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

as I have never seen.” Swanborough took a healthy gulp of the amber intoxicant. “Shaw stripped my son of any semblance of humanity, sold his clothes, and stole his signet ring. They commenced to beat my issue without compunction. If it is the last thing I do, I shall bring Shaw and his men to justice, for the affront to my estimable ancestry, and I will see that asylum razed.”

“Justice?” Wound tight as a clock spring, everything inside her railed, and she leaped to her feet. “You dare speak of justice, after you put Anthony in Shaw’s care? And you would have done the same to me and your future grandchild, had we not rebelled.”

“I rescued him, did I not?” The duke averted his stare. “I would argue I am owed a measure of gratitude and recognition of my efforts to liberate Lord Rockingham.”

“He would not have required rescuing had you not committed him, in the first place.” She marched to his chair and slapped the crystal glass from his grip. “I said it before, and it bears repeating. Your son lost his arm, not his mind, but you equate one with the other, and your mistake almost killed him. I neither acknowledge your attempt to make amends nor congratulate you on saving him from your worst proclivities, because you are deserving of naught but a swift kick in the arse.”

“I am insulted, and I demand an apology.” The duke slowly stood and rotated to glance at her father. “Ainsworth, are you going to permit your daughter to accost me thus under your roof?”

“Aye.” With unimpaired aplomb, Papa cast a stoic expression. “She states the truth in much prettier language than I would employ, were I in her position. If you don’t like it, you may leave my humble abode.”

The duke’s mouth fell agape. “Well, I never—”

“But you did, and therein lies the problem.” Riding a crest of fury, Arabella backed the duke into the foyer. “You adopted an unscrupulous enterprise, soliciting my father’s unwitting cooperation based on deception. You entrusted the care of your son to an unprincipled charlatan, the consequences of which now rest, battered and bruised, in a guest room. And now you laud your actions as worthy of acknowledgement and a sense of obligation?”

“I corrected the situation.” Swanborough retreated a step. “What else would you ask of me?”

“I want you to suffer.” She inched forward, and Travers, stationed near the main entry, opened the door. “I want you to bleed as Anthony bled, until you know what it is to be cast out. To be rejected. To be abandoned by those you love and have naught but yourself to provide succor.”

“That is not very charitable, Lady Rockingham.” The duke withdrew, looming at the threshold. “I made you an honest bargain, and I upheld our arrangement. I, too, was fooled by Shaw. You cannot fault me for that.”

“But I do blame you.” Again, she advanced. “I had spent a mere handful of minutes in Shaw’s company when I knew him to be the most dastardly, immoral villain of my acquaintance.”

“Pray, some of us are not so observant, Lady Rockingham.” Ignorant of his precarious perch, the duke alighted on the first step. “But I expect you to honor our agreement, as befits a woman of your station, and I will call on you, tomorrow.”

“Of course, you would insist that I adhere to the social dictates that govern our set, even while you flout them. And why wouldn’t you, when you think yourself above such scruples.” Arabella dismissed the butler with a wave of her hand. “Permit me to speak in a language that is familiar to you and borrow a page from your stratagem, so we understand each other. In short, I renege.”

“But—you cannot do that.” The duke planted his feet wide, and his nostrils flared. “I am the Duke of Swanborough.”

“Oh, yes, I can.” Arabella shook her fist. “For I am the whirlwind, and you shall reap it.”

With that, she slammed the door in his face.

Chapter Nineteen

It was late when Anthony jolted awake. He reached for Arabella but found nothing, because he had not shared his bed with her in the fortnight since his liberation. Sitting upright, he glanced about the chamber of his London townhouse, but all remained quiet save the crackling logs in the fireplace. After reassuring himself that he remained safe, he punched his pillow, rolled onto his side, and stretched long.

“Anthony.”

In an instant, he came alert, when Arabella beckoned in a shrill exclamation. He tossed aside the covers and scooted to the edge of the mattress. Standing, he shrugged into his robe and fumbled with the belt. At the hearth, he lit a single taper, grabbed the candlestick, and rushed into the little corridor that joined their rooms. As he entered her suite, she called to him, again, and gave vent to a strangled cry.

Tossing and turning amid the sheets, she whimpered, and he recognized the fitful slumber he knew all too well. At the bed, he sat the candlestick on a table and eased to her side, and she flinched and mumbled his name. With care not to startle her, he rubbed her cheek.

“Arabella.” When she did not rouse, he gave her a gentle nudge. “Darling, I am here.”

With a shriek and gasping for breath, she opened her eyes and flinched. When she noted his presence, she lurched and flung herself at him. Bursting into tears, she clutched fistfuls of his silk robe.

“You were gone. You were gone. I searched for you, but you were gone,” she said, between mournful sobs that tore at his gut. “Everywhere I looked, you were not there, and I was alone. So very alone.”

“Sweetheart, it is all right, and you are safe.” He hugged her about the waist and kissed her hair, and she buried her face in his chest. “And I am here, so you are not alone. I will always anchor at your side, and I will never leave