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

Napoleon’s personal physician. Fighting nausea, Anthony sank to the floor and opened the leatherbound tome. As he flipped through the pages, for how long he knew not, digesting bits of information, something inside him fractured. Unspeakable treachery, relentlessly painful, wreaked havoc in his gut, twisting his insides into knots, and he gagged on the revelation that his wife betrayed his trust.

He thought she believed in him.

After composing himself, and it wasn’t easy, he flung her robe over his shoulder and shuffled the heavy book into the crook of his arm. Struggling to remain calm, because he knew there had to be a reasonable explanation for her choice in reading material, at least, he prayed there was, as he crossed the bedchamber and walked into the sitting room.

Near the large windows that overlooked the topiary garden, Arabella arranged covered dishes on the small table where they took their meals. When he approached, she smiled.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I dismissed Emily.” His cherubic bride collected her robe and shrugged into the garment. “We are more than capable of serving ourselves, and I enjoy my time in your company, unreservedly.”

“Do you?” Unspeakable anguish nestled in the back of his throat, and he coughed. “You are not afraid of me?”

“Good heavens, no.” When he thrust the book onto the table, toppling a cup and rattling the china and silverware, she jumped. “My lord, where did you find that?”

“It was hidden among your things.” He knew not to make of her countenance, which wavered somewhere between guilt and innocence. “Including your lady’s novels, which I believe you intended to use as cover, to deter me from discovering your dirty little secret. Have I miscalculated? Am I wrong? Do I owe you an apology?” Her silence only inflamed his ire. “Answer me.”

“You are not wrong, although I have realized the sentimental genre has much to teach me of the relationship between men and women, and it was unmitigated arrogance to dismiss it.” Wringing her fingers, Arabella inhaled a shivery breath. “As for Larrey’s work, I admit I sought it to help me understand you.”

“Are you making a study of me?” So it was true. His wife betrayed him. Gritting his teeth, he gave vent to an unholy howl of misery. “Do you think me mad?”

“No.” In a fit of insanity or just plain courage, she marched straight to him and stood toe to toe, in the face of his rage. Again, to his shock, she framed his cheeks with her delicate hands. “I would never presume to study you, given I am no professional. When we first met, you were naught to me but a stranger in pain. Where no one seemed interested in understanding you, I wanted only to grasp your suffering and find a way to allay it. Books have taught me a lot about life, and in my quest to comfort you, I sought knowledge in the one place I’ve always found it.”

“You make yourself sound rather noble.” He narrowed his stare. “If you had nothing to hide, why conceal the truth? Why not simply share what you learned? You’ve had ample opportunities.”

“Because I feared your reaction, and we were just becoming acquainted.” With her thumb, she caressed his bottom lip. “Think back to our first meeting. You did not wish to marry me, and you resisted all my attempts to offer succor. Even a blind person could see you were hurting, and I couldn’t bear it, so I looked to Larrey’s work to guide me, that I might be of use. If that is a crime, then I am culpable.”

“Then it is true. You think me insane, just like my father.” Railing against the realization, he flung the book to the floor. “Do you not see that I needed you to believe in me? Without your faith, I am left to wonder if everyone around me is right, and I am mad.”

“No.” Despite his outburst, she held fast. He expected procrastination and subterfuge, as she composed a sufficient excuse. She might even cry. Instead, she shed nary a tear. “I have naught in common with the duke, and you are not mentally unsound, my lord. Rather, you are human.” Not what he expected her to say. “The symptoms you exhibit are merely manifestations of your exposure to the horrors of war. I should be concerned if you did not display evidence of the trauma you survived. That would be sufficient cause to suspect you were unhinged. Conversely, any normal, sane person who witnessed the savagery of battle would be affected by it.” Now she made sense, as she refused to yield. “That is what Larrey’s writings taught me. But don’t take my word for it. Read it, yourself, and tell me you do not relate to his analysis and conclusion.”

“My lady wife, I will do just that, and we shall see.”

*

The mantel clock chimed twelve times, marking the midnight hour. Beyond the windows, a rumble of thunder and a howling wind heralded the arrival of a wicked tempest. A flash of lightning illuminated the bedchamber, while rain played a frantic drumbeat on the glass, and Arabella stirred and rolled onto her side. She punched her pillow and sighed as she tried to find a comfortable position, but the source of her unrest had nothing to do with the mattress or the storm and everything to do with her reserved husband.

Sitting upright, she yawned and stretched her arms over her head. A sliver of yellow light glowed beneath the closed doors to the sitting room, and she glanced at the empty chaise. Anthony never came to bed, and it appeared he still lingered over Larrey’s book. Indeed, he’d spent the entire day engrossed in the seminal treatise on what many professionals referred to as nostalgia or irritable heart. She wasn’t sure whether or not that was a good sign.

“Ho-hum.” She patted her mouth.

After he discovered the work, and accused her of duplicity and betrayal, she’d made her stand, hoping to persuade