The Accidental Duke (The Mad Matchmaking Men of Waterloo Book 1) by Devlin, Barbara (love letters to the dead .TXT) 📕

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 naïve, 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.”

“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