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

“Will you stop talking about my bride-to-be as though she were naught more than a common doxy?” Indeed, Lady Arabella possessed immeasurable qualities Anthony was just beginning to explore, and she spoke to him on some enigmatic level that defied reason. If he were brutally honest with himself, he sincerely looked forward to his wedding night. “If you dare cast aspersions on her character, I will call you out, friend or no friend, and meet you on Paddington Green, at dawn.”

“Now you speak like a husband.” With a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin, Beaulieu leaned back in the cushions. “Practicing for the real thing?”

“Oh, shut up.” When Anthony groaned, Beaulieu burst into laughter.

For the remains of the brief drive to the estimable London residence on Park Lane, Anthony brooded, yet his pulse raced when they arrived at the gate, because he anxiously anticipated another tryst with his lady. He needed to know she wanted him, in any capacity, but he would take his time and gauge her interest. When the coach drew to a halt before the main entrance, he yanked the latch and opened the door. With a sharp elbow to the ribs, he pushed past the footman.

In the foyer, he rushed through the receiving line, uttering arbitrary salutations, because he wanted to speak to Lady Arabella. At the arched access, he paused and handed the butler a card.

The manservant cleared his throat. “His lordship, the Marquess of Rockingham.”

As usual, the crowd stared, and he shoved his way into the crush. He veered left and then right, searching for his fiancée, but he spied no sign of her. The chasmal ballroom opened to an equally impressive dining room, where a collection of tables welcomed revelers to linger, converse, and feast on a decadent array of dishes, and the cacophonous throng jolted him.

Anthony halted.

In the blink of an eye, he transported to the battlefield, to the huge encampment at the foot of a large escarpment in Le Haye Sainte, and to the tattered tents and the battered remnants of men who gathered to partake of a bit of soup or some horrid concoction that passed for food. Whatever the field cooks served, the soldiers ate, and he knew not the origins of some of the meals he consumed, but the less than elegant nourishment kept him going.

Kept him fighting.

“Are you all right?” When Beaulieu rested his palms to Anthony’s shoulders, he flinched and returned to the present.

“I am fine.” Anthony shrugged free, because he needed his fiancée now more than ever. Somehow, some way, he would propose. It probably wouldn’t be sophisticated or particularly passionate, but it would be in earnest, and that was important to him. She had to know he chose her. “But I cannot find Lady Arabella.”

“That is because you look in the wrong place.” Adjusting the patch that concealed his injured eye, Beaulieu inclined his head and glanced at the dance floor.

To Anthony’s amazement, he located his bride-to-be in the company of Lord Greyson, the former prisoner of war, as they made the rotations amid a sea of couples. “How did you manage to get Greyson here, given his disdain for public assemblies?”

“Believe me, it was not easy.” Beaulieu compressed his lips. “But he would do anything for a case of my best brandy.”

While Anthony was glad to see his chum out and about, he would rather Greyson sought alternative companionship. For some reason Anthony could not fathom, he did not appreciate his friend partnering Arabella, even for something so innocuous as a dance. Then again, many a lady lost her heart—or her reputation through a seemingly innocent twirl about the room.

“Just what does Greyson think he is doing?” Anthony gnashed his teeth.

“I would say the allemande.” Beaulieu sniffed. “Care for a refreshment?”

“No, I would not.” When Greyson bent his head and whispered something to Arabella, she laughed, and Anthony envied the traumatized soldier in that moment, because he had never imparted anything witty enough to garner such a response from her. “What do you suppose they discuss? And why is Greyson here, when he hates crowds?”

“Well, I am not one to eavesdrop, and I would not hazard a guess at what flows through Greyson’s mind. As for his attendance, he is here to support you.” With a sly smile, Beaulieu nodded to a fetching young widow. Heralded as a war hero, for a storied charge that resulted in the capture of more than a hundred French troops, he never lacked for attention and expended little effort to fill his bed. Yet, Beaulieu never seemed happy. “The diversions are plentiful tonight.”

“Is that all you ever think about?” The music ended, and Anthony waved to his lady. “There are other pursuits, you know.”

“None that provide half so much pleasure.” Beaulieu snickered, but his bawdy demeanor didn’t fool Anthony for a second, and he wondered what his friend concealed behind the brash façade. Then again, didn’t all veterans hide secrets? Did they not all tell lies to themselves, sometimes? “After the horrors of war, satisfaction is the only thing worth living for, and I have more than earned it.”

“If you tell yourself that enough, you just might believe it, but I know better.” Just when Arabella walked in Anthony’s direction, a loud pop reverberated, and he jumped, as did Beaulieu.

“Do you think we will ever be as we were, before Waterloo?” White as a sheet, Beaulieu tugged at his cravat. “Will the day come when we no longer start at the slightest provocation?”

“I’m not sure.” But Anthony was certain of the comfort he found in Arabella’s company, and he wanted her with him, at his side, because her presence calmed him. “Still, as Lord Michael rightly argued, we owe it to those who did not come home to live to the fullest, to make the most of our good fortune.”

“And if you tell yourself that enough, you just might believe it, but I