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

than I can say.” Given Beaulieu’s morbid expression, Anthony’s spirit plummeted to new depths. “How—and I ask this with all sincerity, but how can His Grace stoop so low as to condemn his own son to a lunatic asylum, when there is nothing wrong with you, aside from your missing arm, and then steal your heir? Must you yield even your firstborn? Have you not paid enough in the coin of flesh? Will His Grace take your dignity, too?”

“Valid queries for which I have no answer, my friend.” Anthony shook his head. “And I am unutterably confused by my father’s behavior. I knew he harbored reservations but not to this level of treachery.”

“It is because they hate us.” Greyson bit the fleshy underside of his thumb. “Did we not take the field? Did we not survive? Where is the disgrace in our service?”

“They don’t hate us, Greyson.” Anthony met his friend’s troubled gaze. “Rather, they don’t understand us. Unlike the dead, who were easily forgotten, and the whole, who simply returned to the ballrooms and blended into the crowd, we remind society of a debt they prefer to ignore. But our wounds mark us as something altogether different, and it is much easier to shove us aside, or pretend we don’t exist, than face reality and the obligation we represent.”

“So it is no small wonder they prefer to lock us away from sight, that they might abandon us, too.” Beaulieu sneered. “But we will not go quietly into the night, and we will not be shunned, because I refuse to live in the shadows. Society waltzes through the ton’s ballrooms, on the graves of those who gave all and on the backs of those who, albeit torn and tattered, made it home, and they will recognize and honor our sacrifice if I have to run naked down Park Lane to garner their attention.”

“Well, that should provoke quite a response.” Warrington scratched his cheek. “Although I am not sure it is the one you seek.”

“Because then they will know we are crazy.” Greyson sighed and bowed his head. “And that is the last thing we need.”

“Have you a better suggestion?” Lord Michael arched a brow. “Is the sum of your contribution naught but complaints, or do you have anything constructive to add to our campaign?”

“Please, don’t fight, because we are not the enemy.” Their row brought Anthony so very low, and his spirits sank. If he couldn’t inspire his friends, how could he move his father and save Arabella? “And I am not so worried about myself as I am for my bride-to-be and my future heir.”

“Rockingham is right, and shame on us.” With trembling fingers, Warrington fumbled for his glass. “A fellow soldier comes to us for help, and we waste time making petty jokes and arguing amongst ourselves.”

“Shame on us, indeed.” With a fist pressed to his chest, Beaulieu met Anthony’s stare. “And you have my word, as a gentleman, that I shall defend Lady Arabella with my life if necessary.”

“I must confess that is precisely what I want, because I may be in no position to protect her, should my father enact his plan.” Contemplating his fate, he realized just how much he had to lose. “But what happens to me is of no account, given I am already scarred.”

“Like bloody hell.” As Anthony anticipated, Beaulieu protested. “What of friendship? What of the bonds of brotherhood, given all we have survived, together?”

“And over my dead body will I abandon you to some god-awful lunatic asylum. We defeated Boney, did we not?” Greyson snarled. “If His Grace thinks we will surrender you without a fight, he is mistaken.”

“Indeed.” Warrington slapped his thighs. “After all, we are soldiers, and we will beat His Grace at his own game.” He opened and then closed his mouth. “At least, we will, somehow.”

“One thing is certain.” Lord Michael leaned back in his chair, folded his arms. “If we are to triumph, we must work as a single entity. Else, divided, we must surely fail.”

“And we must strategize our response, because I am certain His Grace has done the same.” Beaulieu seized control of the meeting, just as Anthony hoped, because he relied on his friend to protect Arabella in his absence. “Integral to victory or defeat is possession of Lady Arabella. Whoever holds the wife, and any issue, controls the engagement.”

“Exactly,” Anthony inserted into the conversation. It was Beaulieu that would save the day, although he didn’t know it yet. “And in that respect, if you are willing to listen, I have a proposition.”

*

The sidewalks of Bond Street teemed with activity, as well-dressed Londoners patronized the exclusive boutiques that catered to society. While most young ladies lived in heightened anticipation of the opportunity to purchase new clothes, Arabella was not like most young ladies. Dragging her feet, because she detested all things frivolous and gratuitous, and shopping met those characterizations, in her estimation, Arabella followed her mother into the modiste’s establishment.

“Mama, I do not understand why I require new gowns, when I am getting married and can take my things with me.” Arabella huffed a breath, when her mother signaled the modiste. “The lavender will suffice for the ceremony, given we bought it last season, thus it remains relatively new since you refuse to permit me to wear black.”

“Arabella Hortence, will you be serious?” Mama snapped her fingers. “You cannot wed Lord Rockingham garbed in mourning attire, and mind your manners, because we have little time to accomplish our objectives, before we return home.”

“Oh, all right.” While Arabella didn’t seriously expect Mama to relent, she surrendered her position, because she had bigger battles to fight, on behalf of her fiancé. “What do you prefer, Mama? You know, in medieval England, brides wore blue, as a sign of purity.”

“You shall marry in silver lamé.” On her fingers, Mama ticked off a list. “With a mantua of silver tissue lined with white satin, trimmed with Brussels lace, and we must have embroidery.”

“Is that not a