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

“I beg your pardon?” She knew exactly to what he referred, and nothing about it injured her. “Apart from my initial hesitance, because I never conceived of any such position, and nary a book mentioned it, you gave me naught but pleasure, as always. Had I experienced any discomfit, or had I not wanted to participate in what you must admit is one of your more inventive maneuvers, I would have declared such reservation. However, after you explained your objective, and we cushioned my knees with a pillow, I was quite comfortable. While I do not believe the table was ever intended for that purpose, you are nothing if not resourceful, because you have transformed every unexceptionable piece of furniture in our chamber into a means to demonstrate your ingenuity and virility.”

“Is that a compliment?” He led her to the bench, where she sat and smoothed the skirt of her sprig muslin dress. “Not that I require any.”

“Liar.” She giggled and admired his sun-kissed brown hair, which harkened a comparison with his evening brandy, which he took after dinner, sitting beside the hearth, with her firmly planted in his lap. “But I wish you would cease your attempts at abstinence, however noble, because I cannot sleep due to your tossing and turning when you forgo intimacy, and then I get no rest when you resume physical relations.”

“I am trying to do right by you and thwart my father, but you are impossible to resist.” Anthony rolled his eyes and groaned. “And that nightgown you wore to bed, last night, should come with a warning. How am I supposed to restrain myself when you dangle such delectable bait?”

“Well, what do you expect?” She shrugged and laughed, as she recalled his reaction when she emerged from behind the screen. “You schooled me in the ways of desire, such that I wager I could teach my mother a thing or two, and I’m supposed to stand as the chaste debutante? It had been almost a sennight. Who is the past master and who is the pupil, my naughty lord?”

“You have me there.” He motioned with his head. “Emily approaches.”

“Oh?” Arabella glanced toward the house and waved a greeting. “She and I are becoming fast friends, but I have not brought up the prospect of dispatching a letter since last month. I don’t want to rouse suspicion or, worse, alienate her.”

Indeed, she extended considerable effort getting to know the reserved but affable servant. A good-natured soul, Emily was loyal to a fault. While Arabella needed the shy domestic’s help, she genuinely liked the provincial ragamuffin. When the ordeal ended, she planned to take Emily to London, so the maid would avoid any retribution and an unknown fate.

“My lord. My lady.” Emily curtseyed. “Cook asks me to inform you that the noon meal is prepared. Dr. Shaw says you may dine on the terrace, if you prefer.” Then she glanced from side to side and stepped closer. In a hoarse tone, she said, “But I suggest you remove to your chambers, so I can assess the torn hem you mentioned yesterday.”

“A torn—oh, yes. The hem.” Something was wrong, because Arabella required no seamstress, and she peered at Anthony. “My lord, the sun is rather warm today. If it is all right with you, I prefer to return to our quarters.”

“Of course.” He furrowed his brow and patted the back of her hand. “Shall we, my dear?”

In silence, they strolled through the topiary garden, posing as a besotted couple, to the terrace door. Yet, she was wound tight as a clock spring. Inside, they crossed the parlor and walked into the hall. In the foyer, they turned left, just as the long case clock chimed its dulcet melody, and ascended the stairs.

A footman rounded a corner, and Emily said, “Their lordships will take the noon meal in their sitting room. Please, tell Cook.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The footman bowed and rushed to the landing.

At the entrance to their private apartment, a guard sat in a chair. As Anthony and Arabella neared, the henchman stood and opened the door. She never acknowledged her jailer, because he deserved no notice or respect.

After navigating the sitting room, Emily waved Anthony and Arabella into the inner chamber. At last, the maid faced them.

“My lord and my lady, I have given much thought to your confinement and your wish to contact your family, and if you write a letter, now, I shall collect it after you take lunch and post it, myself, in the morning.” Emily bit her bottom lip and shuffled her feet. “I believe it best for you to leave Sanderstead, as soon as possible, and I am willing to help you escape.”

“You are scared.” Arabella glanced at her husband and then back to the servant. “What has happened to frighten you?”

“It is Dr. Shaw.” The maid wrung her fingers, and Arabella’s thoughts raced. “He does not have your best interests at heart, and he has the morals of a gotch-gutted toss pot.” The maid shrieked and covered her mouth. “I beg your pardon, your lordships.”

“It is all right, Emily.” Anthony pulled Arabella into the crook of his arm. “Pray, continue.”

“While I knew of his plans for Lord Rockingham, and I do not support Dr. Shaw’s conclusions, it is what he intends for Lady Rockingham that most concerns me. I cannot, in good conscience, live with myself if I allow him to succeed.” The footman entered the sitting room, and Emily stretched tall. “Leave the tray on the table, and I shall serve their lordships.”

“As you wish.” The footman bowed and retraced his steps.

“My lady, forgive my indelicacy, but Dr. Shaw asks every month if you bleed, and he tracks your habits.” When Arabella gasped, Emily blinked, and her fingers shook as she smoothed her hair and straightened her white cap. “Worry not, because I told him you have, even though you have not used the rags in more than a