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

chest and shifted to hug him about the waist. That was a new experience he savored. The intimacy of marriage. “Because I recall a time when you were set against me.”

“I thought we moved past all that?” In the dark recesses of his mind, the hue and cry of battle combined with the thunderous reverberation of cannon fire. A vicious wave of nausea brought him low, and he swallowed. Somehow, he maintained a hair’s breadth of composure.

“We did, but I require a distraction, and so do you,” she said in a flirty tone. “Perhaps we can mutually divert each other.”

“You are wise, as well as beautiful, my lady wife.” He pressed his lips to her forehead, as he had done on occasions too numerous to count, seeking serenity in the otherwise mundane connection. “Well, I adore your curious nature, and your opinions, however misguided. But I truly admire your absolute insistence in your right to express your point of view.” He chuckled when she wrinkled her nose. It was then he noticed her décolletage, given her position afforded him an excellent view. “To borrow from Beaulieu, though I would never tell him, he is correct in his assertion. You are blessed with a wickedly tempting bosom.”

“My lord,” Arabella declared in a high-pitched voice and shot upright. With a fist pressed to her chest, she narrowed her stare. “Are those the words of a gentleman?”

“No.” He winked. “They are the words of a husband looking forward to his wedding night.”

“Why, Lord Rockingham, you quite take my breath away.” She hugged him tight and met his stare. Then her playful countenance changed into something not so impish. “Anthony, you are not all right.” She cupped his cheek. “Why didn’t you tell me you suffered?”

“What good would it do, other than to worry you?” He shrugged as the anxiety escalated, and the nonexistent savagery crept closer. Blurred vignettes mutated, forming razor-sharp glimpses of inexpressible barbarity that chilled him to the bone. Trapped in his own solitary nightmare, he reminded himself that none of the vivid representations were real. “Also, I am trying to rely on Dr. Handley’s advice and muddle through the situation, myself.”

“How are you managing?” she asked with a sly grin.

“Not very well, I’m afraid.” In play, he chucked her chin, and she tsked. “But I am grateful you are here.”

“I should hope so, because you are going to be with me for the rest of your life, despite your father’s schemes. And while I admire your courage, you need not carry the burden alone.” She shuffled and drew him into her arms, encouraging him to lean against her. With nimble fingers, she massaged the back of his neck, and magical relief flowed from her gentle kneading. “I am with you, and I will let nothing harm you. You have my solemn vow, which I meant when I proclaimed it, till death do us part.”

“A beautiful declaration, but the symptoms honor no rules of engagement and extend no warning.” A chorus of mournful cries echoed in his ears, and he shuddered. “If only I could dictate when I am assailed with memories, but every imaginary strike poses a lethal ambush I am powerless to resist.”

“I am so sorry.” She bent and kissed his temple, a soothing gesture that did much to comfort him. In a low voice, she said, “What if we try something new? What if you share your torment with me? Tell me what you see or hear. Describe it to me.”

“You think that is a smashing idea, given our present circumstances?” The very notion inspired naught but skepticism. “I mean, do we truly need more misery, at the moment?”

“I think it an excellent idea, because of our present state of affairs.” She rested her chin to his head. “Please, Anthony. Given we are alone, I might alleviate or even dispel your hardship, because I can assure you there is no one here but us.”

“All right.” With serious reservations, he gulped and stared at nothing, as he made the lonely journey back to the past. To the unchecked brutality of battle. To the bloody field at Waterloo, where he crawled in every wrong direction. Searching for salvation that eluded him, no matter how hard he grasped for it. “Faces. So many torturous faces. Men teeter at the final precipice, a mere step away from death, screaming for their mothers. And bodies, twisted and mangled, strewn about the ground like so much refuse. Scavengers pick at the corpses, stripping the dead of their trinkets and boots, along with their dignity. The heavy odor of gunpowder mingles with the pungent stench of rotting flesh so profound it taunts my nose even now.”

“How awful.” While she cast an air of imperturbable sangfroid, her muscles tensed, belying her outward, unruffled demeanor. “Is it always the same?”

“No.” He crossed and uncrossed his legs. The gruesome scene mutated, and he glimpsed his reflection in the sea of faces. Thousands upon thousands of different versions of himself, lost souls, praying for salvation, locked in their own private hell from which there seemed no deliverance. “Although there are similarities.”

“Such as—what?” she prompted.

“It always begins with a sound.” He bowed his head, and a rush of emotions overtook him. “Hoofbeats hammer the earth.” Gnashing his teeth, Anthony flinched and came alert. “Sometimes, I am startled by cannon fire. On other occasions, I’ve been haunted by the national anthem of France, to the extent I often hear it in my sleep.”

“And then what happens?” Arabella bent and stole another kiss, which startled him given her tranquil manner.

Did she not comprehend what she did to him? Or the power she wielded over him? Of course, if she knew he could devour her in the wake of her innocent gesture, she might react otherwise.

“To be honest, I never know until I am confronted.” And that most unnerved him, because he could never anticipate or guard against the shock. “Which makes it difficult to fight.”

“Then why try?” She tightened her embrace, in