The Accidental Duke (The Mad Matchmaking Men of Waterloo Book 1) by Devlin, Barbara (the best electronic book reader .txt) 📗

tad presumptuous, Mama?” Arabella cringed, because she envisioned quite a spectacle. “I thought only royal brides wore silver.”

“Nonsense.” Mama lifted her chin. “You are to be the next Duchess of Swanborough, and only the finest will do for my daughter. Given I have long dreamed of this day, I want everything to be perfect.”

“Of course, Mama.” As usual, her mother observed the proprieties, thus Arabella resolved to cooperate. “I defer to your good judgment, in the matter, given I know naught of fashion.”

For the next hour, she stood before a long mirror, while the designer measured, pinned, poked, and prodded Arabella, in an exercise she likened to torture. To endure the torment, she thought of Anthony and his father’s nefarious scheme, but she fidgeted beneath the stress of the situation, so she cleared her mind. When she yawned, her mother frowned.

“Sorry, Mama.” Arabella stretched long and winced from a pinprick. “How much longer must I persist in this manner?”

“My dear, quit complaining, because we have yet to visit the milliner or the hosiery.” Mama folded her arms, in a familiar affectation of impatience. “Then we must order stationery and cards, with your new name and the Rockingham coat of arms.” She tapped her chin. “And have you decided what you wish to give Lord Rockingham, as a small token of your esteem?”

“Not yet.” At the moment, Arabella focused on the needles in the modiste’s hands. “But I have some ideas.”

“We can discuss it, later.” From her reticule, Mama retrieved a piece of parchment, which she unfolded. “I almost forgot that we must have you fitted for new night rails and matching robes.” To the modiste, Mama said, “Have you any chiffon in pale pink and, perhaps, a soft white?”

“I have some in the sewing room.” The portly designer adjusted her spectacles and signaled a young seamstress. “Fetch the two bolts of chiffon, on the back table.”

“Mama.” Arabella huffed a breath. “You know my style, and I do not favor such fabrics. It is bad enough that you ordered lace for my wedding gown.”

“The lady does not understand, n’est-ce pas?” The modiste tittered, as she draped a swath of emerald silk about Arabella’s shoulders and then knelt to adjust a hem, and Mama smiled. “But she will, soon enough.”

“What is it, Mama?” Confused, Arabella inclined her head. “What did I miss?”

“Perhaps, I should give you a moment.” The modiste scrambled to her feet. “I have some lovely Swiss voile lace, upstairs. If you will excuse me, I will bring it for your inspection, Lady Ainsworth.”

“Thank you.” Mama sighed. “I will expound upon the topic this evening, because I have delayed long enough. But you must inspire Lord Rockingham, in order to produce an heir and satisfy His Grace’s requirements, and your current nightwear is inadequate to the task.”

“You refer to marital relations.” Arabella gulped when she recalled the book, which featured detailed sketches of the human body, she hid beneath her pillow. Regardless of what the estimable author wrote, she thought the deed a physical impossibility. “And, more specifically, the wedding night.”

“You know of such things?” Mama furrowed her brow, sobered, and then whispered, “Arabella, have you dallied with Lord Rockingham? Has he made improper advances on your person?”

“No.” At least, she assumed he hadn’t. “But I may have made improper advances on him.” Biting her lip, she reflected on their sweet and oh-so-fascinating trysts. “How does one know what is and is not proper, when kissing one’s fiancé, Mama?”

“Arabella.” Mama pressed a palm to her chest. “Upon my word, but you quite shock me.” In that instant, the modiste returned, and Mama came alert. “Madame Clothilde, I am afraid we are called to another appointment, and I must reschedule.”

“But, of course, Lady Ainsworth.” The modiste bowed. “I am, as ever, at your ladyship’s disposal, and I shall begin construction of Lady Arabella’s gown, to your specifications, tout suite.” With care, Madame Clothilde removed the fabric from Arabella’s shoulders. “And whenever you return, I shall make myself available.”

“Thank you.” Mama checked her appearance and clapped twice. “Come along, Arabella.”

“Yes, Mama.” With her mind racing, Arabella rushed to the sidewalk, where the family carriage parked. A footman held open the door, and she stepped into the elegant equipage, emblazoned with the Ainsworth coat of arms, which she always admired as a little girl. In a few days, the same conveyance would deliver her to the Duke of Swanborough’s residence in Grosvenor Square for her wedding. When she settled into the squabs, opposite her mother, she reflected on her sweet exchanges with Anthony and wondered how anything that felt so good could be wrong.

“Around the park, until I say otherwise.” Mama flung aside her reticule and smoothed a stray lock of hair. “All right, young lady. Out with it.”

“Out with—what?” In light of her mother’s disapproving stance, Arabella shifted in her seat and toyed with the hem of her sleeve. “Lord Rockingham is my betrothed, is he not? Why should we not kiss?” Yes, she omitted any mention of his risqué caresses of her breasts, because that behavior seemed a tad controversial. “Where is the harm?”

“Your questions evidence your naïveté, because most such exchanges do not end with a kiss, and you would do well to remember that, until you speak the vows.” Mama shook her head. “Really, Arabella, how could you be so careless with your reputation? And I thought you were smarter than that, given all your intellectual books and erudite opinions.”

“I beg your pardon?” She bristled at the criticism. “What do you mean, Mama?”

“Do you really think you fool me?” Her mother snickered. “Why do you believe I insisted on the best education, after your father agreed to send you to boarding school?”

“But, you protested, because you said highborn ladies had no need of knowledge.” Indeed, Arabella committed Mama’s argument to memory. “I distinctly recall your position, given it conflicted so completely with mine.”

“Oh, my poor child.” Mama smiled a sly smile, which Arabella could not quite decipher. “You may