The Accidental Duke (The Mad Matchmaking Men of Waterloo Book 1) Devlin, Barbara (that summer book .TXT) 📖

“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