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

“Oh, he would?” She laughed and settled her palm in the crook of his elbow. “Well, it would be my honor to indulge him.”

“And I shall claim the first waltz.” Father hummed a ditty.

“You must be joking.” Mama snorted and climbed the entrance stairs to the palatial Berkeley Square residence. “What is the occasion, Walter?”

“The answer is simple.” Father crossed the threshold, glanced at Mama, and winked. “Tonight, the Bartletts mark the commencement of the union that shall produce the next generation, and we secure our legacy for the future. If that is not reason to dance a jig, then I am at a loss.”

“All right.” Mama smiled. “Who am I to say otherwise?”

In the foyer, Anthony exchanged pleasantries with Lord and Lady Howard, the hosts for the evening. And while he embraced an air of polite calm, he wanted nothing more than to locate his charming bride-to-be and make a few inappropriate encroachments on her feminine fields, if only to soothe the restless beast that threatened to charge forth and disrupt the party.

It was with that primary objective in mind he strolled down the hall and into the expansive ballroom. He veered left, right, and then left again, nodding acknowledgments of various members of society, until he neared the side interior wall.

A huge mural depicted, in violent detail, the Roman battle of Alesia. Often described as the crown jewel of Julius Caesar’s campaign in Gaul, the brutal clash never meant much to Anthony, until he studied the tactics, an unparalleled example of siege warfare and investment, defined by the mass destruction of flesh and bone, in preparation for deployment. He must have looked upon the innocuous image countless times, through the years, but he had never really seen it until that moment.

At one end, in the bottom corner, a soldier rested on his back, an expression of horror, forever frozen, marring his face, while a Gallic warrior planted a lancea in the Roman’s chest. In that instant, he closed his eyes, and a familiar drumbeat echoed in his ears. His pulse raced. He gasped for breath. His cravat seemed to choke him. Cries of men rose above the hum of idle gossip, and the refined ballroom yielded to visions of a bloody skirmish. The tattered remnants of a savage conflict flitted before him, when a woman’s voice cut through the terror and uttered his name.

Pushing aside the ugliness of war, Arabella reached for him in a cherished reverie. In his thoughts, he clung to her, to the support she never failed to extend even in her absence. Little by little, his hammering heartbeat slowed. He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed, just when someone slapped him on the shoulder.

“Why so morose, my friend?” Beaulieu gave Anthony a playful jolt, yet he maintained the connection to the soldier’s gaze, so blue, as if he glimpsed his reflection in a mirror. “Now this is a target-rich affair, and I intend to fire as many salvos as my Jolly Roger can withstand. My, my, but Lady Allen poses a most delicious dish.”

“Just like old times.” When the world was not so vile a place, and the ton’s ballrooms presented nothing more than a forum for seduction. It struck him, then, that he could spend the rest of his days locked in the very same atrocity portrayed in the work of art, forever trapped in the past, or he could embrace life, like Arabella suggested. “Perhaps, not such a noble but certainly a worthwhile endeavor.”

“There is the Rockingham I remember.” Beaulieu elbowed Anthony. “Care to make a wager? See anything that tempts you? Are you feeling lucky?”

“But I am to be married.” One lady held his attention, to the exclusion of all others, and he scanned the crowd for the slightest sign of her.

“All the more reason to take a turn at Bushy Park.” Beaulieu smirked. “Besides, how long has it been, and do not lie to me?”

“That is none of your affair, but I would not give you the impression that I am ignorant of my predicament, because I thought about my situation, in the dark and quiet hours, and I learned something about myself. We engaged in war because we believed in something greater than ourselves, and we were willing to make the ultimate sacrifice, to uphold our convictions. We fought for England, to defend our homes and our way of life, to be free from tyranny, and we won the day, yet we gained naught for ourselves. While ours was an honorable cause, we have long since concluded our mission, and we reap no real rewards, because we remain rooted in bygone days.”

Just then, he spotted Arabella, and soothing warmth enveloped him, despite the fact that he could not explain the effect she had on him, because he could not resist her. He knew not why he wanted her, but he would marry her, not of some vulgar, misplaced sense of duty.

Oh, no.

He would take her to wife because he needed her. Because she spoke to all that remained good within him.

“I am tired of this tedious existence—tired of fighting. Always fighting. Always hoping for something more, yet we languish in the violence and the horrors of yesteryear. While I did not see her coming, I cannot disregard the obvious conclusion, which is that Arabella offers a chance to escape this hellish prison that holds me captive, and I intend to seize her and all the beauty she brings to my world.”

“Is that the way the wind blows?” With a countenance of surprise, Beaulieu narrowed his gaze. “Are you in love?”

“What is love, my friend?” Anthony snickered, because he did not believe in such nonsense. “Can you define it, because the singular emotion resists my efforts to identify it? Call it what you will, but I know how to make love and satisfy a woman, and I plan to deploy the finesse of a lifetime in her arms, on our wedding