“Do you?” Perched on tiptoes, she studied his beautiful mouth and ached for him to kiss her. “Because I am my own person, and I cannot change, my lord. Not for you. Not for anyone.”
“Oh, I’m counting on it.” In that moment, he bent his head and kissed her.
And kept kissing her.
That was what she needed to quiet the doubts nagging her conscience. Reassurance in the form of what she heretofore would have described as a pedestrian physical expression, based on the books she read. But Anthony changed all that, because it was not so pedestrian given his aggressive flicks of his tongue, in concert with his bold fondling of her bottom through her skirts. Indeed, the fact that he had one hand did not in any way limit his abilities to tempt her, and nothing could mute the force of his touch. When he pressed his hips to hers, and she noted the telltale firmness of his erection, she grew dizzy with undeniable longing, but he held her, safe and sound, and she did not falter.
Passion rang a mighty salvo in her ears, blazing a trail from their point of contact to the pit of her belly, and she moaned when he ravished the curve of her neck. Beguiled by something she did not quite understand, she gripped his thick hair and stared at the starry sky, while desire tasted her. Then, to her unmitigated frustration, he halted his play, and she clung to him.
“My lord, what is happening to us?” Gasping for breath, and shivering from the power of their exchange, she nuzzled him. Patience was right. The man was plenty dangerous with a single hand. “What have you done to me?”
“I want you, sweet Arabella.” He chuckled. “And no one is more surprised than I, because I have not felt this alive since before the war.”
“I know what you mean.” Shifting, she met his stare. “Because I feel it, too.”
“Did I scare you?” To her disappointment, he removed his hand from her bottom and cupped her cheek. With infinite tenderness that melted her heart, he caressed her lips with the pad of his thumb. “Are you frightened?”
“Of you?” She gave vent to nervous laughter. “Never, my lord, because you will not hurt me.”
“You are that sure?” Anthony brushed his mouth to hers. “You believe in me that much?”
For Arabella, it was a moment of unvarnished truth, and she did not hesitate. “Yes.”
Nothing could have prepared her for the ensuing tryst, because Anthony again pulled her into his one-armed embrace and made more improper advances on her person. In a masterful opening sally, he let fly a barrage of inexpressibly intimate kisses that left her breathless, and his lone hand seemed to be everywhere at once. Indeed, she discovered he loosened the bodice of her gown when he took turns stroking her nipples, and she loved every minute of it—until Lord Beaulieu cleared his throat.
“Excuse me, because I am not one to interrupt a bloody good seduction—not that I was spying on your progress, which was commendable given the setting—but Lord Ainsworth seeks Lady Arabella. I suggest you right yourselves, because you don’t want to be caught dallying in the bushes.” Lord Beaulieu averted his gaze and snickered. “Upon my word, Greyson just launched a brilliant flanking maneuver, but even now Ainsworth approaches, so I suggest you make haste.”
“Oh, dear.” Panicking, in light of her unfamiliarity with such wanton circumstances, Arabella tucked in her chemise and retied the bow that sat at the center of her décolletage, given Anthony’s enthusiastic encroachment on her breasts, and then she repaired the damage to his cravat and smoothed his hair. “Papa is here. What shall we do?”
“Just follow my lead.” With the innocence of a babe, Anthony pointed at a tree. “And this is an excellent specimen of a deciduous elm, with its thick canopy of oval leaves with serrated edges. But it is the grayish-blue bark that sets the elm apart from other species—oh, Lord Ainsworth. How are you, this fine evening?”
“I am well, Lord Rockingham.” Papa blinked and sputtered, and she bit her tongue against laughter. How she admired Anthony’s resourcefulness. “But I grew alarmed when I did not locate my daughter in Lord Beaulieu’s supper-box, given his promise to guard her.”
“Papa, you worry for nothing, because I’m quite protected, and Lord Beaulieu and Miss Wallace stand as competent chaperones.” Gaining her wits, Arabella rocked on her heels and glanced at Anthony. Did she just glimpse another side of the man unspoiled by war? “But Lord Rockingham offered a lesson in the mysteries of nature, and he is a vast deal more than knowledgeable in such matters.” Of course, that was putting it mildly. “I would invite him to dine with us, Thursday next, if you are amenable.”
