The Accidental Duke (The Mad Matchmaking Men of Waterloo Book 1)

by Devlin, Barbara

  “Arabella, are you ready?” Ever the consummate matriarch, Mama presented an elegant image of everything Arabella disdained: the obedient servant. “Lord Rockingham is just arrived with His Grace, and we cannot dally, because you should make a good first impression on your future husband.”

  “Of course, Mama.” While Arabella dearly loved her mother, she never understood how anyone could willingly settle for the trifling world, comprised of naught more challenging than the daily selection of perfume and petticoats and a marriage brokered for financial gain and to strengthen political connections. With one last check of her appearance in the long mirror, she smoothed her skirts and squared her shoulders. “Let us commence the negotiations.”

  Riding a crest of high dudgeon, she skimmed her palm along the polished balustrade as she descended the staircase. In the foyer, her father lingered with another gentleman, tall and distinguished.

  “Ah, here she is, my pride and joy.” Papa drew her to his side. “Your Grace, may I present my daughter, Lady Arabella.” Then he gazed on her with unveiled delight, and she basked in his approval, because she loved her father. “Arabella, this is His Grace, Walter Bartlett, the Duke of Swanborough.”

  “Your Grace.” As she had practiced countless times, she executed a perfect curtsey, but she would have preferred to fall on her face.

  “It is a pleasure, Lady Arabella.” The duke smiled as he assessed her from top to toe. She swallowed the urge to bare her teeth, like a mare at Tattersalls, for his inspection. “My, but she is a pretty little thing, Arthur. Perhaps she will inspire my son to rejoin the world.”

  “Oh, no doubt, no doubt.” Papa hugged his belly and laughed. “And to be that young again.”

  Arabella quickly lowered her eyes, clenching her fists in the folds of her skirt. How she hated being spoken about as if she were invisible, or worse yet, mindless. Of course, most men treated women as such, and she aimed to change that, starting with her prospective groom.

  “Arabella.” Mama snapped her fingers. “Stop dawdling, because Lord Rockingham awaits.”

  With determination as a shield, Arabella inhaled a calming breath. Summoning patience, she marched into the fray. In the drawing room, a lone figure manifested an ominous specter of an unwelcome fate, and he turned on a heel when she paused at center. Before Papa could make the introductions, the tall, brown-haired stranger bowed.

  “Lady Arabella, it is an honor.” She liked the sound of that. “I am Anthony, the Marquess of Rockingham.”

  Impressive in stature, garbed in black breeches, a burgundy waistcoat trimmed in old gold, and a stunning coat of grey Bath superfine, with a crisp cravat and polished Hessians completing the ensemble, Anthony possessed a handsome profile which bore patrician features similar to his father’s. Any woman, except Arabella, would have been thrilled to call him hers.

  But it was what he lacked that snared her attention, and she blurted, “Why, you are missing an arm.”

  “Arabella.” With a sharp expression of disapproval, Papa clapped once, and she flinched. “Apologize.”

  “I am so sorry, Lord Rockingham.” In her unintended blunder, had she undermined her position of authority prior to declaring her stance? “I meant no offense, but you startled me.”

  “No apologies necessary, because you are very observant.” He smiled, revealing the hint of a dimple to the left of his mouth. Then he glanced at Papa and the duke. “Given our fast approaching nuptials, might I beg a moment in private with my fiancée, because I have not seen her since she was a girl of five?”

  “Not without a chaperone, Lord Rockingham.” Mama wagged a finger, as if the marquess were a naughty child. “After all, we must preserve Arabella’s reputation until the vows are secured.”

  “But I can occupy the chair, and Lord Rockingham can sit on the sofa, Mama,” Arabella stated with confidence and peered at her adversary. To her surprise, he favored her with a mischievous grin. Perhaps she found an ally, and how she needed one. “You do not suspect His Lordship will accost me with a table situated between us.” Then she glanced at her father, to make a second appeal. Rocking on her heels, she lowered her chin and pouted, given he never could deny her. “What say you, Papa, if I promise to be good?”

