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

by Devlin, Barbara

  “Arabella, mind your manners.” The Countess of Ainsworth wagged a finger. “Welcome, Lord Rockingham. We are so pleased you could join us for dinner.”

  “Indeed.” Lord Ainsworth extended a hand in friendship, and they exchanged an awkward greeting, given Anthony fumbled with the book in his lone hand. “You do us a great honor.”

  “The honor is mine, Lord Ainsworth.” Anthony noticed Arabella’s interest fixed on the book, and he caught her stare and arched a brow. Her curious nature exercised his imagination. “I am grateful for the invitation and the opportunity to spend time with my future wife, because I would foster amity prior to our nuptials.”

  “Your motives are quite sound and do you great credit.” Lord Ainsworth seemed cautious when he stepped back and assessed Anthony. What did Ainsworth mean by quite sound? “Lady Ainsworth and I partake of sherry. Would you care for a glass?”

  “No, thank you.” Anthony shrugged off his unease and told himself he was being overly sensitive on his first informal meeting with his future in-laws. “With your permission, I would speak with Lady Arabella.”

  “Of course.” Lord Ainsworth nodded once. “Her ladyship and I will sit near the window, to offer you a measure of privacy.”

  “You are too generous.” Yet, Anthony would prefer Arabella’s company, unreservedly. Sitting at one end the sofa, he scooted to the edge of the cushion and handed her the old tome. “For my lady’s pleasure.”

  “How kind you are to think of me.” Biting her bottom lip, she perused the cover and came alert. When she met his gaze, he smiled. “Thoughts on the Education of Daughters. Is this a suggestion, or do you make sport of my predilection for Wollstonecraft?”

  “I thought it might prove useful, someday.” While she flipped through the pages, he availed himself of her distracted state and admired a single thick curl that dangled at her throat, along with the flirty layer of lace that called attention to her décolletage. Beaulieu described her bosom as wickedly tempting. In truth, she manifested an irresistible combination of virginal coquette and seductive siren. If not for the social Season, he would lock her in his bedchamber for a fortnight after their marriage. “Have you not read it?”

  “Must confess I have not.” Closing the book, she peered over her shoulder at her parents. Then she studied him and scooted closer. “How considerate is my fiancé, and I shall endeavor to express my gratitude at your earliest convenience.”

  “I like the sound of that.” There it was again, the genial conversation and easy airs that typified their fledgling relationship, and he marveled at her ability to identify with him, when he struggled to find something to say to her. “I enjoyed our evening at Vauxhall and recall it with fondness.”

  “As do I.” The charming blush that colored her cheeks declared she understood his meaning, because he referenced the tender kisses they shared along the serpentine. In the dark hours, he summoned a vision of that evening and slept in peace. “Perhaps, we might venture there after our wedding, that we might mark our brief courtship with equal affection.”

  “Excuse me, my lord.” The butler cleared his throat. “Dinner is served.”

  “Let us adjourn to the dining room, because I’m famished.” Lord Ainsworth stood and straightened his coat.

  Trailing in Lord and Lady Ainsworth’s wake, Anthony escorted Arabella. In that moment, he ached to kiss her, if only to savor the warmth of her mouth. But it was her comforting embrace he craved in the night, when he often woke to the brutal images of war. Yet, that happened less and less since they renewed their acquaintance.

  “Lord Rockingham, if you will take the chair to my left, Arabella can assume the opposite position.” After situating himself, Lord Ainsworth signaled the butler. “You may commence the service.”

  In silence, the servants moved into action with admirable precision, dishing portions of steak, mashed potatoes, and carrots. It was then Anthony panicked, because he could not cut his own food. At home, Walker performed the service. Anthony’s heart pounded in his chest, his ears pealed, and he grew warm, because he anticipated disaster. Just when he was about to announce his deficiency and ask for assistance, a footman collected his empty plate and replaced it with another, which evidenced merciful intervention. To his surprise, the food had been sliced into perfect bites. When he glanced at Arabella, she winked.

  He would kiss her silly at the first opportunity.

