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

by Devlin, Barbara

  “She asked about you. I believe she is naturally curious, given what Dr. Shaw told her and my characterizations to the contrary.” For some reason, she didn’t feel comfortable sharing the news of her affection, because she sensed he would not welcome the development. “In fact, she declared that if I have faith in you, so does she. That must count for something.”

  “That is good to hear.” It was a fortunate turn of events, yet he did not seem pleased.

  “My lord—Anthony, what is wrong?” If only he would kiss her. She could sit and listen to him for hours, if only he would kiss her. “You seem out of sorts. Have I done something to upset you?”

  “My dear, you are blameless. I could not fault you for our current predicament, if I tried.” He shifted and faced her. In a low voice, he said, “Escape is not our only concern. The danger is two-fold.”

  “How so?” she inquired, puzzled by his somber demeanor.

  “According to Dr. Shaw, my father’s plan alters once I get you with child. At that point, they will separate us.” Anthony gazed into the hearth and swallowed hard. “I care not what happens to me, but I cannot countenance the thought of you in Shaw’s custody. I don’t trust the man. And even more loathsome is his stated intent to take possession of our babe. That I cannot abide.”

  “Neither can I, so what do you recommend?” She squeezed his fingers. “Also, I would have you know that I care what happens to you, but you know I am with you, come what may, so how do we defeat Shaw?”

  “There is only one solution, and it requires great sacrifice on both our parts. We must not make love.” He met her stare and frowned, and her stomach plummeted. “Not yet. Not until we are free of this place. Only then will it be safe for us to consummate our vows.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sunlight peeked through the heavy velvet drapes, rousing Anthony from a deep sleep, and he rubbed his eyes. Sitting upright, he grimaced and kneaded the nagging ache in the small of his back, which bore the brunt of his decision to use the chaise as a makeshift bed for the past fortnight. Across the chamber, tucked in the huge four-poster, Arabella had not roused. How he envied her insouciant slumber, something that eluded him since their arrival, yet he had no one to blame but himself, because it was his grand idea to forgo consummation of their vows.

  Although Dr. Shaw did naught but hold them captive, his simple plan proved brilliant. Throwing Anthony and Arabella together, all day and night, in close quarters with few if any distractions, posed an enticing situation that yearned to take its natural course. While they learned each other’s predilections and habits, adapting whenever conflict emerged, they nurtured an immeasurable, abiding devotion he could neither ignore nor resist. In short, he desperately desired his wife, but he could not have her. Not yet.

  Blessed with a host of physical attributes that could drive a sane man mad as a March hare, coupled with the unimpeachable innocence of a virgin, she posed an intoxicating, irresistible allurement. Under different circumstances, he would gladly commit himself to getting her with child, but he would not cooperate with his father’s scheme. To do so could only result in ruination and misery. They would have to wait, but he feared he might be hard until the new year.

  On the heels of the thought, the other persistent ache, the fully loaded cannon in his crotch, reliable as ever, beckoned, as it did every single morning without fail, and he collapsed on his pillow. Staring at the intricately moulded ceiling, he wagered that if the relentless nightmares didn’t drive him insane, forced celibacy in her continued presence would send him straight to the nearest asylum.

  Desperate for relief, he checked to be sure she had not stirred, because he wanted no witness to an act he had not performed since his randy days at Eton, when he still wore shortcoats, knew nothing of women, and discovered a new use for soap. But he had to do something—anything—to ease his hunger. Rolling onto his side, he bit back a groan. Then he eased his hand beneath the blanket. Since Arabella often woke late, he always doffed his nightshirt after she dozed, preferring to retire in the nude, because he knew no man who enjoyed sleeping in a cotton gown.

  With a firm grip of his Jolly Roger, which was wildly jolly and only too ready to raid the bride’s prize nestled between Arabella’s legs, he worked himself in a repetitive motion. Staring at nothing, he relaxed and exhaled. In his mind, he conjured prurient images of her performing the deed with her nimble fingers and with her beautiful mouth, along with a host of erotic fantasies that well-nigh sent him over the edge. Each vision more salacious. Again and again, he pleasured himself, flexing his muscles in time with his movements, and he gritted his teeth.