“It should not surprise me that you enjoy the otherwise mundane topic, and Lord Rockingham is always welcome at our table.” Papa drew a handkerchief from his coat pocket and daubed his forehead. “But the lamp-lighters shall assume their stations, at any minute, and I know you don’t want to miss the spectacle.”
“You are correct, and I thank you, given it is my favorite part of the evening.” Like a proper lady, Arabella settled her hand in the crook of Anthony’s arm, and he winked at her. The casual observer never would have suspected that only minutes ago, her fiancé slipped his fingers down her bodice to tweak her nipple. “Although I would never describe Lord Rockingham’s impromptu tutelage as mundane, because I found it rather stimulating.”
Chapter Six
The valet tied a precise mathematical, as Anthony scrutinized his black tailcoat, waistcoat, and trousers. Wondering how he let Beaulieu talk him into attending the Netherton’s ball, when all Anthony wanted to do was climb into bed and crawl beneath the covers, he studied the empty sleeve pinned to his lapel and frowned. Would he never become accustomed to the sight?
“I beg your pardon, my lord.” Standing in the entry from the sitting room, the butler bowed. “Lord Beaulieu is just arrived, and I installed him in the drawing room.”
“Thank you, Walker. Tell him I will be down, posthaste.” To the valet, Anthony said, “That will be all, Page.”
In unison, the servants bowed and exited Anthony’s chamber.
Alone, he walked to the windows and peered at the star-filled sky. So many nights he spent in quiet contemplation, gazing at the constellations on the eve of battle, but the habit had long since ceased to provide comfort. Then again, nothing could ease his current concerns, given the gravity of his predicament. Well, that was not exactly true, because one woman managed to cut through the misery to touch the man, and he simply could not continue without her.
Despite his reservations, and of that there were many, he would marry Lady Arabella.
Not out of some antiquated sense of duty. Not to fulfill a contract. Not even to make his father happy. No, Anthony would marry Arabella because he wanted her. Because he needed her.
Resolved to persevere, he took one last glance at his reflection in the long mirror and saluted. Then he turned on a heel and marched downstairs. As expected, he found his friend dawdling in the drawing room.
“For a second, I thought you might not show for our adventure.” Beaulieu clasped his hands. “What say you, old chum? Ready to woo your bride-to-be?”
“I must be insane to let you talk me into this, because she is already mine.” Anthony rolled his eyes, and a queasy sensation roiled his belly. “But if you insist, I see no reason to delay the inevitable. Shall we depart?”
“Oh, come now.” Ever the mischievous scoundrel, Beaulieu clucked his tongue and grabbed Anthony’s arm. “This will be such fun, given my motives in pursuit of an unwed woman have never been so honorable.”
“Wait.” Anthony drew up short. “There is something you should know.” When Beaulieu arched a brow, Anthony shuffled his feet and shifted his weight. “Lady Arabella does not wish to marry me, although her decision has naught to do with me, personally. Indeed, she would remain a spinster, if given the choice, and she is every bit as forced as am I.”
“Really?” To Anthony’s surprise, Beaulieu accepted the rather shocking pronouncement with unimpaired aplomb. “Shall we depart?”
“Did you hear what I said?” In the foyer, Anthony halted. He pondered the possibility of a rejection and swayed. Then he recalled Arabella’s admission that Beaulieu conspired against Anthony. “Would you waste your time trying to bring a reluctant bride to the altar? The lady does not want me.”
“Why so glum, when you have yet to court her? And don’t even try to claim you find her unattractive, given you were not discussing the finer points of Vauxhall foliage when I interrupted your impressive advance the other night. Unless a wayward leaf somehow slipped down her bodice, not that I noticed, and she could not find the rogue frond, so you fished it out for her in a selfless act of chivalry. The lady made no protest that I detected, which bodes well for your wedding night.” Beaulieu gave Anthony an abrupt shove out the door. “And when a man fondles a woman’s bosom, not that I was watching, and she voices no objection, she is either a doxy or she is emotionally attached. Since Lady Arabella is no whore, we must presume she covets feelings for you. Trust me, once we deploy our powers of persuasion, she will fall into your arms—sorry, I mean your embrace, and consider herself a most fortunate wife.”
