“No, you are not lost.” She daubed her cheeks and sniffed. “You are the bravest man of my acquaintance, and I would argue that with my last breath.”
“I know you would.” It occurred to him then that, of all the things he would leave in London, Anthony would miss Arabella the most, despite their brief acquaintance. But her subtle yet nonetheless spectacular beauty would carry him through the storm, and he committed her features to memory, that she might comfort him when they were apart. “Then we shall combine our efforts to avoid the altar, and I shall be forever in your debt.”
*
Surprise often functioned as a double-edged sword for the intended recipient, because the rude awakening could inspire either joy or panic. It was the latter response Arabella endured, when her parents revealed they would host an impromptu dinner party for fifty of their closest friends and connections that very evening. Her parents were anything but spontaneous. Regardless of her mother’s assurances, Arabella suspected there were games afoot.
Standing before the long mirror, she toyed with the seed pearls trimming the bodice of her pale green eau di nil silk gown and scrutinized her coif. In usual circumstances, she paid little attention to her appearance, other than to ensure she wore sufficient cover and caused no embarrassment. Since her reputation remained inextricably intertwined with Anthony’s, she resolved to put her best foot forward.
“My dear, your fiancé and your in-laws just arrived, and we would form the receiving line to present a united front when we welcome our guests.” Mama snapped her fingers. “Come along, Arabella. We do not want to keep His Grace waiting.”
“Of course not.” Yes, her tone carried more than a bit of sarcasm, because she cared not for Anthony’s father in light of his scheme. Why did he not take an interest in Anthony’s wellbeing? After four days of reading, she suspected she knew her fiancé better than those closest to him, and that saddened her. As she descended the stairs, she vowed to protect him.
“Lady Arabella, you are a vision.” His Grace dipped his chin and scrutinized her from top to toe. Suddenly, she reconsidered the fashionable gown, with its low-cut bodice. “Is your fiancée not lovely, Anthony?”
“As always.” Devastatingly handsome in his polished ensemble, the centerpiece of which was a black coat trimmed in old gold, Anthony adjusted his cravat and bowed. “Good evening, Lady Arabella.”
“Lord Rockingham.” She curtseyed and studied him for any signs of distress. “Shall we assume our respective positions, since I believe our first arrivals approach the threshold?”
A series of hushed whispers preceded the tour of the receiving line, when the invitees noted the significance of the arrangement, which included a rare sighting of Her Grace, and Mama gushed like a giddy debutante, while inside Arabella wept. Would it not have been easier and much less trouble to hire a herald?
“I contacted my solicitor about converting my assets into usable resources.” Anthony paused to acknowledge another guest. Then he bent his head and said, in a low voice, “It could take a sennight, or more, to sell my properties, so I instructed him to begin the process, posthaste.”
“Are you sure that is wise?” With a fake smile, she welcomed another interloper. “Our parents conspire against us, and this spontaneous celebration does not bode well for our plans.”
“Then we must delay, by any means.” He stiffened his spine, and she noted the fine sheen of perspiration on his brow and the subtle but growing pants as he fought to draw breath. Recalling their discussion at Gunter’s, and what he braved at war, she pledged to support him in all enterprises. “Feign illness, if necessary.”
“It will be fine, Lord Rockingham.” As he fidgeted with his cravat, she recalled Dr. Larrey’s advice and sought a distraction. “Cook serves delicious pork ribs, and there are four courses, including a mouthwatering cheesecake, so I hope you brought your appetite.”
“I am not hungry,” he replied with a frown.
All right, she required another diversion.
“Papa purchased an expensive box of cigars for the occasion.” Grasping at threads, she employed pedestrian bits of minutiae to avoid disaster. According to Dr. Larrey, anxiety would only increase Anthony’s torment, causing him to act in a disturbing manner, which would not aid their cause. If possible, she would spare him further shame and a trip to an asylum. “And there is fine Spanish brandy, too.”
“I prefer French.” Little by little, he calmed while they conversed. “But I will drink whatever the host provides.”
