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

by Devlin, Barbara

  Thus was Arabella’s first kiss.

  On the heels of the deed, the sensations, so many, lured her into the mesmerizing storm, and she plummeted, headlong, to her fate. Delicious heat seared her veins, and a deep-seated hunger unfurled in the pit of her belly, beckoning her to answer his call. A shiver of excitement sashayed over her flesh, suffused her nerves, and pulsed in her heart. When he plunged his tongue into her mouth, she welcomed the tender invasion and mimicked his movements, as she dug her fingernails into his shoulders.

  Slowly, the tension eased, and he loosened his grip. To her shock, he skimmed her back and drew her from the wall. With his one arm, he hugged her about the waist. Angling his head, his ensuing exchange enticed her with his characteristic gentle tenor.

  A thousand times more provocative than the prior clumsy, groping, urgent experience, he seduced her with playful nips and suckles that nurtured and intensified her appetite. In those treasured moments, she realized she was seeing him, the true Anthony, for the first time, and she yielded, of her own free will, to her scarred hero. Just as she gained her feet, everything halted.

  Then he ended the tryst and retreated.

  For a few minutes, they simply stood there and stared at each other, and she ached to hold him.

  “I have taken liberties.” Grazing her bottom lip with his thumb, he sighed. “I apologize, Arabella, and I promise it will not happen again.”

  “Don’t bother.” She closed the distance and perched on tiptoes. Winding her arms about his neck, she kissed him with all she had and for all she was worth.

  Chapter Four

  A ray of sunlight cut a path across the Aubusson rug as Anthony lounged in his sitting room, mulling the events of the previous night. On the mantel, the clock counted the minutes with a repetitive tick-tock, and breakfast sat untouched on a tray. Yet he remained rooted in the overstuffed chair where he reclined for the past several hours, pondering that kiss.

  No, he did not refer to his clumsy exchanges after the terrors plagued him following his father’s impromptu announcement at Lord Ainsworth’s home. Rather, Anthony could not stop thinking about Arabella’s untutored but fervent charge. Even now, if he closed his eyes, he could taste her as she clutched the lapels of his coat and launched the sweetest attempted seduction of his memory.

  Delicate hands framed his face, sumptuous lips tempted him beyond the limits of his self-control, and a series of flirty hums and breathy sighs brought his body alive. Gritting his teeth, he tensed his loins and rubbed his aching erection, which he longed to unleash between Arabella’s thighs.

  When a knock interrupted the cherished reverie, he cursed. “Come.”

  “Are you dressed?” Father called from the hall.

  “Aye.” Well, that put an end to the sweet interlude. With a huff, Anthony rolled his eyes. “What do you want?”

  “Don’t use that tone with me.” His father trod into the room, and Anthony wondered what offense he committed. “Do you plan to sulk, all day?”

  “I have not decided.” Indeed, Arabella’s kiss dangled before him, as a proverbial carrot, and he reconsidered his scheme because she possessed something every man desired in a wife: unbridled desire. “What business is it of yours?”

  “Your friends pay call, and they await your presence in my study.” Father drew an envelope from his coat pocket. “And this came for you, this morning.”

  “What friends?” Anthony stood too fast and splayed his lone arm for balance. With a sniff of annoyance, he snatched the opened missive from his father’s grasp. “And what is this?”

  After unfolding the letter, he read the contents, and his heart sank.

  “Plan on going somewhere?” Father scowled, and Anthony realized his secret was not so secret. “And I refer to that motley crew of twisted and damaged soldiers you persist in entertaining. Why can you not socialize with whole men, instead of those dark souls?”

  “Perhaps because I have much in common with those dark souls.” After crumbling the parchment, which detailed the sum of his estate, as well as the sheer impossibility of a hasty settlement, from his solicitor, Anthony threw the message on the floor, along with the last fragments of hope for escape. Resigned to his situation, he slumped his shoulders. “In regard to my financial affairs, you leave me little choice in the matter, because you force me into a union I neither want nor need.”

