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

“Yes, my lady.” Emily peered over her shoulder and waved to the footmen. With characteristic timidity, the maid bowed her head and walked with Arabella into the bedchamber. “I aired the white gown and the matching robe, as you requested. Shall I take down your hair?”

“Oh, indeed.” She eased to the small, tufted seat at the vanity. As she reflected on what the night would hold, anticipation simmered beneath her flesh, and she smiled to herself. Tomorrow, she would be Anthony’s wife in every way, and no one could change that.

“Are you nervous, my lady?” Emily gasped and covered her mouth with her hands. “I beg your pardon. I should not have asked such a personal question.”

“That’s all right.” Arabella recalled she needed to grow closer to the servant. “Are we not friends?”

Emily nodded.

“Well, friends don’t keep secrets from friends, do they?” Arabella asked, and the maid shook her head. “Precisely. And to answer your query, I am a little nervous, but I think that is probably natural for a new bride.”

“I wouldn’t know.” Emily tugged several pins from Arabella’s intricate coiffure. “My one and only beau married another girl from Weybridge, last year, and I suppose I will never find another suitor.”

“Don’t say that.” Arabella grabbed her silver-backed brush. “There is always hope, and you never know what can happen. As a matter of fact, I never intended to take a husband.”

“Really?” Surprise colored Emily’s response. “But you wed a marquess.”

“It was pure luck owing to birth on both our parts that we ended up together.” Arabella turned to face the maid. “And, I should add, a dark twist of fate.”

“I don’t understand.” The maid furrowed her brow. “Do you mean you were not destined to marry his lordship?”

“Yes and no.” Arabella chuckled at Emily’s perplexed expression. “You see, there existed a longstanding agreement, brokered before we were born, between our two families. Only, Lord Rockingham had an older brother who originally inherited the title. When John was killed at Waterloo, Anthony became the Marquess of Rockingham, assuming ownership of the title, the marquisate, and me, I suppose.”

“How awful.” Emily picked up a comb and worked to untangle a knotted curl. “Did you love the first Lord Rockingham?”

“What a curious question, given love rarely enters the equation when it comes to marriage.” Arabella considered the two men and wondered how different her life would have been with the elder Bartlett son. “To be perfectly frank, I never had the opportunity to know John. He sent the occasional gift, and we spoke briefly, when I was very young. Beyond that, I seldom heard from him.”

“Well, at least for you, love didn’t matter, but I could not take a husband who did not claim my heart,” Emily replied in a melancholy tone. Arabella almost challenged the servant’s assertion but held her tongue, because she needed an ally. “I used to envy what I thought were the delights of London, including the balls and socials. You get to wear such lovely clothes and eat some of the most delicious food. You attend the theater and Vauxhall. It sounds so exciting. Yet, I would not trade places with you, because if I wed, it will be to a man of my choosing. I suppose that is a concession of poverty.”

“It does seem rather dreadful when you put it that way.” Indeed, never had Arabella pondered that perspective. After assessing her hair in the mirror, she stood and gave her back to the maid. As Emily unlaced Arabella’s gown, she reminisced of her brief courtship with her injured hero. “Still, if I had a choice, I would have set my cap for Lord Rockingham.”

“Who wouldn’t?” Emily snorted and tugged the dress from Arabella’s shoulders. “He is a wealthy marquess, heir to a dukedom, and, if you don’t mind my saying, a vast deal more than a little in twig.”

Together, they giggled. From beyond the doors, Anthony cleared his throat, and Arabella came alert.

“We should be about our business, because my groom awaits.” Steadying herself with the maid’s support, she stepped free of the gown. “But I would not have you linger under the impression that I do not care for Lord Rockingham, because the truth is, I am quite fond of him.”

“That’s right.” Emily whisked Arabella’s chemise over her head. “If I remember correctly, you called him a war hero.”

“Yes, but he is so much more than that.” She sat at the edge of the bed and unhooked her garters. “Lord Rockingham is the kindest, gentlest, and best of men. He has a particular partiality for neige de pistachio ice, and he is blessed with a boyish innocence that quite slays my defenses, despite what he endured in France. Although the duke does not recognize it, his son possesses uncommon courage. Where others might never overcome the loss of an arm, Lord Rockingham greets every day with newfound strength and optimism, and I hold him in great esteem. Indeed, I could not have hoped for a better husband.”

“Begging your pardon, my lady, but you speak like a woman in love.” Emily picked up the diaphanous night rail Arabella selected for her wedding night. When she prepared to drape it over Arabella’s figure, she flinched and came to a halt. “Oh, dear. I did it again. I said something wrong. Please, forgive me.”

“No.” Arabella blinked, as her world seemed to spin out of control. “There is naught to forgive, because you put into words what I did not see until now. Until just this moment.” Resting her palms to her thighs, she inhaled a deep breath. “I knew I harbored an attachment for him, but I never explored the depth of my emotions. Yet, I cannot deny what I feel.” She gave vent to nervous laughter. “You are correct. I love Lord Rockingham. I know not when or how it happened, but I love him. Regardless of what the Duke of Swanborough or Dr. Shaw claim, his lordship is not mentally infirm. Indeed, I find