“Perhaps the Shrewsbury cakes are more to your liking?” Her mind raced, when he offered a slight smile, and Arabella aimed to keep it there for the remains of the evening and beyond. “Or should I send a footman to Gunter’s for a vast deal more than decent portion of the neige de pistachio you favor, because you all but licked the dish?”
“Now you have my attention.” Ah, the boyish demeanor emerged, and Anthony winked. “How I enjoyed that afternoon in your company.”
“Oh, I echo your sentiments, because I delight in talking to you.” Indeed, she loved talking to him, because he treated her like an adult. Their parents followed the last of the guests into the grand dining room, which adjoined the ballroom and featured two long tables, and Papa waved a summons. “I suppose we must do our duty, Lord Rockingham.” She settled her palm in the crook of his arm. “Shall we join the party?”
“I would rather surrender my other limb.” When she gave him a nudge, he met her stare, and his unutterable helplessness called to her on some basic level which she could not ignore. “Will you stay with me?”
Something inside her melted.
“Boney, himself, could not drag me from your side.” For a scarce second, Anthony simply stood there, and Arabella desperately wanted to hold him, to console him, to reassure him that she would allow no one to harm him. “And whatever happens, we will face it, together.”
“Perhaps you should escape to the Continent with me?” He chuckled, even as she considered the offer. “I can compose a suitable story to satisfy the ton’s thirst for gossip, shouldering the blame, because my family can bear the brunt of the scandal. What say you, Lady Arabella? Fancy a sail?”
“I would love nothing more, Lord Rockingham, but I cannot abandon my parents.” In the dining room, she was shocked to discover the seating arrangements conflicted with social edicts, because she had been assigned a position of prominence to the left of His Grace, and Anthony occupied the chair beside her. Per the rules of polite decorum, her fiancé should have been placed opposite her, and she should have been located near the center of the table. Gooseflesh covered her. Leaning close, she whispered, “Anthony, I think we are in trouble, because our parents appear euphoric, and I can only guess at the reason.”
“I would wager you are correct.” He paled and flinched, when the butler opened a bottle of champagne, the first in a series. “It looks as if your father’s domestics prepare for a toast.”
“Oh, no.” Along with the Sèvres porcelain and polished silver settings, Mama deployed the Baccarat crystal, and the walls seemed to collapse on Arabella. “Anthony, promise me something.”
“Anything, my lady.” Shielded by the expensive linens, he clasped her hand. “What is it, Arabella?”
Strange, he actually tried to comfort her, and she glanced at the tray of glasses filled with the bubbly intoxicant. “Whatever happens, you will pay attention to me, to my eyes, to the sound of my voice, as we proceed through the evening.”
“Why?” The butler uncorked another bottle, and Anthony started.
“Because we can survive the awkward affair if we rely on each other and present a united front.” To her relief, no one noticed his blanched complexion, the lines of stress etched about the corner of his eyes, or the rigid set of his lips. “Agreed?”
In that moment, Their Graces stood, and the crowd quieted. In silence, Anthony indicated the affirmative with a nod.
“My honored guests, it is my distinct pleasure to we
lcome you to this informal dinner, and I must begin the festivities by expressing my thanks to Lord Ainsworth, my longtime friend, for temporarily ceding hosting duties that I might share the reason for this little gathering and allay your curiosity.” The duke stared at Arabella and Anthony, and she shifted, as she would wager her most cherished book she could recite the forthcoming report. “Her Grace and I are proud to announce the engagement of our son Anthony, the Marquess of Rockingham, to Lady Arabella Hortence Gibbs, daughter of Lord and Lady Ainsworth, in nuptials to be officiated by the Archbishop, at my home, eleven days hence.”
The room erupted with applause, and she teetered on the brink of hysteria but mustered a glance of adoration at Anthony. “Smile.”
Not for a minute did he fool her, because he offered what could best be described as a brittle, lopsided grin. Exposed and vulnerable, he cast a silent plea, and she prayed he didn’t swoon or scream. It was at that very instant she lifted her glass, if only to break the grip of fear clawing at her throat, and the duke called to order the group.