  “Must I repeat the fact that you have no choice?” In the bedchamber, Father yanked a hacking jacket from the armoire and marched into the sitting room. “Here.” He flung the garment at Anthony. “Make yourself presentable because you are the marquess of Rockingham, and I expect you to act like it. And there will be no more talk of running away, else I shall post guards at your side.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.” Although Anthony knew better, as he shrugged into the jacket, because his father would not be denied. “I’m not a child.”

  “Then stop behaving like one.” Father none too gently speared his fingers through Anthony’s hair. “Be a man and do your duty, else I will ensure by any means necessary that you perform as you were taught.”

  “I am a man, but you persist in treating me like a babe suckling at its mother’s teat.” Anthony stepped into one Hessian and then another. Did no one see him? Did no one recognize his torment? “And I am trying to do the right thing by Lady Arabella, because I am genuinely fond of her, thus I would not burden her with a maimed beast that should have been put out of its misery on the field.”

  “Stop talking about yourself as though you no longer exist, and do you not understand that if you refuse to wed her and accept your position, the dukedom passes to Cousin Herschel?” Performing the responsibilities of a valet, Father fastened Anthony’s shirt collar. “If you care for Lady Arabella, as you claim, do you believe she will fare better with him?”

  “That buffoon?” Anthony snorted, when he envisioned the gentle but spirited lady with an idiot that would stifle her strength and intelligence. “He cannot tie a cravat even with two good hands and the assistance of his valet.”

  “Perhaps, now you comprehend the gravity of the situation.” Father shook his head. “Would you entrust our legacy to his care?”

  The real question was would Anthony entrust Arabella to his cousin.

  “I would not give my best hound into Herschel’s custody.” And that was putting it mildly. Assessing his appearance in the long mirror, he considered his life with Arabella as a permanent fixture. Blessed with singular wit and enviable strength, she would pose something more than an ornament in his world.

  She would be his partner.

  One thing was certain; he would never be bored.

  When Father arched a brow, Anthony sighed in exasperation. “All right. I give you my word I will not leave London, but I am not convinced that a wedding is necessary, at this time. Why must I marry, now? Can it not wait until Lady Arabella and I are better acquainted? Can we not delay until the end of the Season?”

  “Make her your wife, and you can know her quite intimately. If she does not please you, then you can always take a mistress.” Anthony grimaced at the mere suggestion, given that kiss, the effects of which he savored even then. As they walked into the hall, Father wagged a finger. “Until your ceremony, you will behave as a gentleman, and try not to bring shame upon this family.”

  “Of course.” They descended the grand staircase, and Anthony seethed in silence and gritted his teeth against a biting retort, because he lacked an arm, not a brain. In the foyer, he sketched a mock salute, hoping to irritate his father, given he already returned the favor. “If you will excuse me, I should greet my guests.”

  Leashing his temper, he navigated the side hall and halted before the door to his father’s study. As he rested his hand on the knob, the metal cooled his heated palm, and the tension investing his frame abated.

  In the blink of an eye, the cavalry bugle blared, the infantry drummer beat the familiar pa rum pum pum pum, and he jolted to the past. To another involunt
ary, violent recollection. The mordant miasma of gunpowder burned his throat and eyes, and he gasped for air and wiped a stray tear, as he sank further into hell. A morose cri de cœur rose above the din of war, filling his ears with a sorrowful collection of pleas, none of which he could discharge, given his injury, and it was the helplessness amid so much agony that battered his conscience.

  Somehow, through the fog, Arabella beckoned in a hushed voice, Anthony.

  An alluring vision formed, and his lady reached for him with outstretched arms. The terrifying urgency yielded to the slow, intoxicating smolder of passion, as he recalled, in startling detail, their tryst in Lord Ainsworth’s study. How she yanked his hair and bit his lip. How she pressed her feminine curves to him and uttered his name in a whispered plea, unmistakable in its meaning.

  Shaking himself alert, Anthony opened the door and strolled into the study, whereupon he found four equally damaged Waterloo veterans. While they bore no blood relation, they were nonetheless his brothers in arms.

  “Gentlemen, this is a surprise and a much-appreciated reunion.” Anthony walked straight to his childhood chum, Lord Rawden Durrant, the Earl of Beaulieu, and shook his hand. “Beaulieu, it is always good to see you.”

