely, because you deserve a match every bit your equivalent.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” Biting her bottom lip, which fascinated him more than he anticipated, Arabella inclined her head, and he noted a spattering of adorable freckles about her nose. “The bergamot ice beckons, but I cannot consume the entirety of it, and I would hate to waste it. Will you share it with me?”

  “You read my thoughts.” For a scarce instant, Anthony second-guessed his plan, because she brought him unfettered joy and harkened to his old, unspoiled self, but he could never be that man, again. Not when he lacked half an arm. “I have not indulged in such simple pleasures since prior to departing Cork for Mondego Bay, with Wellington, in eighteen hundred and eight. I was but two and twenty.”

  “Oh, I wish I had known you before the war, because I have such grandiose notions of your personality.” Shifting in her seat, she favored him with an unhindered view of her beauty, but her intelligence held pride of place as her best trait, in his opinion, and he hoped her future spouse valued her mind as much, if not more so, as her appearance. “I wager you were quite the idealist, ready to take on the French and rout Boney, all on your own.”

  “Beyond naïv
e, I was stupid and ignorant, and I possessed no real combat knowledge.” It irked him that she characterized him with lethal accuracy, when he often hid his torment from those closest to him because it was the only way he could cope with his cruel reality. “In truth, I wanted to play soldier, and when I purchased my commission in the army, I boasted I would save the world, alongside my brother. We were convinced that, together, we were invincible.”

  “Yet, what you confronted was not what you expected.” She averted her stare, and he admired her profile and the gentle curve of her neck, as he found himself relaying personal information he never planned to share with anyone. “I gather it was disappointing.”

  “More than disappointing, it was horrific.” The cosmopolitan scene yielded to a memory of the Portuguese countryside, while illusory opposing forces postured amid the refined linens and lace doilies of Gunter’s. In agony, given the unwelcomed reverie, he dug his fingers into his thigh, to remind himself that he was awake and alive. “An infantryman must surrender his humanity to kill without hesitation, but I do not pass judgment, because that is the nature of war.” Cannon fire echoed in his ears, and Anthony flinched despite his efforts to remain composed. “And I suppose every man confronts the moment innocence is lost, when he realizes he is naught but a pawn in a much larger game, the primary players of which are nowhere near the battlefield.”

  “I am so sorry, Lord Rockingham.” Tears glittered in her sorrowful gaze, and her display of sympathy touched him. “My heart bleeds for you, and I wish there was something I could do to ease your suffering, because I know you are distressed.”

  “Please, do not cry for me.” From his coat pocket he retrieved a handkerchief, which he handed her. “My world is on fire, shrouding the sun in thick smoke, such that the once potent rays cannot penetrate the haze, and you are the only light in my dismal reality. But I know not how to extinguish the blaze consuming my existence, and I will not risk destroying you in the process, so I am lost, Lady Arabella.”