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

his head. “Matchmaking is women’s work, and we do not wear skirts. What is next, a trip to a modiste and a lesson in embroidery?”

“Come now. Why so cynical, when you have such lovely knees?” Ever the wit, Lord Michael snickered. “Indeed, I hope you will help me snare a bride, because I have always wanted to marry a charming debutante and raise a family, and who better to be involved in my selection than my lifelong friends?”

“I, too, shall take a wife, although not anytime soon.” Beaulieu arched a brow. “Given I still reap the rewards of gallant service, I am in no rush to the altar. However, like Lord Michael, when the day of reckoning comes, I shall rely on my fellow soldiers to aid my connubial campaign, because I can think of no more qualified judges of character.”

“Wait just a minute.” With an owlish expression, Warrington wagged a finger. “I never agreed to enter into this folly in a permanent arrangement. We were only supposed to assist Rockingham.”

“But you excel at it.” Lord Michael snorted. “Want to take a turn at ribbons?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Greyson compressed his lips. “The mere suggestion gives me a vicious case of collywobbles.”

“Serves you right, because you abandoned the right to protest, along with a great deal of pride, the moment you met with Lady Arabella and pledged your support.” Anthony inclined his head, and he could not resist poking fun at his friends. Besides, the levity dispelled some of the stress inhabiting his shoulders. “Why stop now?”

“My friends, if we are honest with ourselves, we have been ridiculous from birth.” Beaulieu appeared quite pleased with himself. “Some more than others.”

“I resemble that remark and own it, with equal estimation.” Lord Michael raised his glass of brandy, in toast. “Indeed, I am rather satisfied with our efforts.”

“Speak for yourself.” Greyson scowled. “I will take our machinations to my grave, where our embarrassing endeavors will surely haunt me for all eternity.”

“Fear not, my friend.” Beaulieu slapped Greyson on the back. “If you forget, I pledge to remind you, in the hereafter.”

“Will you be serious?” Greyson smacked a fist to a palm.

“When have I ever been serious?” Beaulieu stuck his tongue in his cheek. “And I have no intention of changing my ways, now. By the by, it may interest you to know we may have another potential customer.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Greyson echoed Anthony’s thoughts. “Who, on earth, would be so foolish to trust us to secure him a wife?” Clearing his throat, Greyson peered at Anthony. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Anthony replied, although his self-esteem suffered a direct hit. Still, his fellow veterans worked on him like a tonic. “And need I remind you I never asked you to get involved in my personal affairs?”

“It appears I am the fool.” Lord Michael propped an elbow on the armrest. “And you may mock me at your leisure, because I don’t care. I welcome your assistance in securing a wife.”

“You must be joking.” Warrington blinked and paled, as if on the verge of an apoplectic fit. “You cannot be committed to such a wild undertaking.”

“Let me assure you that I am in earnest, and I’m speaking for myself, because I am nothing if not brutally honest, but you know that.” Lord Michael grinned. “And if you are equally frank, you will admit Beaulieu’s idea has merit.”

“Not that I concede your position, because I find this discussion one of sheer idiocy, but how so?” Dripping skepticism, Greyson folded his arms. “And explain it to me as you would a child, because I am well and truly lost.”

“When have you not been lost?” Lord Michael narrowed his stare. “Consider a pedestrian query. Who would you prefer to find you a wife? Some shrewd, fortune-hunting, rank-seeking mama, who has, no doubt, stifled every natural, libidinous inclination her daughter might possess, or a man with similar reservations and objectives, as well as a keen sense of the sort of innate traits that could make a grown man cry in gratitude, regarding the female form, given we know what we want in the drawing room as well as the bedchamber?”

While the quirky cadre continued their debate on male matchmaking, Anthony stared at the sleeve pinned to the lapel of his coat and braced for the unavoidable reaction. Despite the passage of time, it surprised him how much it still hurt to recall his injury, and he wondered if he would ever get over the loss or if the wound would define him for the remains of his days. Then he remembered Arabella’s words of encouragement and gained strength from her support, even in her absence.

“Gentlemen, while I am loath to encroach on your intellectual discourse regarding courtship, however entertaining I find it, I am in need of your assistance, and the situation is grave.” Anthony pondered his failed attempt to meet with his father that morning and realized he had to ensure his future wife’s safety, should his father enact his plan. “Indeed, I cannot revisit my quandary without suffering a shudder of terror and, in some respects, you are my only hope.”

“You were not in jest.” Beaulieu sobered and scooted to the edge of his seat. “What is it, Rockingham? What happened?”

“Betrayal, such as I have never known.” Swallowing a healthy gulp of brandy, Anthony steeled his nerves. “Please, bear with me, and do not interrupt, else I might lose my courage and falter.”

Recounting in order the villainous scheme devised by his own father, Anthony omitted no detail, however humiliating, because the veterans would understand. One by one, each soldier slumped in his seat, wearing the same revelatory mask of defeat. Although no one stated as much, each man could have walked in Anthony’s boots, and he suspected that uncomfortable realization brought all levity to an end.

“Well?” Anthony nudged Beaulieu. “Have you no humorous reply to dispel the dour mood, as I could benefit from some of your aberrant quips right now?”

“My friend, I am more sorry