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

Square, Greyson stretched tall, and Anthony realized there was no escaping his friends, because they, too, suffered the same curse. “Now, why don’t you tell us what troubles you, when you are bound to that pretty bit o’ fluff? The Rockingham I know would be plotting all manner of salacious encroaches on her virginal territory, to plant your flag on her most intimate mound, yet you look like you just lost your best hound.”

“Well done.” Lord Michael saluted. “Could not have said it better, myself.”

“Thank you.” Greyson nodded.

“Must you really ask that question?” Anthony stretched his booted feet and considered his gentle lady. “Do you not comprehend that I am forced to the altar by a sire intent on securing an heir, at any price?” Then he met each man’s stare. “Are you not plagued by the nightmares? Do the terrors not haunt you in crowded rooms? Have your injuries not rendered you less than what you were, prior to the war? Do people not yield the field, avoiding you whenever you make an appearance, as if you shed some invisible but potent infection?”

“Aye.” Lord Michael lifted a brandy balloon to his lips, and his hand shook. “All the time.”

“I refuse to attend most social events.” Leaning forward, Greyson rested elbows to knees. “Else I fear I will run amok.”

“As do I.” Warrington cast a pained expression. “Owing to my impairment, I am spared the pitiful glances, yet there is naught wrong with my ears, and I cannot abide the condescension I detect.”

“Not to mention, you wish to keep your distance from Lady Horatia.” Lord Michael canted his head. “Although your decision to break off your engagement still baffles me, because it is well known that she loves you.”

“You know bloody well why I ended the betrothal. I would not saddle her with a partially blind man, when she deserves much more.” Warrington shifted his weight, and Anthony reflected on their similar arguments against marriage. For some reason, when considering his friend’s predicament, the logic seemed flawed, because the lady wanted Warrington, injuries and all. “And we are not here to discuss my difficulties.”

“At least your woman waited for you.” Lord Michael snorted. “I returned home to find my supposedly devoted fiancée wed to my rival, who refused to defend our great nation, while I sacrificed myself on the battlefield.”

“Yet we are outcasts in our own country.” Anthony mulled the absurdity of the situation. “We fought to defend the world against Napoleon’s oppression, but we are prisoners on our lands, and I am chained to a title and a woman I never wanted.”

“I had no idea we were going to be honest, today. Had I known I would’ve stayed home.” Beaulieu clenched his jaws. “And they call us mad. I’m not mad. I’m furious.”

“As am I.” Lord Michael slapped the armrest of his chair. “But we cannot blame all our troubles on society, because we are wounded, not dead. We are war heroes, yet we hide in our libraries and studies, bemoaning our treatment. How can we complain, when we do naught more than cower in the shadows? I, for one, refuse to surrender the future I covet, even though I lost my faithless fiancée.”

“What do you suggest?” Curious, Anthony rested an elbow to the blotter and cradled his chin in his palm, because he could glean no solution. “Should I give my father what he wants?”

“Is that how you choose to look at the situation?” Lord Michael wrinkled his nose. “Because I see a man of rank and wealth betrothed to a woman of incomparable beauty, and the possibilities are endless, should you decide to dictate your fate. If you want, you can create a family. You can build a life and rejoin the world.” He shrugged. “I suppose it is much easier to sit idle and let your father control your destiny.”

“Have care how you speak to me.” Despite Anthony’s affinity for his lifelong friends, he would brook no insult from anyone. Tension weighed heavy, given he knew better than anyone his position. “Now, explain yourself, because you tread on dangerous ground. How am I to dictate my fate, given my father holds me to a contract negotiated for my brother, when I gained my title by John’s death? The marquessate, the fortune, and the bride belonged to him. None of it is mine to own.”

“I would think it obvious, provided you quit playing the victim.” Lord Michael pinned Anthony with a lethal stare, and he hated when his chum posed decisive arguments. “John is gone, and you remain, thus Lady Arabella, Rockingham, and the entailments are yours, and I would give anything to walk in your boots. You need only seize what fate has bestowed upon you, and plot your own course. You complain that your father drags you to the altar, but you fail to mention that it is because you force him to do so. Stop fighting, take up the reins of your life, and charge, because that is who you are, or have you forgot yourself?”

Piercing silence reinforced Lord Michael’s perspective, because Anthony could form no rebuke, and it was not for lack of trying. When he sought some sign of support from his comrades, they offered naught but sheepish grins. Yet, he would wager their reactions would be quite different were it their heads on the connubial chopping block. Still, from every angle he approached the disconcerting stance, he could contrive no decent rebuttal, and he excelled at counterattacks.

“Lord Michael is right.” Beaulieu smacked his lips and glowered. “Well, that leaves a foul taste in the mouth.”

“Very funny.” Lord Michael rolled his eyes, even as the tension abated. “I’m trying to make a point, and you are making jokes.”

“And making sense.” Anthony could not believe what he was about to proclaim, but he had nothing to lose and, if Lord Michael was right, everything to gain. With renewed interest, Anthony eased back in his chair and revisited the memory of that kiss. “Just