  “Wish I could say the same of you, and I doubt it is much appreciated, given you avoided us like the plague at the dinner party.” Ever the mischievous scamp, Beaulieu possessed a biting cleverness, which he honed at Anthony’s expense, during their years at Eton. Although Beaulieu lost his left eye at Waterloo, he remained as sharp as ever. “You look like something that rolled in with the tide, after a shark’s nasty mangling. What have you done to yourself?”

  “Perhaps, impending marriage does that to a man, although I claim no direct knowledge, because I remain blissfully unattached.” Lord Michael Donithorn, second son of the marquess of Landsdowne, snickered, as he hobbled on crutches, because Wellington’s penultimate battle cost Lord Michael the lower half of his right leg. “But I would not protest, given the lady in question, because she is quite handsome, and you could do far worse.”

  “He has done worse.” Lord Hunter Lee, the earl of Greyson, chuckled. As with the other military men, Greyson also suffered invisible wounds. After a year in solitary confinement as a prisoner of war, he struggled with a deep-seated fear of crowds, thus his appearance was a rarity. “Remember that bare-arsed jaunt through the library, at the Howard’s, after Lord Beddington caught Anthony docking in Lady Beddington’s honey harbor, amid Lord Howard’s collection of atlases?”

  “Perhaps he wanted to chart some new territory.” Lord Arthur James, earl of Warrington, waggled his brows. Partially blinded by gunpowder burns, the once bold and bawdy nobleman had all but retreated from society, and his presence was not lost on Anthony. “And that is a ball I will never forget, especially when Rockingham escaped via the terrace, where I indulged in a little inappropriate behavior, with the widow Harrison, beneath the canopy of an oak. But I was not the only one he sent running for shelter in the shadows.”

  “That is why I always dally in the shrubbery.” Beaulieu smirked. “Although I recommend avoiding the rose bushes, because I once tangled with a thorn where no one should get a thorn, such that I required the services, above and beyond the call of duty, of my valet to extricate it, given I was too embarrassed to summon a doctor.”

  “Did you have to go there?” Lord Michael winced. “I give thanks, every day, that I survived the savagery of battle with that part of my anatomy intact.”

  “Oh, I say.” Greyson grimaced. “Take anything but that.”

  “Ah, how this reminds me of those nights spent gathered around the campfire, in La Haye Sainte.” Anthony perched on the edge of his father’s desk and reflected on the quiet, dark hours of the conflict, which contrasted with the hell of daylight. “Gentlemen, while I am grateful for your estimable company, I would know what brings you to my door?”

  “Our leader announces his betrothal, and we are supposed to ignore the felicitous occasion?” Beaulieu eased to a high back chair near the hearth. “At the very least, this calls for a celebratory brandy, although I would also include a final wild night of wenching, if you are so inclined.”

  “Where are my manners?” Anthony slapped his thigh and stood. At a side table, he lifted a crystal decanter and filled five glasses with the amber liquid. “As to the wenching, I have no interest in such games, but I appreciate the thought.”

  “What did I tell you?” Lord Michael glanced at Beaulieu, as Anthony played host and made the rounds. “Something is most definitely wrong in the world when a soldier declines a night of wenching.”

  “I hoped you were mistaken.” Beaulieu rubbed his chin, which denoted intense scrutiny and was always dangerous where he was concerned. “But I noticed he appeared on the verge of vomiting when His Grace announced the impending nuptials, at Ainsworth’s dinner.”

  “Please, don’t talk about me as though I am not here.” While Anthony chafed at Beaulieu’s observation, he could not argue his friend’s assertion. “I get enough of that from my father.”

  “But you are not here.” Warrington averted his gaze and sighed. “We have not seen you since we departed the Continent. What returned to London is a puzzle I cannot solve.”

  “I rescind my previous statement, because I would prefer you ignore me.” Anthony plopped into the leather chair behind his father’s desk.

