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

“Lord Rockingham, I understand your hesitation, given the personal nature of the topic.” Dr. Handley leaned forward in his chair. “But you are not alone. Indeed, many soldiers returned from the war as changed men, and I gather you are no different.”

“What do you know of my plight?” Anthony responded, a little too defensively, and he checked himself. “I mean, do you presume to know me?”

“Ever struggle with night terrors, bouts of uncontrollable anxiety, intense excitement, fever, gastrointestinal discomfort, or feelings of hopelessness? Ever see or hear things that are not there? Perhaps a combination of symptoms?” Standing, Dr. Handley wrinkled his nose. “I beg your pardon, Lord Rockingham, but you are white as a sheet. Would you like to lie down?”

“No.” Anthony pushed from the sofa and paced near the hearth. “I want to know what is wrong with me.”

Leaning against the mantel, he gazed into the blaze, opened the door to his memory, and the drums signaled the battle commenced. The walls collapsed, and the floor pitched and rolled. How he wanted to run. When he closed his eyes, hoofbeats pounded in his ears, and his knees gave way, but he did not fall, because Dr. Handley and Arabella supported Anthony at either side.

“Can you hear me?” Arabella’s plea came to him, as if from afar. “Anthony, you are safe. We are in London, and no one will hurt you.”

“Lord Rockingham, come back and recline, please.” The doctor draped an arm about Anthony’s shoulders and situated a pillow. “Better?”

“Much, thank you.” Weak, Anthony did not object when his fiancée sat at the edge of the sofa and wiped his brow with her handkerchief. “I am sorry if I frightened you.”

“I am not afraid.” With the backs of her knuckles, she caressed the curve of his jaw. “I am worried, and I want you to give Dr. Handley a chance to help you. If you will not do it for yourself, do it for me.”

“If you wish.” To his amazement, his lady bent and kissed him, despite the doctor’s presence. “All right, I will cooperate. What do you require of me?”

“The answer is simple, really.” Shifting his weight, Dr. Handley crossed his legs. “You need only talk, Lord Rockingham. Whatever comes to mind, share it with us. If you prefer, you may pretend I am not here, and speak directly to Lady Arabella.”

“I am well-versed in that.” Anthony half-chuckled and pondered the suggestion.

There was so much he wanted to say. So much he wanted to tell Arabella of his former self, but he could not bear her rejection. Then again, she might not spurn him, and it was her idea.

Inhaling deeply, he relaxed and studied his beautiful fiancée, arresting in her morning gown of pale yellow. Reflecting on previous conversations, he told her of life in the camps. Of the long marches in the miserable heat. Of the trumpets blaring in the wee hours before dawn. Of the torrential downpours and the mud. Of the meager rations and the disappearing faces with each new battle.

Then he related the various aspects of war, including the telltale clash of metal against metal. The jarring blast of cannon fusillades. The crack of gunfire, which merged with the cries of the wounded to form a woeful requiem for the dead. The thunderous roar of advancing regiments. The sickeningly sweet smell of blood. The stench of damp earth mixed with munitions powder, and the often-mutilated bodies.

So many secrets fell from his lips, while Arabella gave him full attention, and he found himself, at last, describing the never-ending anxiety. The terror that twisted his insides, stretched his spine ramrod straight, and threatened to reduce him to a wailing babe. Worst of all, he lacked the ability to control any of it and seemed forever destined to live as a prisoner of the past.

Exhausted yet relieved, Anthony started when the mantel clock chimed, and he realized Arabella wept.

“My dear, please, do not cry for me.” Sitting upright, he pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket and dried her face. In that simple gesture, it dawned on him that he cared for her. He genuinely cared for her. Indeed, he could not envision himself without his lady at his side. “I can bear anything but your tears.”

“Oh, Anthony, I once called you the bravest man of my acquaintance, but I am now convinced I grossly underestimated you.” She sniffed. “Your courage knows no bounds, and I am truly honored to be your future wife.”

“Darling, while I appreciate the compliment, mine are but the ravings of a coward and, I suspect, a lunatic.” He glanced at Dr. Handley. “What say you, sir? Am I crazy?”

“I hate to disappoint you, Lord Rockingham, given you seem quite sure of your condition, but your diagnosis is incorrect.” The doctor adjusted his spectacles. “Because only the sane react aberrantly to the aberrant. I assure you, there is nothing normal about war. Indeed, I would worry if you did not exhibit lingering signs of trauma, in light of what you survived, and you are to be admired. Not scorned.”

“You must be joking.” Anthony gave vent to a self-deprecating snort. “I did what I was ordered. Where is the valor in that?”

“You believe you had no choice to react otherwise?” Dr. Handley furrowed his brow. “Bless my soul, sir, but your actions in the heat of battle are nothing if not heroic, because you had an option, even though you do not recognize it. The decision you confronted was whether to fight or to flee, and you did your duty. Counter that point with me, if you can, Lord Rockingham.”

For several minutes, Anthony tried but failed to compose a suitable rejoinder. Every possible argument he contrived came to naught, because the doctor’s pronouncement offered immediate refutation, until he surrendered the cause.

“Not that I agree with your conclusion, but what do you recommend to cure me of my symptoms?” Anthony inquired. “Is there a tonic you can prescribe?”

“To be honest, there is no cure for