“Still, you must have wanted something more, Mama.” As he studied the intricate print on the Aubusson carpet, he imaged a fanciful girl, full of hope, only to have her dreams dashed, and inside he wept for his mother. “What if I suffer the same fate or worse? What if I fail Lady Arabella in the same fashion, because I am hollow, Mama? I am an empty shell, and I would rather sever my other arm than cause Lady Arabella anguish, given she is but an innocent victim of Father’s ambition.”
“Only if you allow him to define your union.” She turned and faced him, and never had he seen such determination in her expression. “But there is another way, my son, if you would consider it.”
“And that is—what, Mama?” Curious, he stood and walked to her. “What would you have me do?”
“Fight.” In a startling display of emotion, Mama clenched a fist. “Fight for your future. Fight for your wife. Fight for the life you were destined to lead. More important, fight for what you deserve, my darling boy.”
“I’m afraid.” No, Anthony was terrified. “I’m a coward, Mama.”
“Of course, you are afraid. That you admit it speaks to the contrary, in terms of cowardice. Indeed, you are no milquetoast.” She brushed aside a lock of hair from his forehead. “Fear is only natural, but you must not let it stop you from achieving all that is possible with Lady Arabella, as I daresay she covets the same goals.”
“What if I am incapable of giving her what she wants?” In an instant, he reflected on the past, on the battlefield, on the countless casualties, and on those first waking hours in a medical tent, when he came alert in a panic. “In so many ways I remain trapped at the escarpment, at Mont Saint Jean, and I would argue I left the best part of myself at Waterloo, but I do not refer to the lower portion of my arm. What if my cooperation results in Lady Arabella’s destruction?”
“I believe you underestimate yourself and your future bride.” Mama cupped his cheek, as she often did when he was a boy, and even now the simple act comforted him. “You are stronger than you realize. You survived the hell of war, you are safe, and you returned home a hero. While I would never presume I know what you endured, I can say it is pointless to dwell on the horrors you confronted or define your life by what is done. Whatever you do, you must move forward.
“As for Lady Arabella, I know her mother quite well, because His Grace and Lord Ainsworth share a longstanding acquaintance. To your benefit, your fiancée is educated, and she is no prim miss, if I have judged her accurately. I thought she might have a positive influence on John, and I am even more certain she will succeed with you. Indeed, she is the sort of woman who can give you the chance at a love match, and I could not have picked a better bride, so I urge you not to take her for granted.”
“I would never do that.” In fact, his goal was just the opposite. And he never considered himself a hero. The true heroes of Waterloo remained in that mortar-scarred land, forever committed to the annals of history as a statistic. As a number, bereft of individual recognition. While those of the noble set were brought to England for internment, those with no money or prestige were reduced to naught but a faceless aggregate, in a mass grave with no headstone. “Can you not see that I am trying to protect her?”
“You like her.” With the hint of amusement, Mama stepped back and appraised him. “Don’t deny it.”
“I’m not denying it, because I am quite fond of her. Although I cannot say why, there is something about her.” A series of cherished vignettes played before him, as his fiancée offered unshakeable support and sweet kisses, and he clung to the reassurance Lady Arabella provided even when she was not with him. Somehow, she touched him without actually touching him, and in the short span of their renewed acquaintance, he had come to rely on her. “I need her, Mama. I cannot say why, but the prospect terrifies me, because, even though I survived Waterloo, I don’t think I could withstand her rejection. That just might be the end of me.”
“Then give her no reason to spurn you.” Mama took his hand in hers. “Have the courage and strength to be a good and faithful husband. Share your world with her, and she will do the same for you. Give her your heart, and she will gift you hers. Hurt her, and she will serve you still. She may even forgive you, but she will never forget the pain you caused her.”
“All right.” He pondered her reasoning, but he could not escape the suspicion that Arabella was better off without him. Yet, he wanted her.
“Then there will be no more talk of leaving England.” Mama arched a brow. “Your father told me about your plan, and I have to admit I was quite vexed that you would depart without saying goodbye.”
