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

not spoil your special day with talk of such unpleasant matters.” Papa narrowed his stare, opened and closed his mouth. “You care for him.”

“I do, Papa,” she replied, without hesitation. Recalling tender kisses, she shivered, and gooseflesh covered her from top to toe. Then she blinked and laughed. “I do. I care for Lord Rockingham.”

“And you do not fear him?” Papa shuffled his feet and consulted his timepiece. “I wish you had discussed this with me prior to now, because I would like to explore the topic, given I consider you an excellent judge of character, but at this moment we must away, else you may miss your wedding ceremony.”

“Then let us depart, because I would not be late.” At the threshold, she reminisced of nights spent on the floor, reading by candlelight, and afternoons filled with the study of plant life, as opposed to the usual ladylike pursuits of embroidery, painting tables, and covering screens, and then she bade a final farewell to her childhood room. Excited, she accepted her father’s escort, and they strolled into the hall. “But you need not worry about me, Papa, because Lord Rockingham would never harm me.”

“All right, my dear.” Something in his expression gave her pause, when they descended the stairs and crossed the foyer. At the door, Papa took her pelisse from the butler and draped the outerwear about her shoulders. “That is quite enough, and I know everything will be fine.”

“Oh, Papa, look at the brilliant blue sky. It is as if nature blesses my union.” The sunlight blinded her, as she stepped outside, and she noted the empty coach parked at the curb. “Where is Mama?”

“She wanted to arrive early and visit with Her Grace.” Papa handed Arabella into the elegant rig and then settled opposite her. “And you know your mother. She wanted to be sure everything was perfect.”

As she smoothed the skirt of her gown, the coach pulled into the street and made a sharp turn. The short drive, which she could have walked had her father permitted it, from Upper Brooke Street to the Swanborough residence in Grosvenor Square took mere minutes. She barely relaxed when they passed through the wrought iron gates.

Beneath the porte cochère of the Corinthian-columned home, the Ainsworth coach drew to a halt, and liveried footmen sprang into action. Papa exited and turned to hand her to the pavement.

A cool breeze rustled her hair, and she ducked her head as she strode toward the side entrance. After skipping up the stairs, she lingered in a secondary foyer, where a very proper butler approached and bowed.

“Good morning, Lord Ainsworth and Lady Arabella.” The stiff manservant extended an arm. “If you will follow me, I will direct you to the drawing room, where His Grace, Her Grace, and Lord Rockingham anticipate your arrival.”

Trailing in the butler’s wake, she admired the lush Rococo décor, which boasted mezzo-frescoes in the Carracci tradition, vivid pastorals, and gilt-bronze floor to ceiling mirrors framed with asymmetrical and abstract stuccowork. It dawned on her then that one day she would be mistress of all she surveyed, and it struck her as a daunting yet thrilling prospect.

At the end of the long corridor, they turned right. Standing near the fireplace, she spotted Anthony, resplendent in his regimentals, which she suspected he wore for her. When he met her gaze, from across the room, he smiled, and telltale warmth filled her cheeks.

“Ah, we are all in attendance.” His Grace made what she considered an intrusive study of her person, and she shuffled her slippered feet. “Welcome, Ainsworth and Lady Arabella. Shall we commence the ceremony, because I am starved?”

“I thought we might visit, first.” Her Grace drew near. “Lady Arabella, you look like a princess. Lady Ainsworth described your gown, but she did not do it justice.”

“We can visit at the breakfast.” His Grace pinched the bridge of his nose and pursed his lips. “Allow me to present the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Most Reverend and Right Honorable Charles Manners-Sutton. The Archbishop journeyed to London to officiate your wedding, expressly.”

“It is an honor.” Arabella curtseyed and then gave her attention to her groom. “Good morning, my lord.”

“My lady.” Bereft of the various signs of stress and anxiety that often marred his handsome features, Anthony bowed. Then he claimed her hand and pressed a chaste kiss to the back of her knuckles. In a quiet tone, he said, “That dress is inspiring.”

“Oh?” In a whisper, she replied, “What does it inspire?”

“Minx.” He winked. “You will regret that, later.”

“Is that a promise?” Yes, she provoked her soon-to-be-husband, and it felt so good. “Because my imagination conjures all manner of delights.”

“My dear, you may depend upon it.” He waggled his brows.

“Let us take our respective positions.” The archbishop moved to stand in the light of a large window. “Lord Rockingham, if you and Lady Arabella will join hands, we can begin.” Holding the Book of Common Prayer, he waited until they did as he bade. “Dearly beloved family, we have come together in the presence of God to witness and bless the joining together of this man and this woman in Holy Matrimony. Therefore, marriage is not to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly, but reverently, deliberately, and in accordance with the purposes for which it was instituted by God.”

The service progressed, and she held Anthony’s stare, when she took her vows, reciting each word with care. To her amazement, the same mystical connection, an invisible but impenetrable bond impervious to the mortal constraints that distinguished and blessed their fledgling relationship, enveloped them in a glow of emotions she could not identify. Tears welled, when he pledged his troth, and his expression, filled with unmistakable if unspoken devotion, proclaimed he was not so immune to the moment.

At last, she made her final declaration, and her voice wavered, given the significance. “From this day forward you shall not walk alone. My heart will be your shelter, and my arms will be your home.”

“Will all of you