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

“Oh, I want more. You know, in your absence, Lady Rockingham and I have become fast friends.” Shaw sniffed and assessed his nails. “Indeed, we have grown quite close, and I believe she has grown rather fond of me. She is a beauty, and it would seem she prefers my company to yours.”

Shaw’s ploy might have worked, had Arabella not made her declaration the night they parted in Weybridge. She loved Anthony, and no one could convince him otherwise.

The absurdity. The outright preposterousness of the suggestion reduced Anthony to unhinged mirth he could not control. It began with a chuckle that soon grew into a full-blown belly laugh. He convulsed and howled, uncontrollably. And with each successive peal of mirth, Shaw grew more flushed.

“Lord Rockingham, how you do go on about nothing. Now, you will be silent. Silence, I say.” Shaw shouted and snapped his fingers. “Bind him.”

From behind, two guards yanked Anthony from his chair. Crouched on the floor, they thrust a wrought iron ring about his neck and fastened it with a rivet. Attached to the collar, a heavy, thick chain dangled. About his waist, they fastened an iron bar, with two rings affixed at either side. In one of the rings, they pinioned his arm. Additionally, two iron bars, which were connected by double links to the neck ring, passed over his shoulders and were riveted to the bar at his waist, both in front and in back.

With Anthony confined, the attendants dragged him to his feet.

“Look at you.” Shaw smirked and slapped his thighs. “All trussed up like a Christmas goose, but you have yourself to blame for that. I would have preferred other methods to cure your dementedness, but you resist my efforts, so you leave me no choice.” To the guards, he said, “Bring him to the pond.”

Carried on his side into the garden, Anthony prayed for the courage to face whatever abuse Shaw dealt, but the makeshift cage provoked the usual torments, and he moaned when the first enemy combatant lurched from behind a thorny hedge. He jerked, and an attendant struck Anthony in the back of the head with the chain.

Many afternoons, he stared out the window at the little lily pond, with the stone statue of Venus at center, and noticed the tall, iron pole at the far end. He often wondered after its use, and now he realized it held a sinister purpose. Stifling a cry of alarm, he started as he plunged into the cold water, the shock stealing his breath, and the level of which stopped just below his chin. A blackguard affixed the chain at his neck to the pole.

“There, now.” With hands on hips, Shaw curled his lip. “Let us see if that improves your disposition and responsiveness to our therapy.”

“Dr. Shaw, are you sure about this?” the brutish attendant asked. “The last time you employed the water punishment, the soldier died.”

“When I want your opinion, I will give it to you.” Shaw folded his arms. “Lord Rockingham, you will remain in the pond for a few hours, at which time I shall send my men to retrieve you. What say we try, again, tomorrow, to work on your impairments?”

“I-It will b-be my p-pleasure.” Submerged for only a few minutes, and already he could not hold still.

With the guards in tow, Shaw walked back to the main building, halting briefly to pluck a rose from a bush. Subtle hints of lilac and lavender teased his nose, and he recalled his wife’s fondness for lavender water. For a moment, he studied the bright clusters of zinnia and petunias, bordering white daisies. It was an odd contradiction. So much agony amid nature’s splendor.

After a while, he could no longer feel his feet or his legs. Instinctively, he flexed his fingers but could move nothing else. The biting cold set his flesh alight, and his teeth chattered. Resolved to endure the pain, he opened the door to his memory and let recollections of Arabella warm him.

*

A fortnight had passed since Arabella bade farewell to her husband and boarded a coach that would part them for what felt like forever. Ensconced in the back parlor of her family home, she reclined on the chaise and stared out the window at the blue sky, her thoughts filled with harrowing assumptions of what Anthony suffered in Dr. Shaw’s clutches. In the wake of their separation, she realized her imagination could conjure such fanciful dreams and the most wretched nightmares, all of which centered on her tortured soldier.

Did he think of her? Did he suffer? Did he lose faith?

“Would you care for more tea?” Patience asked. The perfect picture of feminine deportment, she lifted the pot with the grace of a delicate swan. “And you should try not to worry. It is not good for the babe.”

“Oh, Patience, I miss him.” Arabella rolled onto her side and hugged a pillow to her belly. Many a holiday was celebrated in that very room, with its pale blue wall coverings, oak paneling, navy upholstery, cream-colored draperies, and a renowned frieze depicting the fateful lovers, Orpheus and Eurydice. Mama always kept fresh, long-stemmed lilies on the sofa table, and the familiar scent comforted her, but nothing could replace Anthony’s embrace. “I want him home, with me.”

“You really do love him.” It was a statement, not a question. Patience, always poised, scooted to the edge of the sofa and bounced like a giddy debutante. “Lord Rockingham, I mean.”

“I do, more than I ever thought possible.” Arabella sat upright and tossed the pillow to the floor. “When I married Anthony, I hoped we might become good friends. It never occurred to me that I would fall in love. That I would commit my heart, body, and soul, to my husband. But I will neither deny nor hide my feelings.”

“To be honest, I am not surprised.” Leaning forward, Patience folded her arms and rested elbows to knees. “You do nothing halfway.” She stretched her feet and stared at her