“Is there no privacy in this household?” He cursed under his breath. “Sorry, Mama. And I would have composed a note.”
“Yours would have been a failed enterprise.” She compressed her lips. “Because your father would have found you, no matter where you fled, given his influence reaches far and wide.”
“You speak as if from experience.” And Anthony ruminated on the implication.
“We all have our secrets.” Something in Mama’s bearing struck him, and he contemplated the meaning of her declaration. “I would spare you the same regret.”
“You left my father?” Stunned by the prospect, Anthony stumbled and almost fell, but she steadied him. “You tried to break free?”
“Once.” She sighed. “A long time ago, when I was but seven and ten, and your father insisted I give him the heir for which I was contracted. I ran away, but he found me and brought me home. Confined to my bedchamber, I had no visitors save him, and we conceived John shortly thereafter. Three months after giving birth, I was pregnant with you. After that, he left me in peace and saw to it that I wanted for nothing.”
“Can you really say that?” Anger spiked, given what she suffered. Her horrific revelation did much to explain his father’s perspective of marriage, and Anthony gritted his teeth in disgust. “While I am well acquainted with our laws regarding women, I consider what he did an abomination, if not criminal. And what of you? Do you not want something more?”
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace.” Walker, the longtime butler, loomed in the doorway and bowed. “But dinner is served, and Lord Beaulieu is just arrived for Lord Rockingham.”
“Please, show him in, at once.” Mama glanced at Anthony. “Were you expecting a guest?”
“No.” Anthony made for the door to head off his fellow veteran, but Beaulieu charged forth. “What are you doing here?”
“I have an extra ticket for Vauxhall, and I have come to fetch you for a night of fun and music.” Beaulieu rocked on his heels. “Tell me you have not eaten, because I would take dinner at my reserved supper-box.”
“Had I known of your plans I would have accepted.” Anthony stared at his mother. “However, we were just about to—”
“Oh, no.” Mama waved and led him into the foyer. “I insist you venture out with your friends. It has been too long since you indulged in such felicitous exploits, and you are past due. And I shall dine in my sitting room and read a book.”
“Mama, are you sure?” Given their conversation, Anthony didn’t want to abandon her, as had his father. “I can go out some other time.”
“Excuse me, Your Grace.” A burly footman, one of Father’s recent hires, stepped to the fore. “But His Grace left specific instructions that Lord Rockingham must remain in residence.”
“Yes, I am sure His Grace did just that.” Mama drew herself up with noble hauteur, and Anthony almost felt sorry for the manservant, because no one gainsaid his mother. “Since His Grace is not here, you will abide my directive, and I hereby discharge you of your duties, because we no longer require your services. If you will go with Walker, he will see that you are compensated.”
The unfortunate blackguard shuffled his feet. “But His Grace—”
“Do you dare question my authority in my home?” Mama gave the poor soul a look that could wither the most stalwart adversary, and he retreated. “I thought not.” Then
she turned to Anthony. “Have a lovely evening, my son.”
*
In a painting by Francis Hayman, two milkmaids clasped hands and danced, garbed in their best finery, while a porter hoisted a garland, comprised of a pyramid of silver plates, flagons, tankards, and flowers. Arabella scrutinized the masterpiece, which decorated the private supper-box Lord Beaulieu secured for the evening at Vauxhall Gardens, and she pondered the nobleman’s scheme.
From the moment her father announced her amended betrothal, her world was on fire, as Anthony put it the afternoon they spent at Gunter’s, and she knew not how to douse the flames. Instead, she fanned the blaze, igniting an inferno, because she contemplated marriage to a man who would own her, and she shuddered at the thought.
However, if she had to serve anyone, she would serve Anthony.
“Are you chilled, Lady Arabella?” Lord Greyson, one of the well-intentioned yet quixotic veterans determined to aid her campaign, stared at her and frowned. “May I be of assistance? Shall I send for a pot of tea, to warm you?”
“No, thank you, my lord, although it is kind of you to offer.” She studied the interesting nobleman and could not ignore the tension emanating from him. Much like Anthony, Lord Greyson glanced back and forth, as if he anticipated an enemy combatant would spring forth and attack, at any moment. “It is a lovely evening, is it not?”