  “In normal circumstances, I would agree with Helen.” Father appeared to give the request due consideration. “However, inasmuch we are to be family, we can make an exception and dispense with the usual proprieties, because we are not in public. To satisfy the feminine sensibilities, we will leave the doors open, and Helen can sit in the foyer.” To the duke, Papa said, “I trust Anthony will behave like a gentleman?”

  “Of course.” His Grace chucked Father on the shoulder in a surprising display of amity, and she realized that, with or without her consent, her path was set. “Let us adjourn to the study, fix a date for the ceremony, review the contracts, and enjoy a celebratory brandy.”

  Thus she marched to her demise.

  Alone, to a degree, with her opponent, Arabella perched on her makeshift throne and girded her defenses. Recalling her rehearsed oratory, she cleared her throat. “Lord Rockingham, while I am grateful that you deem me worthy of—”

  “Lady Arabella, I cannot marry you.” And just like that, Anthony stole the wind from her sails, yet his interests aligned perfectly with hers.

  “I b-beg your pardon?” The man was not what she expected. Was it possible her prayers had been heard, and fate delivered a supporter? “Am I dreaming, or did you just declare your opposition to our union?”

  “Believe me, I have no wish to cause offense, but I simply cannot abide by the terms of the pact between our two houses.” Nervousness apparent, his fingers shook as he wiped his brow and scooted to the edge of his seat. “Given my appearance, I think it obvious I am unfit to assume the responsibilities of a husband and a father.”

  “Given your appearance?” Repeating the phrase in her mind, she canted her head and scrutinized him for some additional deficiency. “I don’t follow. What else is wrong with you?” Indeed, he retained two eyes, a nose, fascinating lips, and both legs. Stumped, she leaned close and whispered, “Are you missing something of importance?”

  At first, he opened his mouth, and then he blinked. Blushing, which she found quite charming, he cast a smile and tugged at his collar. “Uh, no. I remain wholly intact, insofar as the rest of my anatomy is concerned.”

  “I see.” Actually, she didn’t quite understand his cryptic comment. “But I should put you at ease, given your candor, and express similar reservations, because I have no wish to wed you, or anyone, for that matter.”

  “Indeed?” Anthony arched his brows. “Forgive my boldness, but you are handsome. Do not all debutantes live for the day they slip the parson’s noose about some poor, misguided sot’s neck?”

  “Such as yourself?” She stuck her tongue in her cheek. Let him choke on that response. “Or do you rebel, as do I, given I have never thought of myself as a debutante?”

  “Ah, you must be one of those ladies.” The marquess snickered, and she bristled at the inference. “Let me guess. You admire the blathering lunacy of Wollstonecraft and her ilk?”

  “Mary Wollstonecraft is a genius, and A Vindication of the Rights of Woman is a masterpiece of logic.” Angry in an instant, Arabella’s temper got the best of her, and she shook her fist. “Despite assertions to the contrary, you are not my superior, and I shall go to my grave rebuking such ridiculous notions. As Wollstonecraft argues, quite correctly, I might add, men benefit from education, which increases their reasoning capability. When women are provided the same advantages, we are equally rational beings. Thus, it is a patriarchal society that first stifles our intelligence and then punishes us when we react according to our deficiency.”

  “Is that so?” Narrowing his stare, Anthony lowered his chin and rested his elbow to his knee. “You talk too much.”

  “How dare you.” From the foyer, Mama coughed, and Arabella checked her tone. In a low voice, she said, “Wi
thout doubt, you are the most rude, ill-mannered, illiterate, and…and—”

  “The word you are looking for is insufferable.” He winked.

  “Oh, you are a vast deal more than insufferable, sir.” At her insult, she anticipated hellfire and damnation. Instead, he burst into laughter, and it was in that moment she realized he deliberately baited her, but she knew not why. “I should not have said that, but you can be quite provoking, Lord Rockingham.”

  “You speak the truth, and I forgot polite protocol, so no harm done, Lady Arabella. While I am not certain I support your overall conclusions, I can appreciate your passion, as you glow, my dear.” A hint of sadness invested his countenance, and she pondered the wounds she could not see, because, much like an onion, he possessed so many layers. “It may be difficult to believe, but I once coveted such strong convictions.”

