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

At first, he opened his mouth, and then he blinked. Blushing, which she found quite charming, he cast a smile and tugged at his collar. “Uh, no. I remain wholly intact, insofar as the rest of my anatomy is concerned.”

“I see.” Actually, she didn’t quite understand his cryptic comment. “But I should put you at ease, given your candor, and express similar reservations, because I have no wish to wed you, or anyone, for that matter.”

“Indeed?” Anthony arched his brows. “Forgive my boldness, but you are handsome. Do not all debutantes live for the day they slip the parson’s noose about some poor, misguided sot’s neck?”

“Such as yourself?” She stuck her tongue in her cheek. Let him choke on that response. “Or do you rebel, as do I, given I have never thought of myself as a debutante?”

“Ah, you must be one of those ladies.” The marquess snickered, and she bristled at the inference. “Let me guess. You admire the blathering lunacy of Wollstonecraft and her ilk?”

“Mary Wollstonecraft is a genius, and A Vindication of the Rights of Woman is a masterpiece of logic.” Angry in an instant, Arabella’s temper got the best of her, and she shook her fist. “Despite assertions to the contrary, you are not my superior, and I shall go to my grave rebuking such ridiculous notions. As Wollstonecraft argues, quite correctly, I might add, men benefit from education, which increases their reasoning capability. When women are provided the same advantages, we are equally rational beings. Thus, it is a patriarchal society that first stifles our intelligence and then punishes us when we react according to our deficiency.”

“Is that so?” Narrowing his stare, Anthony lowered his chin and rested his elbow to his knee. “You talk too much.”

“How dare you.” From the foyer, Mama coughed, and Arabella checked her tone. In a low voice, she said, “Without doubt, you are the most rude, ill-mannered, illiterate, and…and—”

“The word you are looking for is insufferable.” He winked.

“Oh, you are a vast deal more than insufferable, sir.” At her insult, she anticipated hellfire and damnation. Instead, he burst into laughter, and it was in that moment she realized he deliberately baited her, but she knew not why. “I should not have said that, but you can be quite provoking, Lord Rockingham.”

“You speak the truth, and I forgot polite protocol, so no harm done, Lady Arabella. While I am not certain I support your overall conclusions, I can appreciate your passion, as you glow, my dear.” A hint of sadness invested his countenance, and she pondered the wounds she could not see, because, much like an onion, he possessed so many layers. “It may be difficult to believe, but I once coveted such strong convictions.”

“Before the war?” Again, she overstepped the limits of urbane decorum, and in silence she vowed to improve. “Please, forgive me, my lord. I am not usually so—”

“—Intrusive?” The unveiled amusement in his gaze negated disapproval, and she sighed in relief. “Something tells me otherwise.”

“So, you are insufferable, and I am intrusive. In all honesty, it has always been my downfall.” She tried to adopt an air of refined composure but settled for something not quite so clumsy, because she liked him. She genuinely liked him. “But I would love to hear your gallant tales of life on the battlefield, because you must be very proud to have served your country with such valor.”

“You think I should be proud? Of what?” On the heels of his query, which struck her as a tad sarcastic, everything in his demeanor transformed into something altogether dark and alarming. Gone was the boyish charm. In its place, palpable tension marred his elegant features, and in an instant, she confronted a stranger. “Pray, explain yourself, because the entire experience remains a mystery to me, and in its wake I question everything about myself.”

“You are hurting.” While Arabella read the Waterloo accounts in The Times, which lauded Wellington’s cunning strategy, heroism, and victory, the articles reduced the lives of those lost to numerical figures bereft of the emotional toll exacted on the survivors. The wounded were by and large ignored, yet they represented casualties, too. She studied the empty coat sleeve pinned to his lapel, in so many ways a harsh reflection of his altered personality, and wondered of the horrors he must have witnessed. “But I do not reference your most obvious injury.”

“Do you presume to know me?” he snapped. Myriad emotions flashed in his expression, and he bared his teeth. Then he exhaled and slapped his thigh. To her dismay, she incited a reaction she didn’t comprehend, and she sought some means to mollify him. “Do you possess powers of divination, that you can read my thoughts?”

Despite his outward aggression, which she likened to a barking dog, she sensed underlying fear. So much fear. And anguish.

“On the contrary, I presume nothing and claim no such abilities.” In light of his much-changed attitude, she should have been afraid, yet he scared her not, because he exhibited telltale elements of vulnerability, in the subtle tic of his right brow and the gentle tremor of his lower lip, which called to her on some base level. It would have been fascinating to know him in some capacity, and she ached to offer reassurance. Did no one detect the evidence of his agony but her? “But I have eyes, Lord Rockingham, and you wear your pain like one of your garments. Perhaps you could recount your tale of woe, because I have been told I am an excellent listener, and it might help to share your burden. While it would seem we are not to wed, and I am in complete agreement with you regarding your decision, I would be your friend, if you permit it.”

Indeed, she could never have too many friends, and he offered her the opportunity to be of use, which always appealed to her. Indeed, the man