“Yes.” He clenched his jaw.
“I understand Hook plays for us tonight.” She tried again to distract him.
“Yes.” Lord Greyson fidgeted with his cravat.
“Will you stop being rude and converse with the lady, as would a gentleman?” Lord Warrington shook his head. “Even I can see she is nervous, and that is not saying much, given I am half-blind. Talk to her and put her at ease, you ill-gotten tub of guts.”
“Immature name calling aside, if you are so inclined, why don’t you talk to her?” Lord Greyson started when a loud crash reverberated from an unknown source. “Apologies, Lady Arabella, because I meant no insult, but we share naught in common to encourage discussion, and it has been a long time since I attempted to entertain a lady.”
“Entertain?” Warrington rolled his eyes. “Are you always such a half-wit, or is today a special occasion?”
“At least I’m trying.” Lord Greyson slapped his thigh. “And calling you stupid would be an insult to stupid people.”
“Gentlemen, please, don’t quarrel. And you underestimate yourself, Lord Greyson.” Despite his attempts to portray an air of nonchalance, she saw through his faux bon vivant disguise. “While I appreciate your efforts, you need not feel compelled to amuse me, because I am quite capable of occupying myself.”
Beyond the colonnade, which boasted straight tablature and urn-topped finials, the fashionable set mingled in the grove, in the shadow of the Temple of Comus. In the past, whenever Papa brought Mama and Arabella to Vauxhall, Arabella thrilled to the experience. Yet, as she awaited Anthony’s arrival, she wrung her fingers.
“What is wrong?” Patience, ever the reliable chaperone, elbowed Arabella. “I thought you welcomed the Mad Matchmakers and their unconventional assistance. Do you doubt them?”
“I’m not sure what I feel.” And that was the problem, as Arabella always set clear, attainable goals, but her impending nuptials seemed anything but clear or attainable, given the duke’s plot. What could she do to save Anthony, when His Grace held all the power? “From where I stand, the situation strikes me as impossible.”
“But you will not let that dissuade you.” Patience chucked Arabella’s chin. “Because you love a challenge, and I wager Lord Rockingham is challenge personified.”
“He is much more than that, and even I am unsure of my ability to assist him, given I am an amateur.” Arabella reflected on the book and its contents, regarding nostalgia. “However, I am resolved to try, because he has no one else. Even the Mad Matchmakers carry invisible scars, though I doubt they know it.”
“Then I suggest you smile, because your fiancé is just arrived.” Patience nodded. “And you do not want to alarm him.”
Alarm him?
Glancing over her shoulder, Arabella spied Anthony. When his gaze met hers, he smiled, and telltale warmth filled her cheeks. Just once, she wished she could control her reaction to him, but he reached through her defenses to touch her, despite her best efforts to contain him. Perhaps that was why she struggled with her decision to marry him.
There was a peculiar sort of intimacy to uncertainty.
Nestled deep in the dark recesses of her mind, like a foreign invasion, indecision took root, infecting and undermining her confidence in all other aspects of her life. Apprehension lingered, festered, and poisoned the otherwise innocuous facets of her existence, until persistent hesitation plagued every part of her world, such that she second-guessed something as simple as whether to eat strawberry jam or orange marmalade on her scone. In some respects, she scarcely knew herself, anymore, due to the disquieting emotions that wreaked havoc on her senses, and that frightened her most.
And it was all because of a man.
Her man.
“Lady Arabella, this is a welcome surprise.” As always, Anthony greeted her with his customary charm, which put her at ease, and she rolled her shoulders. Then he arched a brow and peered at Lord Beaulieu. “Although something tells me our meeting is more by design than chance.”
“I beg your pardon.” With an angsty expression, which didn’t fool her for an instant, Lord Beaulieu clutched a hand to his chest. “My only motive was to enjoy a relaxed night in the pleasure gardens of Vauxhall. And since when do I dictate the earl of Ainsworth’s schedule? How could I have predicted Lady Arabella’s attendance?”
