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

but a woman, driven by obstreperous emotions, incapable of understanding such intricacies of the mind.” Swanborough shook his head, and something within her snapped. “I demand that you return to Sanderstead, at once, in fulfillment of the marriage contract.”

“How dare you patronize me.” Her jaw set, she could abide by the rules of polite decorum no longer. With the wind of conviction in her sails, she advanced, evading her father’s attempt to stay her, and grasped the duke by the lapels of his coat. “Have you any idea what your ignorance of Lord Rockingham’s state may have wrought? You may have done more damage to his overall health than the war ever could have.”

“While I appreciate your loyalty to Lord Rockingham, I must let knowledge and reason guide my actions, given I must preserve the dukedom.” Swanborough grabbed her by the forearms. “Now, you will come with me.”

“As you were.” Beaulieu drew a flintlock pistol and took careful aim. “Else I will put a lead shot between your eyes, rank be damned. Although I am partial to my life of relative comfort, I will not hesitate to pull the trigger, so you will stand down, or you will die.”

All hell broke loose in the foyer, and the gathering descended into chaos, as her father shouted recriminations, and the Ainsworth staff challenged the duke’s personnel. Beaulieu thrust Patience to the rear, and the Mad Matchmakers surrounded Swanborough and Arabella.

“Wait.” Arabella wrenched from the duke’s hold and took a position to Lord Beaulieu’s right. “Pray, let me speak.”

“I will hear you.” Swanborough shifted his weight and jutted his hip. “But I will not forget this, Ainsworth.”

“Neither will I, Swanborough,” Papa replied between gritted teeth.

“Gentlemen, please.” Arabella stood in the middle of the fray, and it dawned on her there was only one option. As her Anthony sacrificed himself for her, she had to sacrifice herself for him. Then she faced the duke. “I will make you an honest bargain. If you allow me to see Lord Rockingham, for myself, I will return to Sanderstead, without protest.”

“That is out of the question.” The duke narrowed his gaze. “An asylum is no place for a lady.”

“What about Lady Rockingham’s appointed representatives, given I agree with your assertion?” Still bearing the weapon, Beaulieu inched forward. “Lord Greyson and I can journey with you, to Lord Rockingham’s location, and verify he is in good health, as you claim.”

Infuriating silence fell on the foyer, and the duke stared at the floor.

“No.” He shook his head. “I fear any disruption could impair his treatment.”

“Your Grace, I carry Lord Rockingham’s heir.” At Arabella’s proclamation, the duke stumbled back and his mouth fell agape. “If you wish to see the babe, you must yield to my demand, and I beg you to listen to reason. Yours is not a fait accompli. You can alter your course. If Anthony approves of your tack, I will not protest.”

“Y-you are with c-child?” he sputtered. When she nodded, he pressed a fist to his mouth, and his gaze darted, back and forth. Then he pinned her with a lethal stare. “I accept your offer, and we depart at once.” To Beaulieu and Greyson, the duke said, “Gentlemen, let us away.”

Beaulieu pocketed his pistol and turned to her. Taking her hands in his, he lowered his chin. “On my life, we will not return without Rockingham.”

Chapter Eighteen

Sunlight filtered through the bars on the window, casting peculiar shadows on the floor. Outside, a bird swooped and soared in the cloudless, azure sky. The pond that once served to soothe his troubled soul now inspired naught but terror. Propped in a corner, and chained in a chair, Anthony stirred from a much-cherished dream and clung to the vision of Arabella as his only salvation.

In the days since he was enclosed in the makeshift cage that confined him, he had not eaten. Shaw ordered that Anthony was to have no food, in further punishment of his refusal to admit he was insane and to submit to the doctor’s therapy. But temptation beckoned with each passing hour, and he grew weary of the pain.

Left to wallow in his own waste, moved only to be plunged into the cold waters of the lily pond, he began to question his own humanity. Violent hallucinations filled his mind, conjuring all manner of vengeful fates he would exact on Shaw, inflicting agony without mercy. That might have been the most impactful result of Shaw’s torture, the disturbing images and the lust for blood, and Anthony wondered if he would ever find peace, again.

Just when he feared he had reached the limits of his sanity, just when he prepared to yield, Arabella saved him. She may not have been present in person, but she was with him in spirit, and he never lost hope. With renewed courage, he prepared for the daily sessions that devolved, without fail, into unqualified savagery.

And Shaw accused Anthony of lunacy.

“Rockingham, how do you fare?” Thomas asked with a sad smile.

“As well as can be expected, I suppose.” Anthony cleared his sore throat. Dying of thirst, he resorted to drinking some of the foul pond water and retched uncontrollably the previous day. Of course, since he’d had nothing to eat, there was nothing to vomit. “But I believe I am becoming accustomed to sleeping upright. It is rather convenient, because you expend no energy getting out of bed. You should try it, sometime.”

He chuckled, which reduced him to a coughing fit.

“Easy, major.” Charles stretched upright and yawned. With his brow a mass of furrows, the infantryman frowned. “While I am relieved to see you are still alive, you cannot continue on this path, and I am prepared to rebel, whatever the cost.”

“No.” Given the iron collar about his neck, Anthony could not even shake his head to discourage his newfound friends. “Pray, I beg you, do nothing, else I will pay for it. We must have faith in my wife. She will come for me,