  “My lord, are you all right?” Arabella asked in an urgent tone.

  Anthony deuced near jumped out of his skin, and his momentary loss of control unleashed a torrent of unspent passion, as his loins erupted. Before he could respond, he let fly a rapid salvo, and wave upon wave of unrestrained relief washed over him. Powerless to fight the involuntary contractions or the accompanying grunts of sensual gratification, he yielded.

  “Oh, dear, you look quite fitful. Are you ill?” Through a haze of uncontrollable delight, in the throes of which he could not suppress a grin, he spied his wife as she threw aside her covers, flew from her bed, and rushed to tend him, sans her robe. “Shall I call for assistance? Do you want me to summon the doctor?”

  “No,” he barely managed to utter. Through the sheer material that did nothing to hide her from his open admiration, he stared at her lovely breasts and their rosy tips. When she turned to sit at the edge of the chaise, he ogled the cleft of her round derriere. What he would do to that succulent bottom when he enjoyed free reign to ravish his lady. Propped on his elbow, he lifted his chin and kissed her. Unhurried yet unrestrained. To her credit, she did not reject him. At length, he savored her soft lips and her warmth. So much warmth. While he could not hold her, she compensated by wrapping her arms about him.

  He needed that just then. He needed her. Needed to know she still desired him as he desperately desired her. Needed her to validate the fact that he was a human being minus a limb, and no more or less, if only to remind himself that he was a man and not some demented monster, as his father and Dr. Shaw would have Anthony believe.

  And Arabella fed him. Strength. Confidence. A resurgence of his former self.

  At last, when they parted, they were both breathless.

  “Good morning, my lord.” With a charming blush, she smiled her impish smile and averted her gaze. Despite all that happened, she remained the virginal coquette, innocent in body and spirit, and he adored her for it. “I feared you suffered some strange malady, but your behavior suggests otherwise. Shall I ring for breakfast?”

  “Yes, please.” When he sat upright, she peered at his bare chest and gasped. Again, the inexperienced society maiden surfaced, and he ached for either a cold bath or a long ride. “Er, I got hot during the night. Would you be so kind as to hand me my robe?”

  “Certainly.” She reached for the black silk garment, even as she continued to stare, transfixed, at his body. “Do you often sleep without benefit of clothing?”

  “Sometimes.” He suppressed a snort of laughter, because he would not stifle what he considered her healthy curiosity for anything in the world. “Does that bother you?”

  “Who—me?” she inquired in an unusually high pitch. Never had he seen her so discomposed, and he liked it. “Oh, no. You are free to retire however you choose.” She bit her lower lip. “But, is it done? I mean, is it proper?”

  “Probably not, but we won’t let that stop us, will we, darling?” Anthony waited with baited breath for her response.

  “Us?” Her nervous titter did naught but increase his interest. Seducing his own wife presented heretofore uncharted territory he ached to explore at his leisure. “I never heard of such a thing. And I supposed we would occupy separate chambers, as is customary in most marriages.”

  “Well, we can always store our personal belongings in our respectiv
e quarters, and you may birth our babes in your room.” Never had a woman in his company flushed beetroot red from top to toe, and he savored the moment and pondered his next move. “But you will spend your nights in my bed.”

  “I will?” She gulped. “Am I to forgo clothing, too?”

  “I hope so.” He waggled his brows. “Else I am not doing a proper job of seducing my wife.”

  “And will you seduce me?” In the blink of an eye, she checked her demeanor but failed to conceal her interest. “I mean, when we consummate our vows?”

  “I may do so before then.” He winked and relished the thrill of the chase. It had been a long time since he flirted with a woman, in pursuit of a singular delicious goal, and it was as if he reclaimed another part of his old self. “You know, it is possible to satisfy you without actually taking your maidenhead.”

  “Really?” He didn’t know if it was his imagination or just wishful thinking, not that he cared, but she appeared enrapt by the suggestion. “How is that possible?” Just as quick, she flinched and bowed her head. “Never mind. Forget I asked, because such conduct is not permissible for a lady of character.”

