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

“Please, show him in, at once.” Mama glanced at Anthony. “Were you expecting a guest?”

“No.” Anthony made for the door to head off his fellow veteran, but Beaulieu charged forth. “What are you doing here?”

“I have an extra ticket for Vauxhall, and I have come to fetch you for a night of fun and music.” Beaulieu rocked on his heels. “Tell me you have not eaten, because I would take dinner at my reserved supper-box.”

“Had I known of your plans I would have accepted.” Anthony stared at his mother. “However, we were just about to—”

“Oh, no.” Mama waved and led him into the foyer. “I insist you venture out with your friends. It has been too long since you indulged in such felicitous exploits, and you are past due. And I shall dine in my sitting room and read a book.”

“Mama, are you sure?” Given their conversation, Anthony didn’t want to abandon her, as had his father. “I can go out some other time.”

“Excuse me, Your Grace.” A burly footman, one of Father’s recent hires, stepped to the fore. “But His Grace left specific instructions that Lord Rockingham must remain in residence.”

“Yes, I am sure His Grace did just that.” Mama drew herself up with noble hauteur, and Anthony almost felt sorry for the manservant, because no one gainsaid his mother. “Since His Grace is not here, you will abide my directive, and I hereby discharge you of your duties, because we no longer require your services. If you will go with Walker, he will see that you are compensated.”

The unfortunate blackguard shuffled his feet. “But His Grace—”

“Do you dare question my authority in my home?” Mama gave the poor soul a look that could wither the most stalwart adversary, and he retreated. “I thought not.” Then she turned to Anthony. “Have a lovely evening, my son.”

*

In a painting by Francis Hayman, two milkmaids clasped hands and danced, garbed in their best finery, while a porter hoisted a garland, comprised of a pyramid of silver plates, flagons, tankards, and flowers. Arabella scrutinized the masterpiece, which decorated the private supper-box Lord Beaulieu secured for the evening at Vauxhall Gardens, and she pondered the nobleman’s scheme.

From the moment her father announced her amended betrothal, her world was on fire, as Anthony put it the afternoon they spent at Gunter’s, and she knew not how to douse the flames. Instead, she fanned the blaze, igniting an inferno, because she contemplated marriage to a man who would own her, and she shuddered at the thought.

However, if she had to serve anyone, she would serve Anthony.

“Are you chilled, Lady Arabella?” Lord Greyson, one of the well-intentioned yet quixotic veterans determined to aid her campaign, stared at her and frowned. “May I be of assistance? Shall I send for a pot of tea, to warm you?”

“No, thank you, my lord, although it is kind of you to offer.” She studied the interesting nobleman and could not ignore the tension emanating from him. Much like Anthony, Lord Greyson glanced back and forth, as if he anticipated an enemy combatant would spring forth and attack, at any moment. “It is a lovely evening, is it not?”

“Yes.” He clenched his jaw.

“I understand Hook plays for us tonight.” She tried again to distract him.

“Yes.” Lord Greyson fidgeted with his cravat.

“Will you stop being rude and converse with the lady, as would a gentleman?” Lord Warrington shook his head. “Even I can see she is nervous, and that is not saying much, given I am half-blind. Talk to her and put her at ease, you ill-gotten tub of guts.”

“Immature name calling aside, if you are so inclined, why don’t you talk to her?” Lord Greyson started when a loud crash reverberated from an unknown source. “Apologies, Lady Arabella, because I meant no insult, but we share naught in common to encourage discussion, and it has been a long time since I attempted to entertain a lady.”

“Entertain?” Warrington rolled his eyes. “Are you always such a half-wit, or is today a special occasion?”

“At least I’m trying.” Lord Greyson slapped his thigh. “And calling you stupid would be an insult to stupid people.”

“Gentlemen, please, don’t quarrel. And you underestimate yourself, Lord Greyson.” Despite his attempts to portray an air of nonchalance, she saw through his faux bon vivant disguise. “While I appreciate your efforts, you need not feel compelled to amuse me, because I am quite capable of occupying myself.”

Beyond the colonnade, which boasted straight tablature and urn-topped finials, the fashionable set mingled in the grove, in the shadow of the Temple of Comus. In the past, whenever Papa brought Mama and Arabella to Vauxhall, Arabella thrilled to the experience. Yet, as she awaited Anthony’s arrival, she wrung her fingers.

“What is wrong?” Patience, ever the reliable chaperone, elbowed Arabella. “I thought you welcomed the Mad Matchmakers and their unconventional assistance. Do you doubt them?”

“I’m not sure what I feel.” And that was the problem, as Arabella always set clear, attainable goals, but her impending nuptials seemed anything but clear or attainable, given the duke’s plot. What could she do to save Anthony, when His Grace held all the power? “From where I stand, the situation strikes me as impossible.”

“But you will not let that dissuade you.” Patience chucked Arabella’s chin. “Because you love a challenge, and I wager Lord Rockingham is challenge personified.”

“He is much more than that, and even I am unsure of my ability to assist him, given I am an amateur.” Arabella reflected on the book and its contents, regarding nostalgia. “However, I am resolved to try, because he has no one else. Even the Mad Matchmakers carry invisible scars, though I doubt they know it.”

“Then I suggest you smile, because your fiancé is just arrived.” Patience nodded. “And you do not want to alarm him.”

Alarm him?

Glancing over her shoulder, Arabella spied Anthony. When his gaze met hers, he smiled, and telltale warmth filled her cheeks. Just once, she