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

with a simple, standard acknowledgement. “Not that I desire a husband, be it you or anyone else,” she hissed. “If I may inquire, what is wrong with me?”

“Would that the problem were so simple.” Given her expression of hurt, he realized he chewed boot leather. Inasmuch as he didn’t desire a union, Arabella was blameless, and he would not cause her pain. “My apologies, Lady Arabella. As I have tried to explain, you are not the issue. Rather, I believe you deserve a man worthy of you, and that could never be me.”

“You are forgiven, and I would have you know I disagree with your personal assessment, despite our brief acquaintance, given I am an excellent judge of character. However, that is of little consequence, which brings us back to your original question.” A velvety brown tendril slipped from beneath her bonnet and caught the sunlight, revealing amber shades that harkened a comparison to his brandy, and he longed to stroke her hair. “If you truly wish to learn to live again, I recommend you not rush into any social commitments. Do not force your hand. Instead, I encourage you to take your time.”

“But time is a resource in limited supply, in light of our betrothal, and my father intends to announce our nuptials at my family’s gala, within a fortnight.” No amount of arguments dissuaded his sire from the original plan of action, which appeared to have been carved in stone since the Dark Ages, and Anthony could find no way out of the contract, even after his solicitor reviewed the documents. “Yet I do appreciate your advice. Tell me, how do you remain so calm in the face of such discomposing developments, because I cannot reconcile myself to what my father deems my natural fate?”

“Oh, that is quite easy, given I have known, all my life, that I was bound to the future Duke of Swanborough.” Arabella shrugged. “The only surprise is that you now occupy that position of prominence, in place of John, and you share my aversion to marriage.”

“Did you know him well?” Since he was a child, Anthony always looked up to his older brother, and it struck him as grossly unfair that she settled for the lesser Lord Rockingham. “He was popular in the social circles.” And incredibly successful with the widows, but Anthony neglected to mention that.

“In truth, John was a stranger to me.” As they neared the spot where they entered the rotation, Arabella waved to her father. “While he sent the occasional gift, he never visited me. Indeed, I have spent more time in your estimable company than his.”

“My father seems quite pleased with our match and makes no secret he prefers a ceremony before the end of the Season.” Anthony noticed a familiar gentleman had joined the sires. “We must make a concerted effort to postpone and delay the nuptials, until we can figure out how to break the engagement.”

“I concur. Thus, you may rely on me.” They approached the group, and Arabella’s expression brightened, as she played the part of the smitten fiancée to perfection. “Your Grace, it is a beautiful day, is it not?”

“Lady Arabella, it is a wondrous occasion, because Lord Ainsworth and I have secured the services of Mr. Hartwell to procure a special license, that you may wed with all due haste. Instead of announcing an engagement, in a fortnight we shall mark your union with a fête to end all fêtes, in place of our usual ball.” Father peered at Anthony and winked. “What say you, my boy? Is that not stupendous news?”

In that instant, Anthony stumbled and fainted.

*

Amid a slew of whispers and finger-pointing gawkers, Arabella supported Anthony’s head as he reclined in his family’s carriage, where her father and His Grace conveyed her fiancé. With her handkerchief, she fanned her prospective groom’s face, when he mumbled, and his eyelids fluttered.

“Shh, Lord Rockingham.” She patted his cheek, as she admired his handsome features, so boyish in repose, in sharp contrast to the angry Waterloo veteran. “You are safe.”

“What happened?” With an inexpressibly sweet countenance of confusion, which transformed into sobering comprehension, he gazed at her, and she smiled. “Please, tell me I didn’t swoon in front of the ton.”

“Well, I could do so, but I would be lying, and I detest duplicity.” Shadows danced in his stare, given polite society could be anything but polite, and she seized upon an excuse that might salvage his pride, despite her inklings regarding his spell. “Perhaps you were too quick to dismiss your aching belly, because I suspect something you consumed for breakfast did not agree with you, and we should summon a doctor.”

“What’s that?” He blinked, and she knew the precise moment recognition dawned, because he shifted and dipped his chin. Shielded by their position, and beyond sight of unwanted spectators, Anthony twined his fingers in hers and squeezed her hand. Warmth spread from his grip to hers, and gooseflesh covered her from top to toe, which she would mull, later. “An excellent notion, Lady Arabella.”

“Are you ill, Anthony?” His Grace folded his arms. “Why the devil did you not say something before now, given we could have stayed home and spared ourselves a public spectacle?”

“Because I didn’t wish to disappoint you, Father.” Invested with unmasked shame, he averted his stare, and she struggled with the unquenchable urge to comfort Anthony. Indeed, she yearned to protect him, because he needed a champion just then. “But I see now that I was wrong.”

“You are too modest and beyond chivalrous, Lord Rockingham.” In turn, with a clear understanding of the minor sacrifice required to spare her fiancé, she grasped his fingers. To the duke, Arabella said, “Your Grace, I all but begged Lord Rockingham to attend the Promenade, in the note I sent to express my gratitude for the beautiful flowers he gifted me. The blame is mine.” Of course, she sent no note, because his accompanying card contained no salutation. “And it is a testament to