  “You little hypocrite.” He chuckled. “Admit it, you want to know what I can do for you. In fact, I will go a step further and assert you want me to pleasure you. Your inquisitive mind demands it. You want to know how it feels to soar beyond the earthly plane to the place where ecstasy prevails above all else.”

  “I should summon Emily.” To his infinite disappointment, his suddenly reticent bride gave him her back. When she yanked on the bellpull, he realized he had erred in pressing his suit. “I’m sure Cook has our meal prepared, and I would like to break our fast while the food is still warm, if that is all right with you.”

  “Arabella, wait.” Although she had already summoned the maid, he needed to apologize, because husbands did not proposition their wives like some dockside doxy or three-penny upright. “I apologize if I offended you, because that was not my intent.”

  “No apology necessary, my lord.” Her downcast expression declared otherwise. “I assure you I am not offended. To be honest, I share your desire for intimacy, however inappropriate it might be for me to express it, aloud. Often, I have dreamed of such tantalizing assignations, wondering if I can fulfill your expectations. Given the books I have read, I understand how our bodies work to achieve the physical connection, but the emotional bond defies my attempts to study it. It is my greatest regret that our present circumstances prevent us from exploring our potential as a married couple, because I had such high hopes. However, I look forward to the day we are free to seal our vows and live as we choose.”

  “Now, you shame me.” In a single sweep, he draped his robe about his shoulders. After fumbling with the belt, he secured the garment and stood. “Know this, my dear. You have my solemn promise that day will come, and we will spend the rest of our lives satisfying mutual desires.”

  “You feel it, too?” She halted before the door to their sitting room. “You share my struggle?”

  “Aye.” Clutching the soiled blanket, he walked to her. “More than you know.”

  “Oh, Anthony.” To his surprise, she flung herself at him. With her arms wrapped about his waist, she rested her head to his chest. “I thought I suffered, alone. While I would not see you distressed, I am somewhat mollified by the revelation.”

  “Misery loves company, sweet Arabella.” He kissed her hair. “While our situation is dire, all is not lost. We may yet defeat my father and Dr. Shaw. What we require is naught but unyielding discipline and a degree of intrepidity to survive.”

  “And we must not allow them to separate us.” She lifted her chin and pressed her lips to his. “I will fight to my death before I surrender you to Shaw.”

  “You are formidable, Lady Rockingham.” When she loosened her grip, he retreated a step. “The morning meal will soon arrive, and I should wash before I join you. Shall I bring your serviceable robe?”

  “How very thoughtful of you, my lord.” With that, she curtseyed and strode into the sitting room.

  In her absence, he strolled behind the small screen that shielded the bathing area. He dropped the blanket and lifted the pitcher on the washstand. After filling the basin, he scrubbed his face and brushed his teeth. From the closet, he retrieved his silk trousers and a clean shirt and dressed himself.

  At the opposite side of the small enclosure, his wife’s items had been neatly folded and stacked on a bench. Wall pegs held her gowns and various accoutrements. When he located the item she required, he yanked the robe and knocked over some of her belongings. A stack of books tumbled to the floor, and he bent to retrieve them.

  It was then a curious title snared his attention. Soldier’s Nostalgia and Other Battlefield Maladies, by Dominique Jean Larrey. He recognized the name of Napoleon’s personal physician. Fighting nausea, Anthony sank to the floor and opened the leatherbound tome. As he flipped through the pages, for how long he knew not, digesting bits of information, something inside him fractured. Unspeakable treachery, relentlessly painful, wreaked havoc in his gut, twisting his insides into knots, and he gagged on the revelation that his wife betrayed his trust.

  He thought she believed in him.

  After composing himself, and it wasn’t easy, he flung her robe over his shoulder and shuffled the heavy book into the crook of his arm. Struggling to remain calm, because he knew there had to be a reasonable explanation for her choice in reading material, at least, he prayed there was, as he crossed the bedchamber and walked into the sitting room.

  Near the large windows that overlooked the topiary garden, Arabella arranged covered dishes on the small table where they took their meals. When he approached, she smiled.

