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

“Arabella, you are a Gibbs, and we are made of sterner stuff. Swanborough can go to the devil before I surrender you on the altar of genteel protocol.” Papa scooted from his chair and stood. She faced him and he caressed her cheek with his thumb. “We will weather whatever scandal erupts from this ordeal, because I am disinclined to relinquish you to Swanborough, so the choice is not necessarily yours. You should know I shall carry many regrets to my grave, but the disservice I did to you and Lord Rockingham will haunt me into the hereafter. I should have trusted you. Worse, I should have trusted my own instincts, because I knew, deep down, there was nothing wrong with Rockingham.”

“Oh, Papa, I do love you.” Choking on tears, Arabella sobbed and wrapped her arms about his waist, and he drew her into his comforting embrace. “You could not have known what the duke intended, given he deceived you, too.”

“There, there. It will be all right, girl.” He stroked her hair as she wept. “We have not yet ceded the fight, and I believe we will prevail, in the end.”

“It must be so, Papa.” In that instant, she detected the steady clip-clop of horses, and she lifted her head. “Do you hear that?”

“I do.” Lord Michael dropped his cards atop the table and hobbled on his crutch toward the foyer, with Patience escorting Warrington. “I think it is them.”

“I will get the door.” Papa strode forth and waved off Travers. When he opened the oak panel and peered outside, he flinched and shouted over his shoulder, “Summon the footmen—now. And send someone to fetch Dr. Handley.”

“Aye, sir.” Travers bowed.

“Papa, what is it?” Arabella perched on tiptoes. “Is it Anthony? Do you see him? Is he with them?”

“It is, my dear.” Papa rubbed the back of his neck and stayed her with an upraised palm. “Clear the area and make way.”

As she hugged the wall, two ducal footmen ascended the entry stairs. Behind them, Beaulieu and Greyson carried Anthony, who appeared unconscious. His head listed from side to side and suddenly dropped back, and she shrieked in horror at his gaunt visage. With a black eye and a horribly disfigured and bruised cheek, he hung limp.

“Follow me.” In a flurry of activity, she grabbed a candlestick from the foyer table, hiked her skirt, and sprinted to the second floor. “We have a room prepared.” She hurried into the chamber next to hers, an arrangement she insisted on, so she could guard her husband, and lit several tapers placed about the spacious accommodation. “Put him in the bed.”

With care, Beaulieu and Greyson navigated the huge four-poster, settling Anthony in the center. A muffled moan snared her ear, and she set the candlestick on the tallboy. Easing to the edge of the mattress, she brushed a lock of hair from Anthony’s forehead, and then she bent and kissed him. To her relief, he stirred. For a moment, he simply stared at her. All of a sudden, he scrunched his face and turned away from her.

It was not the reconciliation for which she prayed.

“Get out.” He rolled on his side, and she sobbed. “Get her out of here.”

“Anthony, it is me.” Certain he had to have been confused, given his disheveled state, she reached for him, but he shook free. “It is Arabella, and you are safe.”

“I said get out.” Again and again, he repeated the same words. “Do not let her see me in this condition.”

“Lady Rockingham, perhaps it is best if you wait downstairs with the others.” Beaulieu lifted her from the bed and escorted her to the exit. “He has endured a terrible shock, and it is not wise to agitate him.” When she hesitated, he stated, “I promise, I will come to you after Dr. Handley completes an examination, and I have news to share. I shall give you a full report.”

“All right.” A tear traveled a path to her chin, and she dried her face on her sleeve. A cold chill settled in her chest, as she dutifully withdrew from Anthony’s quarters. She dragged her feet, straining for the slightest summons. At the landing, she prayed her husband would call her, but quiet fell on the household.

Halfway down the stairs, she paused, when a footman arrived with Dr. Handley, bearing his black bag. Setting aside her heartache, she continued to the first floor.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice.” She extended a hand in welcome. “Lord Rockingham is installed in the third room on the left. Lord Beaulieu and Lord Greyson are with him, and he seems quite out of sorts.”

“That is to be expected, Lady Rockingham, and I have been at the ready since I received Lord Ainsworth’s note yesterday. Must confess I was glad to receive it, but I lament the circumstances.” The affable medical professional adjusted his spectacles on his nose and smiled. “I know you are concerned, but I caution you not to panic. We do not yet know the details of what he endured, but Lord Rockingham is strong. He will get through this with your love and understanding. Now, if you will excuse me, I must assess my patient.”

“Of course.” She dipped her chin and lingered until he disappeared from sight. Bowing her head, she walked into the drawing room and collapsed onto the sofa. “He does not know me. He banishes me from his presence. My god, what did they do to him?”

“I have never seen anything so medieval.” The duke snapped his fingers, and Travers lifted a decanter from the tea trolley and filled a brandy balloon. “They caged my son like an animal. Can you believe it? To treat a marquess, and the heir to the dukedom of Swanborough, with such barbarity?”

“What?” Drowning amid an ocean of frightful images, she snapped to attention. “What did you say?”

“They restrained Lord Rockingham in a device such