“Me thinks thou dost protest too much.” So handsome in a rich blue coat trimmed in old gold, Anthony smirked as he took her hand in his and kissed her gloved knuckles. “But you mistake my meaning, because mine is an observation, not a complaint.” To Arabella, he said, “Shall we tour the grove, my lady?”
“I would like that above all things, my lord.” Together, they stepped from the supper-box, and she clutched his arm. “Can we visit the acrobats?”
“Just a minute.” Patience snapped her fingers. “You cannot venture forth without a chaperone.”
“A chaperone?” Lord Beaulieu scowled. “Are they or are they not affianced? What good is a betrothal, if you cannot enjoy your bride-to-be’s company, unreservedly?”
“They are, but until they speak the vows, Lady Arabella must be accompanied by an escort.” Patience wrinkled her nose, and Arabella laughed. “Despite the engagement, we cannot risk her reputation.”
“Upon my word, but what damage can Lord Rockingham do?” With an air of disgust mixed with arrogance, Lord Beaulieu shifted his weight. “The man has but one hand.”
“And I suppose that is quite enough, for a rake of his stature and experience.” Like a high-born debutante, Patience assumed a position that left Lord Beaulieu no choice but to abide her command, and Arabella admired her friend’s strength. “Or do you claim Lord Rockingham suffers impotence, Lord Beaulieu?”
“How dare you cast aspersions on Lord Rockingham’s abilities to satisfy his future bride.” Beaulieu sniffed. “And I wager he remains as skilled as he was before the war.”
“Thank you for the vote of confidence.” Huffing a breath, Anthony shook his head. “Shall we?”
While Lord Beaulieu and Patience argued the finer but questionable points of male supremacy from a discreet distance, Lord Rockingham led Arabella toward the Grand South Walk, where they joined the promenade.
“It is a beautiful night, is it not?” As Arabella navigated the crush, she studied the tense lines about his eyes and the firm set of his jaw. When someone burst into laughter, Anthony flinched, and she squeezed his arm. “It is all right. Just a few rambunctious revelers. Do you often partake of Vauxhall?”
“How long have you been conspiring with my friends?” At his query, she drew up short and sought a resp
onse to placate him. “And don’t insult me by feigning ignorance, because we both know you are anything but ignorant.”
“Not long, but you are not supposed to know of their involvement, beyond what they discussed with you, however obvious it appears, and I would not for the life of me try to make sense of their logic. Indeed, I could not if I wanted to, because they are more than a little eccentric for matchmakers. However, for their sakes, I ask you not to apprise them that you are aware of their attempts at matchmaking, given they dearly want to support us.” When they neared a tall hedgerow, he tugged her behind the shrubbery. While she should have been shocked by his behavior, she was not, given their previous assignation. And she wanted to be alone with him. “They care for you, a great deal, my lord. In some respects, I believe you give them hope, because if you succeed, they think they can too. And theirs is a harmless endeavor. What damage can they do?”
“You think this harmless?” he asked in a low voice, as he drew her near, which gave her a chill. “Because all manner of naughty thoughts occur to me, at the moment. And you might be surprised by what my band of brothers in arms can achieve, when they act in concert.”
“They want you to be happy.” She shivered, when his breath caressed the crest of her ear. “Is that so wrong?”
“If that is their aim and naught more, then I support their involvement.” Given the setting sun, the dark, serpentine walk afforded privacy when he pulled her close, and his eyes flared. Just his touch warmed her from top to toes. “Because, although I am not entirely certain about our union, and I have not yielded the fight, I am leaning in your favor, my lady. I see no way to avoid our wedding.”
“Well, at least you retain your usual charm.” He chuckled, and she brushed the forever drooping lock of hair from his forehead. “And I share your position, given I have no real choice in the matter.”
“I know that, and despite our mutual reservations, I would make you happy.” Flames flickered in his heated stare as he tightened his hold about her waist, and she rested her palms to his lapels. “I would be a good husband and indulge your independent spirit, because I consider your strength a boon.”
The Accidental Duke (The Mad Matchmaking Men of Waterloo Book 1) Page 8