  “Is there anything else we can do to make you comfortable, my lord?” So she had instructed the staff to accommodate him. Why was he not surprised? “Do you take wine?”

  “Yes, and everything is perfect, Lady Arabella.” A servant draped a napkin in Anthony’s lap, as he picked up a fork and speared a tender morsel of meat. With no fanfare, he savored the quiet meal, yet his mind was anything but quiet, because he mulled the consideration his fiancée displayed on his behalf.

  It was his first dinner taken outside his residence since his return to England, because he had not the courage to risk embarrassment in public when he often made a mess of things. Even at Vauxhall, he ignored his grumbling, empty belly and waited until he returned home to feast, by which time he was famished. That she went out of her way to oblige him, and address his needs, touched him in ways he had never experienced, and he would never forget her thoughtfulness.

  Tomorrow, he would lavish upon her expensive gifts to show his appreciation of her efforts, and he would write more than his name on the accompanying cards. Indeed, he would compose something naughty, just to exercise her beautiful mind.

  “I spoke with His Grace about the wedding breakfast.” Lord Ainsworth eased back in his chair. “It is to be a small, private affair, with only family in attendance.”

  “Oh?” It irked Anthony that his father excluded him from the planning. Then again, some things never changed, because his father had been dictating Anthony’s life from birth. “I expected him to invite all of London to witness the event.”

  “So did I, but I would not hazard to guess His Grace’s motives.” Lord Ainsworth pushed aside his now empty plate. “Shall we partake of brandy and cigars in my study?”

  “No, Papa.” Arabella opened and then closed her mouth. “Forgive my outburst, but you promised I could play cards with Lord Rockingham, and you could enjoy dessert in the drawing room, with Mama and I.”

  “Ah, yes.” Lord Ainsworth waggled his brows. “Tonight, we indulge in a tasty syllabub with almond shortbread, my favorite.”

  “What say you, Lord Rockingham?” Like one of Botticelli’s famous cherubs, Arabella inclined her head, and whatever she asked he would not refuse her. “I understand you are a past master at vingt-et-un.”

  “You have spent too much time with Lord Beaulieu.” No doubt Beaulieu functioned as a veritable trove of information, which Arabella was smart enough to employ to her advantage. Yet, her intentions were honorable. But she did not anticipate the fact that Anthony’s deficiency made him a poor player, given he could not hold his cards and draw from the deck, with only one hand. “Perhaps, we might sit by the fire and talk.”

  “But I did so wish to engage you in a simple game.” In light of her frown, which cut through him like the sharpest knife, he could not deny her. “Please?”

  “Of course, my dear.” How easy she bended him to her will, but he would never admit it aloud. “Whatever you ask, I am your most devoted servant.”

  “Wonderful.” In the blink of an eye, her demeanor transformed, and she bounced from her chair. “And I have a gift for you, too.”

  “You do?” When she settled her palm in the crook of his elbow, he lingered behind her parents. In a low voice, he said, “I thought you were my gift.”

  “Scandalous, Lord Rockingham.” She clucked her tongue and grinned. “Now that is the charmer I have heard so much about but have scarcely seen, since our engagement. I thought it might have something to do with me and a lack of attraction.”

  “You think me indifferent?” In the foyer, he pulled her aside, while Lo
rd and Lady Ainsworth settled in the drawing room, because he could not allow her to labor under a mistaken assumption. “Even after Vauxhall? Even after our delicious tryst in the Netherton’s study?”

  “You don’t want to marry me.” Craning her neck, she peered into the drawing room and then drew him toward a side passage. “Despite your acceptance of my clumsy proposal, do you deny your objections to our union?”

  “You know, very well, my reservations have naught to do with you.” Tempted by her full lips, he backed her into the wall. “While I concede, most regrettably, to opposing our nuptials, I must admit my hesitation was born of ignorance of your strength and character, which will serve me well when you stand as my wife. Where others would founder, you will succeed, and that is why I will have none but you.”