  “Before the war?” Again, she overstepped the limits of urbane decorum, and in silence she vowed to improve. “Please, forgive me, my lord. I am not usually so—”

  “—Intrusive?” The unveiled amusement in his gaze negated disapproval, and she sighed in relief. “Something tells me otherwise.”

  “So, you are insufferable, and I am intrusive. In all honesty, it has always been my downfall.” She tried to adopt an air of refined composure but settled for something not quite so clumsy, because she liked him. She genuinely liked him. “But I would love to hear your gallant tales of life on the battlefield, because you must be very proud to have served your country with such valor.”

  “You think I should be proud? Of what?” On the heels of his query, which struck her as a tad sarcastic, everything in his demeanor transformed into something altogether dark and alarming. Gone was the boyish charm. In its place, palpable tension marred his elegant features, and in an instant, she confronted a stranger. “Pray, explain yourself, because the entire experience remains a mystery to me, and in its wake I question everything about myself.”

  “You are hurting.” While Arabella read the Waterloo accounts in The Times, which lauded Wellington’s cunning strategy, heroism, and victory, the articles reduced the lives of those lost to numerical figures bereft of the emotional toll exacted on the survivors. The wounded were by and large ignored, yet they represented casualties, too. She studied the empty coat sleeve pinned to his lapel, in so many ways a harsh reflection of his altered personality, and wondered of the horrors he must have witnessed. “But I do not reference your most obvious injury.”

  “Do you presume to know me?” he snapped. Myriad emotions flashed in his expression, and he bared his teeth. Then he exhaled and slapped his thigh. To her dismay, she incited a reaction she didn’t comprehend, and she sought some means to mollify him. “Do you possess powers of divination, that you can read my thoughts?”

  Despite his outward aggression, which she likened to a barking dog, she sensed underlying fear. So much fear. And anguish.

  “On the contrary, I presume nothing and claim no such abilities.” In light of his much-changed attitude, she should have been afraid, yet he scared her not, because he exhibited telltale elements of vulnerability, in the subtle tic of his right brow and the gentle tremor of his lower lip, which called to her on some base level. It would have been fascinating to know him in some capacity, and she ached to offer reassurance. Did no one detect the evidence of his agony but her? “But I have eyes, Lord Rockingham, and you wear your pain like one of your garments. Perhaps you could recount your tale of woe, because I have been told I am an excellent listener, and it might help to share your burden. While it would seem we are not to wed, and I am in complete agreement with you regarding your decision, I would be your friend, if you permit it.”

  Indeed, she could never have too many friends, and he offered her the opportunity to be of use, which always appealed to her. Indeed, the man posited a puzzle just waiting for her to solve.

  “Lady Arabella, I will make you a bargain. If you can work with me to devise a means of ending our engagement, excepting a scandal, never again will I force upon you my odious company, so I have no need of your friendship. But until that time, we shall play our part as the happy couple.” She had not a chance to respond before Anthony fished a box from his pocket and set the tiny parcel on the table. Standing, he frowned. “Your betrothal ring, which my father insisted I gift today. Thus I have fulfilled his requirement, and now I will take my leave.”

  With that, Lord Rockingham strode from the drawing room without so much as a fond farewell, and she wondered what went wrong. Ears ringing, and her heart pounding in her chest, Arabella snatched the box and leaped from the chair. For a few seconds, she stared at the floor and pondered her next move. Then she shook herself alert and ran to the front windows, to see what he did for an encore. Sheltering in the shadows of the drapery, she stared beyond the glass at her baffling but captivating fiancé.

  No, he was nothing like what she anticipated.

  On the sidewalk, Anthony paced and argued with himself. Then he bumped into some unlucky passerby, who tumbled to the ground but quickly scrambled to his feet. When the stranger noted the marquess’ missing limb, the bystander tipped his hat and rushed to the corner, and she could just imagine what that outward expression of pity did to Anthony’s confidence.

