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

night. Indeed, I am bloody well going to enjoy a husbandly benefit even I cannot argue against, because this time I fight for myself.”

“Oh, I say. There is my riding companion.” Beaulieu chucked Anthony’s shoulder. “Now, let us mark our prey and savor a bit of salacious sport.”

“No need to mark anything, because at present my quarry stands near the terrace doors, which would be perfect to sneak away, if not for Lady Ainsworth firmly anchored at my intended’s side.” Anthony scrutinized the noblewomen and swore under his breath. “Is it my imagination, or does the mother guard the daughter?”

“Unfortunately, I agree with your assumption, because that mama’s stance boasts an intensity that would rival my best hound on the hunt.” Folding his arms, Beaulieu shifted his weight and jutted his hip. “Lady Ainsworth searches for you. Do you think Lady Arabella would have been foolish enough to confide in her mother, given you have dallied with your fiancée on more than one occasion?”

“It is possible, although I hope not, but Arabella is incapable of duplicity, and she would answer honestly if questioned.” Garbed in rich burgundy silk, with a low-cut that highlighted her ample décolletage, Arabella surveyed the throng, until she met his stare. Slowly, she smiled, and his loins went up in flames. “Beaulieu, I would never infringe on our longstanding camaraderie, but I am a desperate man, and right now I am in need of a diversion.”

*

Beneath the soft glow of ormolu chandeliers, amid the crystal vases filled with hothouse blooms and the splendor of sixteenth century Italian embroideries, a sea of elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen mingled in preparation for the ball. In the back corner, a quartet readied their instruments, sounding various notes. To the left, three sets of double doors opened to reveal a huge dining room, in which a collection of long tables festooned with green linens, polished silver, and Royal Worcester china encouraged revelers to savor a repast of mouthwatering dishes and tempting desserts. While the fare enticed the average guest, Arabella sought naught but her fiancé, because there was so much she needed to say, and she did not have far to look.

From across the room, in Beaulieu’s company, Anthony peered in her direction, and his expression gave her gooseflesh. After a quick check of her appearance, she told herself she did not wear the new gown, with the bold neckline, to attract her man’s attention, because she would never do anything so frivolous. But deep inside, where she was always honest with herself, she admitted she chose her attire for his delectation, because she wanted to be pretty for him. Wanted to make him proud.

“Arabella, stop fidgeting, because it is unbecoming a lady of your prestige.” In a steady rhythm, Mama fanned herself in time with the repetitive tap of her foot. “And remember what I told you about Lord Rockingham. You are not to entertain him sans a chaperone, and if I am unavailable, Miss Wallace has offered to stand in my place.”

“Of course, Mama.” How Arabella rued her decision to confide in Mama, because the conversation led to an in-depth discussion of marital relations, which her mother described in terrifying detail, and what previously seemed a pedestrian act now shocked her. Science books made such intimate exercises seem simple and straightforward, so benign, if a tad messy, and she resolved to put the entire affair out of her mind. Still, when she assessed Anthony’s rapid advance, something in his impassioned countenance suggested she would violate her mother’s directive, that night, and Arabella would not protest. Slow and steady, he weaved through the crowd, his gaze never leaving hers, and she shivered, as naughty thoughts raced through her head. “Would you care for some ratafia?”

“I would rather drink dirty water from the mop bucket.” Mama waved to a friend but remained rooted at Arabella’s side. “The waiter brings champagne. Be a dear and fetch us a couple of glasses.”

“Yes, Mama.” Arabella flagged the servant and collected two portions of the bubbly confection, one of which she handed to her mother, just as Anthony and Lord Beaulieu emerged from the herd, and she mustered an air of calm. “Lord Rockingham, what a lovely surprise.”

“Indeed, the pleasure is mine. Good evening, Lady Ainsworth and Lady Arabella.” Clicking his heels, he bowed, and what she would have given to wipe the self-satisfied smirk from his face, before he clued her mother to his intent, which she guessed was anything but proper, even for her fiancé. “Shall we take a turn about the room, Lady Arabella?”

“I would love to, my lord.” She stepped forward. “Perhaps, we can—”

“Lord Rockingham, we shall be too happy to accompany you on a brief tour.” Mama nudged Arabella aside, to claim Anthony’s outstretched arm. “After all, I should say hello to Lady Allen and Her Grace.”

“Now that will not do, because I would beg Lady Ainsworth for the honor of a dance, given they play my favorite chassé step.” Arching a brow, and clutching a fist to his chest, Lord Beaulieu placed himself in Mama’s path. “What say you, my lady? Would you refuse a gallant war hero his humble request?”

“I beg your pardon, my lord.” Given Beaulieu’s boisterous tone, nearby attendees gawked, and Mama relinquished Anthony’s escort, much to Arabella’s relief and amusement. “I would never decline such a gracious invitation, and the honor is mine.” To Arabella, Mama said, “Collect Miss Wallace, because she is your friend, and you should include her.”

“We shall do so, at once.” In the glare of Mama’s piercing gaze, Arabella could not lie, so she rested her palm in the crook of Anthony’s elbow and drew him in her friend’s direction. “We must be careful, my lord. Mama watches our every move, tonight.”

“I see that.” Anthony tensed, and she squeezed his arm. “What did you tell her?”

“More than I should have, but in all fairness I could not deceive my mother, and she asked a direct question.” Lines of strain about