“To Anthony and Arabella.” Oblivious to the unrest he inflicted on his son, His Grace faced her. “May they be blessed with many strong sons.”
Her knees tingled, and she gulped the champagne, while Anthony drained his glass and signaled for a refill. Despite their plan, she surmised they enjoyed no escape, and she reclaimed her seat as resignation set in with a vengeance, because the announcement was tantamount to a marriage, barring a massive scandal. As far as society was concerned, the ceremony was but a formality.
And so the meal commenced, but it passed in a blur, as an army of servants delivered course after course, yet she hardly tasted the food. Although numerous guests extended congratulations, the words did not penetrate the imaginary but impermeable fog that enveloped her in a cold and lonely prison, and Anthony, her unfortunate cellmate, fared no better.
Every time he carried his fork to his mouth, his hand shook, and more than once he dropped a morsel in his lap. The strain manifested in his jerky movements and habitual coughing, and she expected him to vomit at any minute. When the footman cleared the dishes, and the butler rolled in a trolley, bearing brandy and her father’s cigar box, Papa stood.
“Gentlemen, let us bid farewell to our ladies, that they might enjoy their tea and gossip in the drawing room.” Papa assumed an air of superiority. “And we shall remain here, to discuss the latest news from Parliament.”
“Please, do not leave me,” Anthony whispered. “Without you, I am lost.”
“But I must.” Numb, yet fighting her own demons, Arabella pushed from the table. Drawing on Dr. Larrey’s expertise, she composed a suitable response to reassure him. “However, you are safe. And what of your friends? Whatever they discuss, keep reminding yourself that you sit in my home, in London, and I am just down the hall.”
“All right.” His strained expression did not inspire confidence. “I can do that. Although I suspect my fellow veterans will only make things worse.”
Reluctant to part from her fiancé, because he needed her, and she feared His Grace might commit Anthony sooner than later, she dragged her feet and followed the women. In the drawing room, the requisite hounding almost drove her over the edge, until a familiar and much welcomed face beckoned.
“Arabella, it has been too long since our last luncheon.” Patience Wallace, Arabella’s longtime friend and co-conspirator in women’s causes, provided much-appreciated succor in a hug and a reliable shoulder. With blonde hair and green eyes, Patience commanded a small army of admirers, but none paid suit given her father was but a general in the army, sans noble rank. Still, Arabella promised to help her trustworthy chum secure a good match. But first, she needed to save Anthony from his father. “And why did you not write me of your impending wedding? I should be angry with you, because we never keep secrets from each other. So, tell me about the tragic but inexpressibly beautiful Lord Rockingham, because he reminds me of one of Shakespeare’s doomed heroes.”
“Really?” Arabella wiped her brow and noted Her Grace occupied a lone chair in the corner. “I was thinking more of Odysseus. And all of this happened so suddenly that I had no time to write you, but I planned to visit and strategize, tomorrow. Believe me, I require your wise counsel.”
“Oh, no. I supposed the previous Lord Rockingham’s demise ended the contract between your family and His Grace.” Patience wrinkled her nose and clasped Arabella’s hand. “And the marquess is far too elegant for Homer.”
In concert, they giggled.
“Oh, Patience, if I confessed everything, I should turn your hair white, but you are the only one I can trust with the entire ugly truth.” With a sigh of relief, Arabella related the details, withholding naught from her closest confidante. “So, you see, it is not necessarily a match made in heaven.”
“But you are contracted, thus love never entered the arrangement. Given your partiality for reason and logic, which I know well, I don’t understand your reticence.” Patience claimed the chaise and patted the spot beside her. As usual, she reduced the situation to bare facts bereft of emotion. “Your mother appears overjoyed.”
“Indeed, she is thrilled and thrives on the attention.” In the center of the room, Mama held court, and Arabella frowned. “But I cannot stop thinking of the duke’s plot, and I don’t get your meaning.”