  Then he bent his head and kissed her. Summoning the finesse honed in the arms of some of the most seasoned widows and courtesans of London, he launched a full-scale seduction of his fiancée just feet from her father, which intensified the illicit rendezvous and drove him like a stallion with a burr under its saddle.

  There was something about their intimacy that inspired unshakable confidence, which he craved, and he rode a wave of passion that harkened to the past. To his glory days, when he was whole, and nothing and no one frightened him. Somehow, Arabella restored his faith. She made him feel like his old self.

  Like a man.

  Reassured and emboldened, he suckled her little pink tongue, a pastime that quickly ranked as his favorite. No matter how much she yielded, he wanted more. When she yanked the hair at his nape, he pressed on her caresses meant to entice and arouse. No shrinking violet, she bit his flesh and scored her nails along the back of his neck. Hugging her about the waist, he thrust his hips to hers, and she gasped for breath. Desire surged and spiraled, and she opened to him as he loosened his reins, and he walked his fingers lower, to grip her bottom.

  “Arabella, Lord Rockingham, are you there?” her father inquired from the drawing room.

  Anthony started and came alert, and Arabella pressed a finger to his lips.

  “Yes, I’m fine.” With bright red cheeks he found rather arresting, Arabella blinked and squared her shoulders. “Er—Papa, I wanted to show Lord Rockingham the ermine muff you purchased for me. We will join you in a minute.”

  “I will not apologize for that,” Anthony stated, in a low voice.

  “I should be offended if you did.” From his coat pocket, she retrieved his handkerchief. After daubing the corners of her mouth, she wiped his face, tidied his hair and cravat, and smoothed his lapels. “That should do it. How do I look?”

  “Beautiful.” In so many words, he wanted to tell her what she did for him, how she provided comfort when he most needed it. The way she silenced his demons. Yet he could not compose a single coherent sentence, so he said nothing more.

  “Then let us play cards, given we have much to discuss, which is the reason I invited you to dinner.” She took his hand in hers. “And I would have us plot a course to divert His Grace, because I will not let him commit you to an asylum.”

  *

  The shock in Anthony’s expression stunned Arabella, and she realized he had no idea what His Grace had in store for his son, after the wedding. Her mind raced, and they strolled into the drawing room. She searched for a response to console and reassure him, because she would not surrender her husband without a fight.

  But how could she stop His Grace?

  Sitting opposite her fiancé, at a small square table suitable for the carefree exchange of gossip, she checked her parents. Noting their half-hearted efforts to ignore the young couple, she turned and met Anthony’s turbulent gaze.

  “I beg your pardon, my lord.” She swallowed hard, when she noticed tears welling in his vivid blue eyes. If only she could hold him. “I thought you privy to His Grace’s most foul scheme.”

  At first, he simply shook his head.

  “I knew he plotted to secure an heir for the dukedom, but I knew naught of my fate.” Then he leaned near. “Tell me everything you know.”

  So as not to arouse attention, in a quiet and calm tone she imparted the dastardly plot, and he grew paler by the second, with each successive revelation, such that she feared he might swoon. Stretching her arm, she grasped his hand and twined her fingers in his. At last, she recounted the settlement the duke pledged, as part of the marriage contract, if she fulfilled her duties to beget the all-important heir.

  “I am so sorry, Lord Rockingham.” She would have given anything to spare him the pain, but he had to know the truth, because he was in danger. “Indeed, I thought His Grace’s ploy was your primary motivation for fleeing London, and it would make sense.”

  “I knew nothing of my planned commitment, but that is no surprise, given we rarely speak.” He shivered, and she gave him a gentle squeeze. “But I never imagined this. Commitment, as if I am naught more than some embarrassing trifle to be locked away.”

  “I will not allow it.” How she ached for Anthony, and she choked on overwhelming rage at his father. No matter what happened, she would not let a war hero end his days in an institution when there was nothing wrong with him, other than the fact that he was human. “I know not how, but I will save you. I will find a way—I swear it on our firstborn.”

