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

“Lady Arabella, I will make you a bargain. If you can work with me to devise a means of ending our engagement, excepting a scandal, never again will I force upon you my odious company, so I have no need of your friendship. But until that time, we shall play our part as the happy couple.” She had not a chance to respond before Anthony fished a box from his pocket and set the tiny parcel on the table. Standing, he frowned. “Your betrothal ring, which my father insisted I gift today. Thus I have fulfilled his requirement, and now I will take my leave.”

With that, Lord Rockingham strode from the drawing room without so much as a fond farewell, and she wondered what went wrong. Ears ringing, and her heart pounding in her chest, Arabella snatched the box and leaped from the chair. For a few seconds, she stared at the floor and pondered her next move. Then she shook herself alert and ran to the front windows, to see what he did for an encore. Sheltering in the shadows of the drapery, she stared beyond the glass at her baffling but captivating fiancé.

No, he was nothing like what she anticipated.

On the sidewalk, Anthony paced and argued with himself. Then he bumped into some unlucky passerby, who tumbled to the ground but quickly scrambled to his feet. When the stranger noted the marquess’ missing limb, the bystander tipped his hat and rushed to the corner, and she could just imagine what that outward expression of pity did to Anthony’s confidence.

Shoulders slumped, he studied the pavement for several minutes, and some peculiar but deep-seated intrigue tugged at her conscience. How she longed to comfort him, though she didn’t understand her reaction to a man who was, for all intents and purposes, unknown to her. Perhaps an internal sense of humanity motivated her, because she could not decipher the emotions swirling inside her.

When he lifted his chin and met her stare, what she glimpsed in his crystal blue eyes—a lethal mix of discernible anguish, shame, and profound self-loathing—reached through the distance between them to clutch her throat, to ravage her gut, to wreak havoc on her confidence, and she whimpered and pressed her palm to the glass.

Yet she did not—would not founder, because he needed someone to stand for him. While she would not be his wife, she could be his champion in that moment.

Drawing on her inner strength, honed in the late hours when she read books by candlelight, she stood for Lord Rockingham and found purpose where she least expected it. Slowly, she mouthed, I see you. In response, he darted down the lane.

For a long while she lingered, replaying recent events, until her mother called, and Arabella exhaled. “I will be right there, Mama.”

After wiping a tear from her cheek, which she hadn’t noticed until then, she opened the box and discovered a beautiful diamond and sapphire halo ring resting on a bed of pristine cotton. Toying with the bauble, she envisioned Lord Rockingham in all his tragic glory, like some mythical Greek god. It would take a strong woman to marry the interesting but damaged man, and she hoped he would find peace and solace with his special lady.

Chapter Two

For some reason Anthony never could discern, London society dressed in their finery to tour Hyde Park during the fashionable hours known as the Promenade, if for no other purpose than to be seen. Indeed the entire ridiculous ritual, which mixed layer upon layer of frippery and the outdoors, confused him. Part of the pomp and pageantry that comprised the ton, with its frivolous rituals and myriad dictates, the organized walk served as an opportunity to solidify connections, mark future husbands, and target an accommodating wife or widow. Of course, before the war, he saddled his beloved stallion and raced along Rotten Row with his brother or his father, but those days were gone and with them so much joy.

Now, as a prisoner of another campaign, he prepared to walk in the park as the dutiful son and heir with his parents, while the family rig carried him down the streets of Mayfair. Overhead, the blue sky boasted a brilliant sun and nary a cloud. Birds flitted about, and red squirrels scampered between trees. He enjoyed none of it. In a sense, he already occupied half his grave. Too bad Waterloo didn’t finish the job. Instead, the conflict left him to wander the earth as an empty shell.

“Did you remember to send Lady Arabella a bouquet of roses?” Mama inquired, as she adjusted the lace trim of her glove.

“Yes.” Of course, he neglected to mention that on the accompanying card he wrote nothing but his name.

Sitting in the family landau, which bobbled down Park Lane, he reflected on the last exchange he shared with his older brother, who had a penchant for trouble. Although John never said as much, Anthony’s promotion to major served as a source of irritation between them. But it came as no surprise, given the elder’s appetite for mischief. As a cavalry captain John had earned three reprimands for dereliction of duty, disobeying a direct order, and abandoning his post without leave to visit a nearby farmer’s daughter, which undermined his prospects for military advancement.

In the chaos of war, John’s adventurous nature led to his ultimate undoing. While Wellington assigned the cavalry to the borders of La Haye Sainte, John decided to take a small compliment of men into town, whereupon they confronted a unit of approximately five hundred and fifty cuirassiers, which fired a canister shot with lethal accuracy. John fell amid a cloud of gun smoke and dirt.

“Anthony, I spy your lovely fiancée.” Mother gave him a gentle nudge, which ripped him from his dark trance. “Is she not charming in her lavender pelisse and matching bonnet?”

“Yes, she is quite fetching,” he replied, without so much as a casual