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

“I am not sure, but this is not the road to Brighton.” He peered at the terrain and pounded on the roof. “Oy. Driver, please, stop.” The demand garnered no reply, and her heartbeat raced. “Hello. Driver, halt, at once.” Given the lack of response, Anthony yanked on one door handle and then the other, to no avail. When he met Arabella’s stare, she swallowed hard, and a dull ache nestled in the back of her throat. “My dear, it appears we are trapped.”

Chapter Eleven

The walls of the coach seemed to close in on him, creeping nearer, keeping time with the repetitive clip-clop hoofbeats of the six-horse team. Still, he summoned the resolve to persevere for his wife’s sake, but the urge to take to his heels, unrelenting in its grip, seized Anthony by the gut. With each passing hour of their imprisonment, marked by the blazing path of the sun in the sky, he fought the urge to run amok, because he did not want to frighten Arabella. Yet, his outwardly relaxed demeanor did nothing to ease the anxiety clawing at his raw nerves.

“Anthony, are you all right?” Sitting across from him, his bride leaned forward and rested a palm to his knee. “You are pale, my lord.”

“It is nothing.” He ordered his thoughts and considered possible means of escape. In the distance, he noted an old barn, weathered and worn, marked by rotting wood and years of neglect. Stretched tall and craning his neck, he spotted an equally decrepit cabin, its inhabitants long since fled, along with the remnants of some broken down piece of farming equipment, another familiar sight that harkened to his youth. “I recognize the countryside. If I am correct in my deduction, we are bound for one of my father’s properties in Surrey.”

The revelation inspired naught but dread, because his father made his intentions known to Arabella’s family, while Anthony believed they resolved their dispute in London. In truth, he should have known it was pointless to talk with someone who never listened. Someone who heard nothing but the sound of his own voice. There was no reasoning with the unreasonable, and the fate his father planned struck terror in his heart. The knowledge and betrayal hurt him more than he could say.

“But—why?” Pretty as a picture, she inclined her head. He knew the instant realization dawned, and she flinched. “Oh, no. It cannot be. You don’t think he still intends to institutionalize you.”

“I had hoped we settled our differences, but it appears I misjudged the situation, because I gather that is exactly where I am headed.” Indeed, his father deceived him, which struck him as the only plausible conclusion. None-too-gently, he yanked at his cravat and unhooked the collar of his shirt. “I need air.”

In the blink of an eye, the telltale pa rum pum pum pum matched the drumbeat of his heart, signaling the alarm of a fast-approaching mental thrashing, and he wiped perspiration from his brow. Steeling himself, he braced for the otherworldly plunge. When the macabre reverie materialized, intensifying in the confines of the coach, his throat tightened, and he gripped the seat cushion. As Dr. Handley instructed, Anthony tried to tell himself it was just an illusion, that it was not real, when La Marsellaise rose above the chaos of war, and he feared he might scream as imaginary French troops charged the line in his mind.

“Perhaps we can break the window.” After shedding her pelisse, Arabella, blissfully unaware of his anguish, ripped the damaged shade from the frame, and he fought for calm. “Then we could jump.”

“And risk breaking your lovely neck? Not a chance.” Smothered beneath an avalanche of desolation, he gasped for breath and grasped for a diversion, because the delusory but nonetheless potent attack drew near. Why could he not resist the visions? Why could he not control his own thoughts? “Besides, I already contemplated that, and it would never work. At best, we would be walking a day or two to find assistance, and I wager they would discover our absence and run us aground. At worst, we could fracture something vital and be stranded in the middle of nowhere, left to die on our own. Neither sounds appealing or sane.”

“What if you leapt to freedom, and I stayed here?” She tapped a finger to her chin and remained oblivious to his discomfit. “You could run for help and rescue me. Or I could come back for you, once I gain my liberty.”

“Out of the question, because I will not leave you alone to face whatever is at the end of this drive.” Anthony had thought of that, too, but immediately admonished himself, because he had only one arm, which presented a weakness he could neither ignore nor mitigate. Given their predicament, he would gladly trade all of his tomorrows for a single day as his former, whole self. A man with two arms. Old instincts tempted him, but he would not abandon his wife, and he covered her hand with his. “We are stronger, together, my dear.”

“Then what do we do?” Her voice, imbued with a hint of distress, trembled. “How do we elude your father and save you from his ultimate scheme, because I will not let him take you from me. And I most certainly will not permit him to commit you to an asylum. I will fight him. I will fight with every inch of my being, if I must.”

“You are formidable, Lady Rockingham.” The coach pitched and rolled, and Anthony tumbled to the floor. When he righted himself, he eased into the squabs, beside his wife. She scooted close, and he wrapped his arm about her shoulders. “If it comes to that. If I am imprisoned, I imagine I may have to rely on your strength to save me, which is why I married you. Well, it is one of the reasons.”

“Tell me more.” Arabella nuzzled his