  “You are fierce, Lady Arabella.” For a brief moment, he smiled, but his good humor faded just as fast as it emerged. “I hesitate to point out you are just a woman. By law, you are but property, yet you know this, so what do you propose to do about my predicament when my father holds the power to destroy me, on a whim, and you scarcely exist in this world?”

  “I don’t pretend to possess all the answers to our quandary—and it is our quandary, my lord.” When Papa cleared his throat, she grabbed the deck and dealt the cards. “But I cannot sit idly and let you be taken from me, so I will do something.”

  “Brave words for a little lady.” He studied the cards and frowned. “While I hate to disappoint you, I must remind you that I have but one hand. How am I to hold my cards and play them, at the same time?”

  “Oh, I forgot.” She leapt from her chair and snatched a parcel from the mantelpiece. After returning to her seat, she presented the gift. “I had this commissioned for you, in preparation for our game, because I thought it might prove useful, and we should maintain the ruse for my parents.”

  “Of course.” When Anthony fumbled with the bow, which she tied with care, she held still the box, and he tugged on the ribbon. He lifted the lid and arched a brow. “What is it?”

  “It is my design, and I hope it suffices.” From the bed of cotton, she removed the slender wooden platform and set it before him. “The slit is for your cards, so you may draw at your leisure, without showing your hand.”

  “Ingenious.” Trailing a finger along the top of the platform, he smiled in earnest. “I know not how to thank you.”

  “But you will try.” No, that was not a proper response for a lady of character, but she supposed it mattered not, given she teased her future husband. And she did so cherish his kisses.

  “You may depend upon it.” For a precious instant, Anthony held her stare, and what she glimpsed quite took her breath away. Bereft of the stress and anguish that often marked their interactions, she spied a rake of incomparable caliber, the sort young ladies spoke of when their mothers were not listening, and gooseflesh covered her from head to toe. “But I would have you answer a question.”

  “You may have anything you wish.” When he arched a brow, she stiffened her spine. “I mean…that is to say, I am at your service, Lord Rockingham.”

  “You claim a desire to wed me, and your behavior at the ball convinced me to an extent, but I would know more about the reason for your change of heart. I wish to understand you.” He shrugged and situated his cards. “Why me, when your father could secure a more advantageous match?”

  “Because you need me.” The instant she posited the bold statement, she cursed the burn of a blush. She di
dn’t want to offend him. “And because I think I need you, my lord.”

  Papa cleared his throat, and she almost jumped out of her skin. Smoothing her skirts, she bowed her head.

  “How so?” Inclining his head, Anthony moved the deck to the center of the table and nodded once. “Your draw, my lady.”

  There was something in his voice, something primitive and possessive in the otherwise pedestrian salutation that bespoke fellow feeling and something more. A like-minded perspective. A cryptic attachment she did not quite fathom, but it was there, nonetheless.

  “Thank you.” She pulled the top card and assessed her hand. “Given you know of my affinity for Wollstonecraft, and my propensity for independent thought, I believe you are the perfect spouse for me, because you humor me, despite the fact that you do not share my views.”

  “I would not say that, but no man, sane or otherwise, would willingly proclaim he considers a woman his equal.” His chuckle, a rich and throaty baritone, sent a rush of tremors pulsating through her. With care, he drew from the deck, exchanged a card, and placed it on the table. It should have been a simple game, yet there was more to it. In their own language, they made their pact, until, with a mischievous grin, he turned about the platform to display his hand. “I win.”

  He did, in more ways than one.

  Just then, the butler rolled the tea trolley into the dining room.

  “Ah, the dessert arrives.” Papa clapped twice and stood. “Serve Lord Rockingham and Lady Arabella, first. And I will have a brandy.”

  “Yes, my lord.” The butler set two glasses of syllabub and a plate of almond shortbread on the table.

  “Feel free to dunk the shortbread in the syllabub.” To set an example, and put Anthony at ease, Arabella did as she bade him. “It is delicious, is it not?”

  “Indeed.” When he leaned forward, she mimicked his movement. “But I prefer your sweet lips. Ah, you blush, and I adore that about you. Perhaps, now, you might tell me why your father stares at me as if I am a loose munition about to explode.”