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

breakfast sat untouched on a tray. Yet he remained rooted in the overstuffed chair where he reclined for the past several hours, pondering that kiss.

No, he did not refer to his clumsy exchanges after the terrors plagued him following his father’s impromptu announcement at Lord Ainsworth’s home. Rather, Anthony could not stop thinking about Arabella’s untutored but fervent charge. Even now, if he closed his eyes, he could taste her as she clutched the lapels of his coat and launched the sweetest attempted seduction of his memory.

Delicate hands framed his face, sumptuous lips tempted him beyond the limits of his self-control, and a series of flirty hums and breathy sighs brought his body alive. Gritting his teeth, he tensed his loins and rubbed his aching erection, which he longed to unleash between Arabella’s thighs.

When a knock interrupted the cherished reverie, he cursed. “Come.”

“Are you dressed?” Father called from the hall.

“Aye.” Well, that put an end to the sweet interlude. With a huff, Anthony rolled his eyes. “What do you want?”

“Don’t use that tone with me.” His father trod into the room, and Anthony wondered what offense he committed. “Do you plan to sulk, all day?”

“I have not decided.” Indeed, Arabella’s kiss dangled before him, as a proverbial carrot, and he reconsidered his scheme because she possessed something every man desired in a wife: unbridled desire. “What business is it of yours?”

“Your friends pay call, and they await your presence in my study.” Father drew an envelope from his coat pocket. “And this came for you, this morning.”

“What friends?” Anthony stood too fast and splayed his lone arm for balance. With a sniff of annoyance, he snatched the opened missive from his father’s grasp. “And what is this?”

After unfolding the letter, he read the contents, and his heart sank.

“Plan on going somewhere?” Father scowled, and Anthony realized his secret was not so secret. “And I refer to that motley crew of twisted and damaged soldiers you persist in entertaining. Why can you not socialize with whole men, instead of those dark souls?”

“Perhaps because I have much in common with those dark souls.” After crumbling the parchment, which detailed the sum of his estate, as well as the sheer impossibility of a hasty settlement, from his solicitor, Anthony threw the message on the floor, along with the last fragments of hope for escape. Resigned to his situation, he slumped his shoulders. “In regard to my financial affairs, you leave me little choice in the matter, because you force me into a union I neither want nor need.”

“Must I repeat the fact that you have no choice?” In the bedchamber, Father yanked a hacking jacket from the armoire and marched into the sitting room. “Here.” He flung the garment at Anthony. “Make yourself presentable because you are the marquess of Rockingham, and I expect you to act like it. And there will be no more talk of running away, else I shall post guards at your side.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” Although Anthony knew better, as he shrugged into the jacket, because his father would not be denied. “I’m not a child.”

“Then stop behaving like one.” Father none too gently speared his fingers through Anthony’s hair. “Be a man and do your duty, else I will ensure by any means necessary that you perform as you were taught.”

“I am a man, but you persist in treating me like a babe suckling at its mother’s teat.” Anthony stepped into one Hessian and then another. Did no one see him? Did no one recognize his torment? “And I am trying to do the right thing by Lady Arabella, because I am genuinely fond of her, thus I would not burden her with a maimed beast that should have been put out of its misery on the field.”

“Stop talking about yourself as though you no longer exist, and do you not understand that if you refuse to wed her and accept your position, the dukedom passes to Cousin Herschel?” Performing the responsibilities of a valet, Father fastened Anthony’s shirt collar. “If you care for Lady Arabella, as you claim, do you believe she will fare better with him?”

“That buffoon?” Anthony snorted, when he envisioned the gentle but spirited lady with an idiot that would stifle her strength and intelligence. “He cannot tie a cravat even with two good hands and the assistance of his valet.”

“Perhaps, now you comprehend the gravity of the situation.” Father shook his head. “Would you entrust our legacy to his care?”

The real question was would Anthony entrust Arabella to his cousin.

“I would not give my best hound into Herschel’s custody.” And that was putting it mildly. Assessing his appearance in the long mirror, he considered his life with Arabella as a permanent fixture. Blessed with singular wit and enviable strength, she would pose something more than an ornament in his world.

She would be his partner.

One thing was certain; he would never be bored.

When Father arched a brow, Anthony sighed in exasperation. “All right. I give you my word I will not leave London, but I am not convinced that a wedding is necessary, at this time. Why must I marry, now? Can it not wait until Lady Arabella and I are better acquainted? Can we not delay until the end of the Season?”

“Make her your wife, and you can know her quite intimately. If she does not please you, then you can always take a mistress.” Anthony grimaced at the mere suggestion, given that kiss, the effects of which he savored even then. As they walked into the hall, Father wagged a finger. “Until your ceremony, you will behave as a gentleman, and try not to bring shame upon this family.”

“Of course.” They descended the grand staircase, and Anthony seethed in silence and gritted his teeth against a biting retort, because he lacked an arm, not a brain. In the foyer, he sketched a mock salute, hoping to irritate his father, given he already returned the favor. “If you will excuse me, I should