The Wedding Wager

The notion took Leonora’s breath away.

That was the subject of the wager, after all. He was abetting her quest to avoid marriage. And if they failed, she would have to marry some aristocratic half-wit of Uncle Hugo’s choosing.

With a shudder of distaste, she banished that thought from her mind. Her preoccupation with Morse Archer had a will of its own, however. It would not be banished.

So Leonora reached a compromise with herself.

Uncle Hugo would be gone for a few days. Apart from the servants, she and Morse had Laurelwood to themselves. Perhaps tonight, after dinner, she might invite him to take a glass of port with her in the drawing room. They could put their studies aside and simply talk. About his experiences as a soldier. His plans for the future. Suddenly she was hungry to know everything about him.

Or she might offer to play the pianoforte. She imagined Morse sitting beside her, or leaning over her shoulder to read the words from her sheet music.

An unguarded sigh escaped from between her lips.

“Is something wrong?” Morse turned, then, to look at her.

Leonora knew she should pull herself away. Stand straight. Take a few steps back.

Her body refused to cooperate.

It hung there, bent over Morse, scant inches separating them. They could not have held that position for more than a few seconds, Leonora later reasoned. But in that time, as his eyes locked on hers and the brief space between them fairly shimmered with heat, it took all the self-control of a lifetime to not trespass that tiny distance and press her lips to his.

A tentative tap on the library door boomed like a cannonade in Leonora’s ears.

Seized by a spasm of shame, she wrenched herself away from Morse and called, “Yes. What is it?” in a high, breathless voice.

Dickon pushed the door ajar and peeked in. “Pardon me, miss, but you did give orders I was to knock if you and Sergeant Archer hadn’t come to breakfast by nine.”

Had she said that? Leonora’s thoughts whirled so that she could not swear to it.

“Thank you.” Her words came in little gasps. “We’ll be along in a moment.”

Morse rose from his chair and stretched. The way his muscles bunched under the tight fabric of his breeches made Leonora’s mouth go dry. There were so many things she didn’t know about men. And until this week, she hadn’t cared to find out. Now her freshly whetted curiosity knew no bounds.

“I think you could do with a good plate of breakfast and a strong cup of tea.” Morse cast her a solicitous look. “You don’t seem quite yourself this morning.”

It was all Leonora could do to keep from agreeing vocally.

She wasn’t herself. At least not the self she had shown the world for the past two decades.

Morse Archer’s obvious interest in her, and her curiosity about him, had kindled some long-quiescent ember of whimsy and excitement within her. Suddenly she was most anxious to see where it might take her.

Acting on a daring impulse, she reached for Morse’s arm. “I am feeling a trifle light-headed.” No lie, that. “Will you be so kind as to steady me on our way to breakfast?”

Her request appeared to catch him off guard. “I—don’t see why not,” he sputtered.

“We must make an effort to polish your social graces, Sergeant. The polite reply to a lady would have been, ‘I’d be honored, miss.’”

An embarrassed grin made him look endearingly boyish. “I am honored, Miss Leonora. Happy to be of service.”

She laughed. For the first time in how long? “You’re a quick student when you choose to be, Morse.”

The intimacy of his Christian name was out of her mouth before she realized it. The word felt very much at home on her tongue.

For a wonder, he politely refrained from comment, pulling out her chair from the breakfast table and making sure she was well settled before taking the seat opposite her.

Morse tucked into breakfast with his usual relish. Scarcely a wonder after the poor food he must have suffered during his days as a soldier. For her part, Leonora could not summon up much appetite.

Perhaps the odd sensations she was experiencing were only the symptoms of some malady, after all.

Chapter Six

“You’re looking very…well, this evening, Miss Freemantle.” As he watched Leonora descend the staircase, Morse congratulated himself on his restraint.

Part of him wanted to pay her a much more extravagant compliment. Tell her that the warm rose hue of her gown brought matching roses to her cheeks. Mention how the candlelight played frets of gold and copper through her loosely pinned hair.

Some wiser instinct urged caution. He did not wish to frighten her away tonight.

“Why, thank you, Sergeant Archer.”

Was it his imagination, or did she stand a little straighter, hold her head a fraction higher?

She awarded him a smile, glancing up suddenly through dense dark lashes. In any other woman, Morse might have suspected a hint of mischief or flirtation in such a look.

“Whatever slight indisposition I suffered this morning, I appear to have recovered.”

“Then you won’t need my arm to steady you?” Morse cocked his elbow anyway.

“Perhaps not.” A teasing note warmed her words. “May I take it just the same, simply because I wish to?”