  Shoulders slumped, he studied the pavement for several minutes, and some peculiar but deep-seated intrigue tugged at her conscience. How she longed to comfort him, though she didn’t understand her reaction to a man who was, for all intents and purposes, unknown to her. Perhaps an internal sense of humanity motivated her, because she could not decipher the emotions swirling inside her.

  When he lifted his chin and met her stare, what she glimpsed in his crystal blue eyes—a lethal mix of discernible anguish, shame, and profound self-loathing—reached through the distance between them to clutch her throat, to ravage her gut, to wreak havoc on her confidence, and she whimpered and pressed her palm to the glass.

  Yet she did not—would not founder, because he needed someone to stand for him. While she would not be his wife, she could be his champion in that moment.

  Drawing on her inner strength, honed in the late hours when she read books by candlelight, she stood for Lord Rockingham and found purpose where she least expected it. Slowly, she mouthed, I see you. In response, he darted down the lane.

  For a long while she lingered, replaying recent events, until her mother called, and Arabella exhaled. “I will be right there, Mama.”

  After wiping a tear from her cheek, which she hadn’t noticed until then, she opened the box and discovered a beautiful diamond and sapphire halo ring resting on a bed of pristine cotton. Toying with the bauble, she envisioned Lord Rockingham in all his tragic glory, like some mythical Greek god. It would take a strong woman to marry the interesting but damaged man, and she hoped he would find peace and solace with his special lady.

  Chapter Two

  For some reason Anthony never could discern, London society dressed in their finery to tour Hyde Park during the fashionable hours known as the Promenade, if for no other purpose than to be seen. Indeed the entire ridiculous ritual, which mixed layer upon layer of frippery and the outdoors, confused him. Part of the pomp and pageantry that comprised the ton, with its frivolous rituals and myriad dictates, the organized walk served as an opportunity to solidify connections, mark future husbands, and target an accommodating wife or widow. Of course, before the war, he saddled his beloved stallion and raced along Rotten Row with his brother or his father, but those days were gone and with them so much joy.

  Now, as a prisoner of another campaign, he prepared to walk in the park as the dutiful son and heir with his parents, while the family rig carried him down the streets of Mayfair. Overhead, the blue sky boasted a brilliant sun and nary a cloud. Birds flitted about, and red squirrels scampered between trees. He enjoyed none of it. In a sense, he already occupied half his grave. Too bad Waterloo didn’t finish the job. Instead, the conflict left him to wander the earth as an empty shell.

/>   “Did you remember to send Lady Arabella a bouquet of roses?” Mama inquired, as she adjusted the lace trim of her glove.

  “Yes.” Of course, he neglected to mention that on the accompanying card he wrote nothing but his name.

  Sitting in the family landau, which bobbled down Park Lane, he reflected on the last exchange he shared with his older brother, who had a penchant for trouble. Although John never said as much, Anthony’s promotion to major served as a source of irritation between them. But it came as no surprise, given the elder’s appetite for mischief. As a cavalry captain John had earned three reprimands for dereliction of duty, disobeying a direct order, and abandoning his post without leave to visit a nearby farmer’s daughter, which undermined his prospects for military advancement.

  In the chaos of war, John’s adventurous nature led to his ultimate undoing. While Wellington assigned the cavalry to the borders of La Haye Sainte, John decided to take a small compliment of men into town, whereupon they confronted a unit of approximately five hundred and fifty cuirassiers, which fired a canister shot with lethal accuracy. John fell amid a cloud of gun smoke and dirt.

  “Anthony, I spy your lovely fiancée.” Mother gave him a gentle nudge, which ripped him from his dark trance. “Is she not charming in her lavender pelisse and matching bonnet?”

  “Yes, she is quite fetching,” he replied, without so much as a casual glance, because neither Arabella nor her attire mattered to him.

  When the driver slowed and brought the rig to a halt, Father descended. A footman handed Mama to the sidewalk and then turned to assist Anthony, which grated his last nerve. He was no invalid, and he required no special care.

  “Shall we join our soon-to-be in-laws and your future bride?” Father uttered the one phrase guaranteed to evoke a vicious tremor of anxiety.