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I dismissed Emily.” His cherubic bride collected her robe and shrugged into the garment. “We are more than capable of serving ourselves, and I enjoy my time in your company, unreservedly.”

  “Do you?” Unspeakable anguish nestled in the back of his throat, and he coughed. “You are not afraid of me?”

  “Good heavens, no.” When he thrust the book onto the table, toppling a cup and rattling the china and silverware, she jumped. “My lord, where did you find that?”

  “It was hidden among your things.” He knew not to make of her countenance, which wavered somewhere between guilt and innocence. “Including your lady’s novels, which I believe you intended to use as cover, to deter me from discovering your dirty little secret. Have I miscalculated? Am I wrong? Do I owe you an apology?” Her silence only inflamed his ire. “Answer me.”

  “You are not wrong, although I have realized the sentimental genre has much to teach me of the relationship between men and women, and it was unmitigated arrogance to dismiss it.” Wringing her fingers, Arabella inhaled a shivery breath. “As for Larrey’s work, I admit I sought it to help me understand you.”

  “Are you making a study of me?” So it was true. His wife betrayed him. Gritting his teeth, he gave vent to an unholy howl of misery. “Do you think me mad?”

  “No.” In a fit of insanity or just plain courage, she marched straight to him and stood toe to toe, in the face of his rage. Again, to his shock, she framed his cheeks with her delicate hands. “I would never presume to study you, given I am no professional. When we first met, you were naught to me but a stranger in pain. Where no one seemed interested in understanding you, I wanted only to grasp your suffering and find a way to allay it. Books have taught me a lot about life, and in my quest to comfort you, I sought knowledge in the one place I’ve always found it.”

  “You make yourself sound rather noble.” He narrowed his stare. “If you had nothing to hide, why conceal the truth? Why not simply share what you learned? You’ve had ample opportunities.”

  “Because I feared your reaction, and we were just becoming acquainted.” With her thumb, she caressed his bottom lip. “Think back to our first meeting. You did not wish to marry me, and you resisted all my attempts to o
ffer succor. Even a blind person could see you were hurting, and I couldn’t bear it, so I looked to Larrey’s work to guide me, that I might be of use. If that is a crime, then I am culpable.”

  “Then it is true. You think me insane, just like my father.” Railing against the realization, he flung the book to the floor. “Do you not see that I needed you to believe in me? Without your faith, I am left to wonder if everyone around me is right, and I am mad.”

  “No.” Despite his outburst, she held fast. He expected procrastination and subterfuge, as she composed a sufficient excuse. She might even cry. Instead, she shed nary a tear. “I have naught in common with the duke, and you are not mentally unsound, my lord. Rather, you are human.” Not what he expected her to say. “The symptoms you exhibit are merely manifestations of your exposure to the horrors of war. I should be concerned if you did not display evidence of the trauma you survived. That would be sufficient cause to suspect you were unhinged. Conversely, any normal, sane person who witnessed the savagery of battle would be affected by it.” Now she made sense, as she refused to yield. “That is what Larrey’s writings taught me. But don’t take my word for it. Read it, yourself, and tell me you do not relate to his analysis and conclusion.”

  “My lady wife, I will do just that, and we shall see.”

  *

  The mantel clock chimed twelve times, marking the midnight hour. Beyond the windows, a rumble of thunder and a howling wind heralded the arrival of a wicked tempest. A flash of lightning illuminated the bedchamber, while rain played a frantic drumbeat on the glass, and Arabella stirred and rolled onto her side. She punched her pillow and sighed as she tried to find a comfortable position, but the source of her unrest had nothing to do with the mattress or the storm and everything to do with her reserved husband.

  Sitting upright, she yawned and stretched her arms over her head. A sliver of yellow light glowed beneath the closed doors to the sitting room, and she glanced at the empty chaise. Anthony never came to bed, and it appeared he still lingered over Larrey’s book. Indeed, he’d spent the entire day engrossed in the seminal treatise on what many professionals referred to as nostalgia or irritable heart. She wasn’t sure whether or not that was a good sign.