“I had not thought of that.” But Anthony’s mind raced in all manner of salacious directions, because she made no attempt to forestall his ravishment. “But you are correct.”
“When am I not?” Beaulieu skipped down the entrance stairs. “And you may name your firstborn for me, in a show of gratitude.”
“I wish I shared your confidence, but I am not half so optimistic. Must have something to do with your unhinged personality.” Distracted, Anthony caught his toe, tripped, and tumbled, face first, into the coach. “That does not portend well for our enterprise.”
“Stop nagging, because that is a wife’s occupation.” With a none too gentle push, Beaulieu thrust Anthony into the squabs. “Although you do a rousing impersonation.”
“Very funny.” Secure in his seat, Anthony brushed a speck of lint from his coat and mulled the situation. If Arabella rejected him, he didn’t think he could survive her refusal of his suit. “No matter what you say, this is a disaster in the making.”
“All right.” As the equipage lurched forward, Beaulieu crossed his legs and adopted a disgustingly sanguine air. “If you choose to view it that way, then so be it. Everything is dreadful. You are rich as Croesus, heir to one of the most prestigious dukedoms in England, and betrothed to a young, stunning debutante cursed with a strong sense of herself, her own opinions, and a wickedly tempting bosom. Would that I had your troubles.”
“That is quite enough, because I get your meaning.” It irritated Anthony that Beaulieu reduced a life-altering scenario to such elementary terms. Then again, given Arabella’s response during their tryst at Vauxhall, Beaulieu had a point. “And do not let me catch you ogling my fiancée.”
“Jealous?” Beaulieu waggled his brows. “Although I don’t blame you, because there must be countless rakes just waiting to plow her fertile fields.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Folding his arm, Anthony checked his fingernails, but he was jealous, all the same. “Lady Arabella is true of heart, and she honors her commitments.”
“Still, she is a spirited filly. I wager she is apt to rush her fences, in the right circumstances, with the proper tutelage, which makes for delicious sport. And don’t even try to convince me that you haven’t noticed her figure.” Beaulieu lowered his chin. “What say you, old friend? Ready to sample a taste of her honey pot? Want to sail her sweet harbor? Aching to pound her clam with your ham?”
“Will you stop talking about my bride-to-be as though she were naught more than a common doxy?” Indeed, Lady Arabella possessed immeasurable qualities Anthony was just beginning to explore, and she spoke to him on some enigmatic level that defied reason. If he were brutally honest with himself, he sincerely looked forward to his wedding night. “If you dare cast aspersions on her character, I will call you out, friend or no friend, and meet you on Paddington Green, at dawn.”
“Now you speak like a husband.” With a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin, Beaulieu leaned back in the cushions. “Practicing for the real thing?”
“Oh, shut up.” When Anthony groaned, Beaulieu burst into laughter.
For the remains of the brief drive to the estimable London residence on Park Lane, Anthony brooded, yet his pulse raced when they arrived at the gate, because he anxiously anticipated another tryst with his lady. He needed to know she wanted him, in any capacity, but he would take his time and gauge her interest. When the coach drew to a halt before the main entrance, he yanked the latch and opened the door. With a sharp elbow to the ribs, he pushed past the footman.
In the foyer, he rushed through the receiving line, uttering arbitrary salutations, because he wanted to speak to Lady Arabella. At the arched access, he paused and handed the butler a card.
The manservant cleared his throat. “His lordship, the Marquess of Rockingham.”
As usual, the crowd stared, and he shoved his way into the crush. He veered left and then right, searching for his fiancée, but he spied no sign of her. The chasmal ballroom opened to an equally impressive dining room, where a collection of tables welcomed revelers to linger, converse, and feast on a decadent array of dishes, and the cacophonous throng jolted him.
Anthony halted.
