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

“That has never changed, and you have my solemn assurance that I shall never again conceal anything from you. I am truly sorry I disappointed you.” A tear trickled down her cheek, and he cursed himself. “However, you are mistaken, because I am not your lone supporter. The Mad Matchmakers champion your cause, too. They would follow you, anywhere.”

“I will not dispute that, but no one knows me like you know me. After last night, and the intimacy we shared, that is doubly so.” She choked on a sob and bowed her head, but he cupped her chin and held her gaze. “Now I’ve made you cry.” A knock at the door halted his attempt to make amends, but he would not be deterred. “Hell and the Reaper, can we not enjoy an uninterrupted interlude? Who is it?” he barked with unveiled impatience.

“It is Emily, my lord,” the maid called from the sitting room, and he rained silent invective on her person. “Breakfast is served. Shall I pour her ladyship a cup of tea?”

“Her timing is perfect,” he said to Arabella. “No, thank you,” he responded to Emily. “We will tend ourselves and ring to have the dishes cleared. You are dismissed.”

“Yes, my lord.” Faint footfalls signaled the maid’s exit, and he stood.

“My lord, there is something I must tell you.” His bride inhaled a shaky breath. She opened her mouth and then closed it. “I care for you.”

“I know you do.” He mulled putting into words what she did for him. How and what she made him feel.

Reflecting on the current circumstances, and what passed between them, they had to reaffirm their commitment to each other. He needed it, and so did she, and he knew of no better way to show her what she meant to him. After tugging on the belt of his robe, he shrugged free of the swath of black silk. With a delightful blush coloring her face, she peered at him.

“Anthony, what are you about?” she asked in a whisper.

“Correcting a gross miscarriage of husbandly duty, enchanting Arabella.” Lifting the covers, he eased beside her, balancing on his elbow, and she rested her palms to his shoulders. “Now I am going to make love to you as I should have, as it should have been for your first time.”

*

A gentle summer breeze whistled and thrummed through the thorny hedges, as Arabella clutched Anthony’s arm. On that glorious morning, they strolled through the maze, sharing ideas or assessments of Larrey’s work, as had become their routine after breaking their fast. Given their confinement, they spent every moment of every day, together, and she loved it.

“I was wondering what you thought of Larrey’s argument that men suffering from nostalgia are neither homesick nor malingerers.” Her husband peered over his shoulder, at Emily and one of Shaw’s henchmen, who followed at a discreet distance. There were others nearby, waiting to pounce if Anthony or Arabella took a single wrong step, so they stayed on the path. “We are not mentally infirm or weak-willed milquetoasts. And I take offense to the universal assumption that we are afflicted with lifelong character defects or, worse, cowardice.”

“Never thought that for an instant, and you are no coward,” she assured him. It was to their good fortune that they were quite thrown together, because such proximity fostered a spirit of fellow feeling they might never have otherwise experienced in the beginning of their marriage. “To have survived the horrors of war, you would have to be uncommonly strong. I suspect it is ignorance of the lingering effects of continuous battle, which is an important distinction, and how to treat our fighting men, that leads to such impractical therapy and medicaments. It makes no sense to drown a tormented soldier in laudanum.”

“Or to administer regular beatings.” He winced. “To inflict physical pain strikes me as the cruelest blow, which would only intensify the associative agony. Instead, Larrey recommends regular rotation of troops, to avoid constant exposure to military action. I’m not sure how that would work, in a practical sense, but it is worth a try, if only to spare the wounded additional torment.”

“When we return to London, you should meet with someone in the Ministry of Defense or the Royal Academy.” An unforgiving wave of nausea rose in the back of her throat, and she halted. Covering her mouth with her hand, she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply through her nose. “Oh, dear.”

“Again?” Anthony inquired with an undercurrent of concern. How she adored his expressions of solicitude. In the darkness, while he slept, she told herself he cared for her, even though he neglected to say as much. “Perhaps, we should return to the house.”

“No.” She swallowed hard, and the world tilted. Spreading her legs, she splayed her arms to avoid falling flat on her bottom. “It will pass.”

“We have walked long enough, and I am not willing to risk your health for a bit of fresh air.” When he tried to turn her toward the back parlor, from whence they exited the main residence, she resisted. “Maybe we should ask Dr. Shaw to examine you. What if you are ill?”

“I would sooner trust a chimney sweep to perform surgery.” That reply garnered a healthy laugh from her husband, and how she loved the carefree sound. So much had changed in his demeanor since their arrival at Sanderstead that she almost felt a sense of gratitude toward his father. Almost. “But I would sit on the stone bench overlooking the fountain, if you are amenable.”

“Lady Rockingham, I am at your service.” Despite his claim, he seemed preoccupied, because he didn’t look at her. When they navigated the hedgerow arch, shielding them from the ever-present guards, she expected him to sneak a quick kiss, but he escorted her straight to the flagstone walkway. “Is it possible that last night proved too much for