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

another show of support. “I mean, if the memories are inevitable, if you cannot shield yourself, then why not oblige the remembrances? Accept them. Welcome them, if you must. Make them your own, as you see fit. Perhaps then you might dictate the content and its impact on your faculties.”

“I had not thought of it that way.” In truth, it never occurred to him. Pondering her suggestion, he sat up and scratched his cheek. “But your idea holds merit and fits with Dr. Handley’s advice.” The traveling coach jolted to a halt, and Anthony peered beyond the torn shade. “We have arrived.”

“Oh?” She smoothed her skirt. “Where are we?”

“As I suspected, we venture to Sanderstead, my father’s estate in Surrey.” Summers spent at the property brought no fond recollections, given the duke merely deposited the family in the large, red brick house, while he dallied with his mistress, in London.

A footman, adorned in the ducal livery, fiddled with the handle, which Anthony discovered had been secured by a heavy, iron lock. At last, the footman freed Anthony and his wife. After he exited, he turned to hand Arabella down, and he noted a U-shaped hasp had been attached to the door.

Had he paid attention when they boarded, he could have protested. But his new bride captured his senses, unreservedly, and the modification escaped his notice.

“Welcome to Sanderstead, Lord and Lady Rockingham.” Flanked by two large men, a bespectacled stranger garbed in less than elegant attire clasped his hands in front of him. With a beak of a nose and a narrow stare, he arched a brow as he assessed Anthony with a critical eye. “Will you not come inside and take refreshments?”

“Who are you?” Anthony inquired in a biting tone. “And why am I here?”

“I am Dr. Shaw, Lord Rockingham.” The doctor had the good fortune to bow, else Anthony would have taken offense. “As to your second question, you have been remanded into my custody by order of His Grace, the Duke of Swanborough, for treatment of your mental infirmities and war injuries.”

“I beg your pardon?” A dark sense of foreboding danced a merry jig down Anthony’s spine, and he checked himself. There was no cause to be uncivil. “Dr. Shaw, I am no child, and I can assure you I have no mental infirmities, as you put it. In regard to my war injuries, my arm was removed, as you can see for yourself. Further, while I appreciate your interest, I have no need of your services and, thereby, you are dismissed. I am certain my father will compensate you adequately for your trouble.”

“Lord Rockingham, you seem to be laboring under a misapprehension of the situation.” Shaw snapped his fingers, and the two large men approached, assuming positions at either side of Anthony. “His Grace has charged me with your treatment, as I see fit to administer. Whether or not you comply is your choice. However, I believe you will fare much better if you cooperate, because I detest brute force but am not averse to using such tactics to achieve a successful outcome. Now, shall we go inside and discuss your course of therapy, or shall I have my men carry you?”

The threat, however unremarkably phrased, struck Anthony to his core.

“Anthony.” Arabella took his arm. When he met her gaze, she tensed her fingers. “There is no cause to be disagreeable, and we are not heathens. Perhaps we should do as Dr. Shaw asks, given you did say you are quite famished after our journey. I’m sure he is a reasonable man.” She leaned in and whispered, “Say nothing until we are alone.” Then she continued in a normal tone, “Now, I should like to freshen up, if someone would be so kind as to show me to my quarters.”

“Of course, my dear.” Confused by her outward calm, but smart enough to understand she had a motive behind her request, Anthony offered his escort. Suppressing every natural instinct raging within him, he smiled. “Please, have a room prepared for Lady Rockingham.”

*

Built in the Baroque style, in the seventeenth century, the manor house inspired a slew of dark thoughts, with nary a single happy ending, given it appeared all but abandoned. The Rococo décor boasted mezzo-frescoes in the Tiepolo tradition, along with vivid pastorals on the walls and the ceiling, framed with asymmetrical and abstract stuccowork. Despite the colorful artwork, the gold-laden structure conveyed an altogether dour impression. Oppressive as a tomb, with wall-to-wall wood paneling and crimson and black accents covering the maze of passageways, the cavernous estate extended as far as her eye could see. Putting one foot in front of the other, Arabella ignored her racing heartbeat, but her instincts screamed a warning.

Suppressing a shiver, she followed in Dr. Shaw’s wake, with the two mountainous adjutants in the rear. As they wound their way deeper into their prison, she clung to Anthony and uttered a silent prayer for salvation. Again and again, she told herself someone would note their absence and search for them. Someone would raise an alarm. Yet, she doubted anyone would miss them until it was too late.

But too late for—what?

That was the worst part. Not knowing what fate awaited them.

“Ah, here we are.” Dr. Shaw set wide an oak panel and stepped inside, before motioning to her. “Lady Rockingham, you will find all the basic necessities to perform your toilette, beyond the second portal, in the bedchamber. Know that we did our best to anticipate your every need. However, if we missed anything, you have but to ask. Remember, we are at your service, insofar as your requests do not exceed that which we are willing to give. Should you prefer a bath, you may ring for a footman, and I shall send up your lady’s maid.”

“Thank you.” She bit her tongue and cursed herself. Although societal standing never impressed her, she just stopped herself from curtseying, because she outranked him, and she thought he would benefit from the reminder. To