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

“It would be my pleasure, but it will not come to that, because we depart Weybridge, together.” She clung to him in desperation, because her instincts told her she would soon lose his company. “You worry for naught, my lord.” To Beaulieu, she said, “Pray, tell him.” The usually boisterous Lord Beaulieu replied not, and the hair at the back of Arabella’s neck stood on end. She met her husband’s stare, and the resolve in his eyes proclaimed a terrible truth. In a bare whisper, she uttered his name, “Anthony.”

“Darling, we cannot escape Shaw’s men without a diversion. Someone must distract them.” He rested his chin to the crown of her head, and she fought tears. “If I lure them in one direction, you can flee in the other, and it would be too late when they discovered their mistake. You would be free and halfway to London, well beyond their reach.”

“No.” She gripped the lapels of his coat. “I will not let you go. I will not let you sacrifice yourself for me.”

“I do it for you and the babe that grows in your belly.” He kissed her forehead. “I’m afraid we have no choice in the matter. It is that or we return to Sanderstead, where Shaw is sure to separate us once your pregnancy becomes apparent. And we know not what Shaw’s henchmen would do to Emily and Lord Beaulieu. There is too much at stake, and I will not risk their lives when they are imperiled because they helped us.”

“I do not accept that surrendering yourself is the only answer to our quandary.” She yanked hard to draw him closer. “What if we—”

“My lord, your rig is hitched,” the stablemaster called, as the coachman and footmen joined their party.

“Rockingham, if we are going to make a run, we must go, now,” Beaulieu stated, and she rained all manner of invective on his miserable hide. To the coachman, he hollered, “We drive south, to Hersham, and you will stop for no one.”

“Aye, sir.” The coachman climbed atop the seat.

“My lady, and you are my lady, you must have faith that we will meet again.” Anthony nudged her with his nose, and again she met his gaze. “You have courage. And spirit. And charm. And passion such as I have never known. I want you to know something, before we part. The months I spent locked in a room with you were the happiest of my life, and you must know how ardently I love you. Indeed, I am in love with you. I have loved you since you stood in the window at your parents’ house, watching me on the street. You saw something me, and you said as much. Well, I saw something in you, too. My only regret is that I did not make my declaration sooner. I should have told you, every day we were together.”

“Oh, Anthony, I love you, too.” Now the unchecked tears flowed. “Like you, I felt a connection. I knew it then, even though I claimed the opposite. That is why I supported you.”

“I know, my love.” He brushed his lips to hers. “Because you are my brave, brilliant marchioness.” Then he mingled his tongue with hers, and she opened to him. Welcomed him. Scored her nails to his neck and savored the warmth that pervaded her flesh. Anything to delay their separation.

Bereft of reticence or apprehension, he favored her with a soul-stealing kiss. And then she detected an altogether different emotion. Elusive and foreign. She licked and suckled his beautiful mouth, and then she identified the unwanted expression. It was a farewell. In that moment, Anthony lifted his head and set her at arm’s length, as she mustered a protest that died in her throat.

“I love you, Arabella, Marchioness of Rockingham. Never forget that.” He tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her ear. Before she could respond, he lowered his chin, and his features hardened. “Take her.”

Lord Beaulieu lifted her from her feet and covered her mouth with his hand, when she screamed. With both hands, she reached for Anthony, but he retreated beyond her grasp. Emily pushed aside a footman and held open the coach door, and Beaulieu shoved Arabella into the squabs.

“Drive on, and make haste.” Beaulieu caught Arabella about the waist when she tried to escape. “Don’t even try it. I promised the major I would guard you with my life, and I will do so, whether you like it or not.”

“How could you let him do it?” she asked, as she pressed her face to the window. Anthony sprinted down the alley, the distance between them increasing with each successive step. Was there anything so sad as watching someone she loved run away from her? “They will hurt him.”

“Not without you they won’t.” Beaulieu drew down the shade and pulled a flintlock pistol from his coat pocket. “Without you, they cannot touch him.” The stress of the day caught up with her, wreaking havoc on her faculties, and she collapsed against his shoulder, in a fit of tears. “What is this? I thought you a woman of uncommon strength, not given to flaps or starts. Was I wrong?”

“What?” She sniffed, as everything inside her rebelled against reality. “What did you say?”

“Rockingham sings your praises, and you even had me convinced that you possess rare sagacity for the female sex.” Beaulieu inclined his head and smirked. “Was I mistaken, given your predictable but woefully disappointing hysteria?”

“How dare you.” She righted her skirts and moved to the opposite bench, to sit beside Emily, who clutched her hand, and rage charged the fore. “Who are you to lecture me, when my husband has been stolen from me?”

“Which is why you should be focused on how we will get him back, instead of blubbering like a child.” The cocky earl snorted. “Of course, you probably have no idea where to