In the blink of an eye, he transported to the battlefield, to the huge encampment at the foot of a large escarpment in Le Haye Sainte, and to the tattered tents and the battered remnants of men who gathered to partake of a bit of soup or some horrid concoction that passed for food. Whatever the field cooks served, the soldiers ate, and he knew not the origins of some of the meals he consumed, but the less than elegant nourishment kept him going.
Kept him fighting.
“Are you all right?” When Beaulieu rested his palms to Anthony’s shoulders, he flinched and returned to the present.
“I am fine.” Anthony shrugged free, because he needed his fiancée now more than ever. Somehow, some way, he would propose. It probably wouldn’t be sophisticated or particularly passionate, but it would be in earnest, and that was important to him. She had to know he chose her. “But I cannot find Lady Arabella.”
“That is because you look in the wrong place.” Adjusting the patch that concealed his injured eye, Beaulieu inclined his head and glanced at the dance floor.
To Anthony’s amazement, he located his bride-to-be in the company of Lord Greyson, the former prisoner of war, as they made the rotations amid a sea of couples. “How did you manage to get Greyson here, given his disdain for public assemblies?”
“Believe me, it was not easy.” Beaulieu compressed his lips. “But he would do anything for a case of my best brandy.”
While Anthony was glad to see his chum out and about, he would rather Greyson sought alternative companionship. For some reason Anthony could not fathom, he did not appreciate his friend partnering Arabella, even for something so innocuous as a dance. Then again, many a lady lost her heart—or her reputation through a seemingly innocent twirl about the room.
“Just what does Greyson think he is doing?” Anthony gnashed his teeth.
“I would say the allemande.” Beaulieu sniffed. “Care for a refreshment?”
“No, I would not.” When Greyson bent his head and whispered something to Arabella, she laughed, and Anthony envied the traumatized soldier in that moment, because he had never imparted anything witty enough to garner such a response from her. “What do you suppose they discuss? And why is Greyson here, when he hates crowds?”
“Well, I am not one to eavesdrop, and I would not hazard a guess at what flows through Greyson’s mind. As for his attendance, he is here to support you.” With a sly smile, Beaulieu nodded to a fetching young widow. Heralded as a war hero, for a storied charge that resulted in the capture of more than a hundred French troops, he never lacked for attention and expended little effort to fill his bed. Yet, Beaulieu never seemed happy. “The diversions are plentiful tonight.”
“Is
that all you ever think about?” The music ended, and Anthony waved to his lady. “There are other pursuits, you know.”
“None that provide half so much pleasure.” Beaulieu snickered, but his bawdy demeanor didn’t fool Anthony for a second, and he wondered what his friend concealed behind the brash façade. Then again, didn’t all veterans hide secrets? Did they not all tell lies to themselves, sometimes? “After the horrors of war, satisfaction is the only thing worth living for, and I have more than earned it.”
“If you tell yourself that enough, you just might believe it, but I know better.” Just when Arabella walked in Anthony’s direction, a loud pop reverberated, and he jumped, as did Beaulieu.
“Do you think we will ever be as we were, before Waterloo?” White as a sheet, Beaulieu tugged at his cravat. “Will the day come when we no longer start at the slightest provocation?”
“I’m not sure.” But Anthony was certain of the comfort he found in Arabella’s company, and he wanted her with him, at his side, because her presence calmed him. “Still, as Lord Michael rightly argued, we owe it to those who did not come home to live to the fullest, to make the most of our good fortune.”
“And if you tell yourself that enough, you just might believe it, but I know better.” Beaulieu arched a brow. “The truth cuts both ways, old friend.”
“Indeed, it does.” Anthony patted Beaulieu on the back. “And we have seen each other through some difficulties, yet we persist. Given my father’s hired men guard me, even now, despite the fact that my mother discharged them, I find sport in the irony. I am resolved to marry Lady Arabella in light of our talk. Thus he worries for naught.”
“Sorry I am late, but I had a devil of a time negotiating the stairs.” Hobbling on crutches, because he had yet to master a wooden limb, Lord Michael drew near and smiled. “You are singing a new tune, and I am glad to hear it, because your fiancée approaches, and you don’t want to insult her.”
The Accidental Duke (The Mad Matchmaking Men of Waterloo Book 1) Page 9