  “Not a chance.” Standing near the windows overlooking Berkley Square, Greyson stretched tall, and Anthony realized there was no escaping his friends, because they, too, suffered the same curse. “Now, why don’t you tell us what troubles you, when you are bound to that pretty bit o’ fluff? The Rockingham I know would be plotting all manner of salacious encroaches on her virginal territory, to plant your flag on her most intimate mound, yet you look like you just lost your best hound.”

  “Well done.” Lord Michael saluted. “Could not have said it better, myself.”

  “Thank you.” Greyson nodded.

  “Must you really ask that question?” Anthony stretched his booted feet and considered his gentle lady. “Do you not comprehend that I am forced to the altar by a sire intent on securing an heir, at any price?” Then he met each man’s stare. “Are you not plagued by the nightmares? Do the terrors not haunt you in crowded rooms? Have your injuries not rendered you less than what you were, prior to the war? Do people not yield the field, avoiding you whenever you make an appearance, as if you shed some invisible but potent infection?”

  “Aye.” Lord Michael lifted a brandy balloon to his lips, and his hand shook. “All the time.”

  “I refuse to attend most social events.” Leaning forward, Greyson rested elbows to knees. “Else I fear I will run amok.”

  “As do I.” Warrington cast a pained expression. “Owing to my impairment, I am spared the pitiful glances, yet there is naught wrong with my ears, and I cannot abide the condescension I detect.”

  “Not to mention, you wish to keep your distance from Lady Horatia.” Lord Michael canted his head. “Although your decision to break off your engagement still baffles me, because it is well known that she loves you.”

  “You know bloody well why I ended the betrothal. I would not saddle her with a partially blind man, when she deserves much more.” Warrington shifted his weight, and Anthony reflected on their similar arguments against marriage. For some reason, when considering his friend’s predicament, the logic seemed flawed, because the lady wanted Warrington, injuries and all. “And we are not here to discuss my difficulties.”

  “At least your woman waited for you.” Lord Michael snorted. “I returned home to find my supposedly devoted fiancée wed to my rival, who refused to defend our great nation, while I sacrificed myself on the battlefield.”

  “Yet we are outcasts in our own country.” Anthony mulled the absurdity of the situation. “We fought to defend the world against Napoleon’s oppression, but we are prisoners on our lands, and I am chained to a title and a woman I never want
ed.”

  “I had no idea we were going to be honest, today. Had I known I would’ve stayed home.” Beaulieu clenched his jaws. “And they call us mad. I’m not mad. I’m furious.”

  “As am I.” Lord Michael slapped the armrest of his chair. “But we cannot blame all our troubles on society, because we are wounded, not dead. We are war heroes, yet we hide in our libraries and studies, bemoaning our treatment. How can we complain, when we do naught more than cower in the shadows? I, for one, refuse to surrender the future I covet, even though I lost my faithless fiancée.”

  “What do you suggest?” Curious, Anthony rested an elbow to the blotter and cradled his chin in his palm, because he could glean no solution. “Should I give my father what he wants?”

  “Is that how you choose to look at the situation?” Lord Michael wrinkled his nose. “Because I see a man of rank and wealth betrothed to a woman of incomparable beauty, and the possibilities are endless, should you decide to dictate your fate. If you want, you can create a family. You can build a life and rejoin the world.” He shrugged. “I suppose it is much easier to sit idle and let your father control your destiny.”

  “Have care how you speak to me.” Despite Anthony’s affinity for his lifelong friends, he would brook no insult from anyone. Tension weighed heavy, given he knew better than anyone his position. “Now, explain yourself, because you tread on dangerous ground. How am I to dictate my fate, given my father holds me to a contract negotiated for my brother, when I gained my title by John’s death? The marquessate, the fortune, and the bride belonged to him. None of it is mine to own.”

  “I would think it obvious, provided you quit playing the victim.” Lord Michael pinned Anthony with a lethal stare, and he hated when his chum posed decisive arguments. “John is gone, and you remain, thus Lady Arabella, Rockingham, and the entailments are yours, and I would give anything to walk in your boots. You need only seize what fate has bestowed upon you, and plot your own course. You complain that your father drags you to the altar, but you fail to mention that it is because you force him to do so. Stop fighting, take up the reins of your life, and charge, because that is who you are, or have you forgot yourself?”