“The answer is simple.” Patience shrugged. “If Lord Rockingham is as emotionally unbalanced as you describe, I do not presume His Grace has any other option, so why do you not give him a choice or an alternate solution? You are an intelligent and enterprising sort, and I know you can devise another course of action that suits your purpose.” She wagged a finger. “But I caution you to remember His Grace must protect the future heir to the dukedom, even if that requires commitment to a mental institution, and the law supports him.”
“I will not allow it, because Anthony deserves so much more.” Arabella gnashed her teeth and then checked her tone, because Patience was not the enemy. “In moments of clarity, he is the kindest, gentlest man blessed with an enormous heart. Indeed, he is not mad. He is simply misunderstood, and if anyone tries to harm Lord Rockingham, there will be quite the wake in this house.”
“Of that I have no doubt, but I would wager on you, every day of the sennight and twice on Sunday, and I am with you, come what may. Remember, together we are invincible, and I am always in your corner. Woe the poor soul that challenges us.” Patience laughed and then sobered. “Oh, dear. I believe you are summoned.”
Trailing her friend’s gaze, Arabella discovered Anthony looming in the hall, just beyond the doorway. The raw terror in his eyes provoked an intense desire to protect him, and she acknowledged him with a surreptitious nod, checking to ensure no one else noted his presence, before he turned and trod toward the study.
“Walk with me.” Adopting an air of calm, Arabella moved with purpose. “And follow my lead.”
Strolling at a relaxed pace, with nary a hint of urgency, Arabella and Patience embarked on a well-played ruse, as if they shared the enthusiasm in regard to the forthcoming marriage.
“You know, I find it remarkable that you resist the union with Lord Rockingham, because you are always so quick to identify adventitious circumstances, which is one of the many reasons I hold you in high regard,” Patience declared studiously and waved a greeting to Lady Breckham. “Hear me, my friend. If you employ the common sense for which you are renowned, you will admit he is your perfect match, because he already relies on your strength. The balance of power in your relationship shifts in your favor, which is what you have always wanted, is it not?”
Arabella came to a halt and then resumed her tour about the room.
“I never thought of it like that.” Mulling the prospects, which had eluded her to that point, Arabella approached the entry, with a new attitude, and stopped. “But you make an excellent argument, as always. How could I not have seen the obvious?”
“You are too close to the situation, and you f
ail to recognize he is just the mate for you, given you must marry.” Patience gave her attention to the guests, as Arabella occupied a position behind her friend. “Go, now.”
As Arabella crossed the foyer, a booming crescendo of laughter echoed from the dining room, where the men remained, and she jumped. In seconds, she navigated the corridor that led to Papa’s study. At the door, she glanced left and then right before entering the dimly lit chamber.
A fire in the hearth bathed the relatively small space in a soft saffron glow, and she secured the oak panel and set the bolt. Slumped forward, cradling his face in his hand, Anthony emitted a groan, and she rushed to provide aid.
“My lord, what is wrong?” Framing his jaw, she lifted his head, and a tear streamed down his cheek. “Oh, Anthony, it is all right. I’m here.”
“Help me. Make it stop.” He winced and jolted her. “The cannons—we are too close. Too close.”
He revisited the battlefield.
“No, my lord, we are not too close.” With her thumbs, she caressed his heated flesh, and she recounted Dr. Larrey’s counsel. “You are with me, in London, and you are safe. Do you hear me?” Pinning him with her gaze, she swallowed hard. “It is Arabella, and you are unharmed, because there are no cannons here.”
“But I heard them.” Closing his eyes, he shivered. “Even now, the piercing salvo echoes in my ears.”
“No, my lord. You are mistaken.” Her mind raced, as she sifted through the knowledge from Larrey’s book, until it dawned on her what may have instigated her fiancé’s unrest. “Look at me, Anthony. It was the champagne bottle and naught more. I swear, there are no guns in this house.”
In a flash, he growled and charged, pushing her against the wall, grinding his hips to hers, and then he grabbed her at the nape of the neck and covered her mouth with his. Frenzied at the onset, he besieged her flesh in a punishing slip and slide that stole the breath from her lungs as she tried to keep pace.
The Accidental Duke (The Mad Matchmaking Men of Waterloo Book 1) Page 5