The corners of Morse’s lips spread wide. “The best reason in the world for doing anything.”

They strolled into the dining room, where the long mahogany table had been set quite differently than for past meals. At those, Sir Hugo had occupied the head of the table while Morse and Leonora sat opposite each other halfway down the length of it. Tonight, their places had been set at one end, near the hearth, leaving the rest of the table empty.

Morse held Sir Hugo’s accustomed chair for Leonora. “Well, isn’t this cosy.”

Unfurling her napkin across her lap, she spoke without looking up at him. “While Uncle is away, I thought we might relax our formality a little. After your diligent work today, you deserve a pleasant evening.”

Barely suppressing a sigh of satisfaction, Morse took his own seat. He had this skittish filly eating out of his hand.

“I can imagine few pleasanter ways to spend an evening, than in your company, Miss Freemantle.”

She raised a brow. “Polishing your social graces, Sergeant?”

Morse grinned. “You said I should.”

Glancing down as the fish course was placed in front of him, he assessed his array of forks.

With exaggerated care, Leonora picked one up. “Begin at the outside and work your way in. When in doubt, watch your table companions for a cue. Now, let us have no more lessons for this evening. Tell me something about yourself, Sergeant. I know you served under Cousin Wesley with the Somerset Rifles. Were you born and bred in that part the country?”

“Aye…that is…yes, Miss Freemantle. Near Pocklington. Been Archers thereabouts for as long as anyone can recollect. My folk weren’t like yours—traveling from a great family seat in the country to a town house in London or Bath for the winter. We stayed put. I’m the first of my family to ever have gone abroad.”

She flinched at his words and the color drained from her face. “Don’t disdain permanence, Sergeant. Many people would envy you a place to call home.”

“Not if they saw it they wouldn’t.”

Morse could not keep a note of bitterness from his laughter. His family’s tenant cottage, with its smells and drafts that had contributed to the deaths of his three younger sisters—it would have fit inside Laurelwood’s vast dining room with space to spare.

“Is that why you chose to enlist, then? So you could travel far from Somerset?”

Now Morse flinched, remembering what had driven him into the army. “You might say so. A chance to get away from the past. I don’t suppose you can understand that, can you, Miss Freemantle?”

She laid her fork down upon the plate and waited for the serving girl to remove them. Then she looked up at him. “I may understand better than you think. I envy anyone who feels no need to escape his or her past.”

With a wide sweep of his arm, Morse indicated the damask draperies, the marble mantelpiece, the highly polished sideboard. “What could anyone want to escape in all this?”

After a long look Morse could not interpret, Leonora stretched her lips into a fleeting grin. “What, indeed? If you do not wish to dwell on your childhood, perhaps you might tell me about your days as a Rifleman. When did you meet my cousin Wesley?”

Eager for any distraction from painful memories, Morse seized her question. “In India. Did he never tell you the story?”

For a wonder, it did not bother him to speak of Lieutenant Peverill in India. Perhaps because the lad had been so much alive then, with years ahead of him. Or perhaps it was the bond of affection he shared with Leonora for her cousin. Could she be coaxed to share some stories from their childhood?

Indeed she could.

So passed one of the most enjoyable dinners Morse had ever eaten. As an audience for his soldiering stories, Leonora proved superior even to Dickon. The way her eyes trained upon him, her apt questions and perceptive comments, all made him feel proud of his modest accomplishments and minor adventures.

And when she spoke of long-ago summers spent in the country with her cousin, Morse almost felt himself a part of their merry escapades.

He watched with jealous eyes as the serving maid removed his final plate, thinking it a shame this meal must end.

Leonora seemed to divine his thoughts. “I know we must be up early tomorrow to resume our studies. But if you would care to join me in the drawing room, I could play for you on the pianoforte. A gentleman should cultivate some knowledge of music, after all.”

“I should like that very much.”

Morse caught himself staring at her hands again. For the first of many times that evening.

He had always liked a nice tune, but never before had he heard such music as Leonora played on the pianoforte. Her supple fingers danced across the ivory keys, coaxing forth rich harmonies, some sad, some sweet, that caught Morse by the heart and held him. At times she seemed unaware of his presence, lost in the golden echoes of her art. If he had ever thought Leonora lacked passion, he now knew better.

As the final notes died to a whisper, they both stirred from their trance.

She glanced up at him, a bright blush staining her cheeks. “I fear I am boring you, Sergeant.”

“No.” He strove to frame words of praise half fine enough, but failed. “Not in the least.”

He was only a common soldier, after all. One of the other ranks. A mere servant of his superior officers. How could he hope to appreciate such refinements as learning and art?

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