Deborah Hale - The Wedding Wager

No answer came. Nor had she expected one, being too fiercely practical to believe in communication from beyond the grave. Still, Leonora could not help feeling there was a lesson to be learned from Cousin Wesley’s style of command.

Though, what it was, she had yet to fathom.

“Up early again, sir?” Dickon handed Morse the kettle. “If you don’t mind my saying so, it makes a pleasant change from having to drag you out of bed.”

“Pleasanter for us both, Dickon.” Morse began to whistle a marching tune as he shaved.

“If you don’t mind my asking, sir—” the footman delved in the wardrobe for Morse’s clean linen “—what brought on the change?”

Morse’s razor froze in midstroke. He scrutinized his reflection in the glass as though to ask that Morse Archer to explain himself.

When the fellow unhelpfully mimicked his own puzzlement, Morse was forced to stammer, “I—couldn’t say—for certain.”

Recovering a shred of his old sangfroid, he added, “Just bowing to necessity, I suppose. Or getting used to the new routine. There wasn’t any need to get up early at the hospital.”

Dickon appeared satisfied with the explanation, for he nodded and continued his work without further comment.

Resuming his shave with a somewhat less steady hand, Morse was less convinced by his own rather lame reasoning. Bowing to necessity did not explain the recent lightness in his step or the merry tune that hovered on his lips of late, begging to be whistled. His inexplicable eagerness to begin the day must be more than merely adapting to a new routine.

He continued to puzzle the matter as he dressed. Conflicting impulses jousted within him. One urged haste, to get his clothes on and proceed downstairs as quickly as possible. The other counseled patience. Take his time in tying his stock. Let Dickon buff his boots properly. Arrive for his morning studies looking his best.

As he set off for the library, at last, a disquieting thought struck Morse. If he hadn’t known better, he might have suspected he was trying to make a favorable impression on Leonora Freemantle.

But that was rank nonsense.

First of all, he had long since ceased to strive for any woman’s regard. The kind of female he liked, Morse attracted and won effortlessly.

Which led to the second consideration—Miss Leonora Freemantle was anything but the kind of female he usually preferred. She was too bookish, too determined.

Too challenging.

Was there such a thing? The notion brought him to an abrupt halt halfway down the stairs. All his life he had thrived on challenge and novelty. But not where women were concerned!

And besides, what would Miss Freemantle want with a chap like him? Ill-bred. Uneducated.

Even if he did fancy her—which he most emphatically did not—he could not afford to dally with a woman above his station. Not again.

So Morse told himself as he slipped into the study, uncertain whether to encourage or to suppress his eagerness to begin the day’s lessons.

“Early two days in a row, Sergeant Archer?” Leonora’s voice startled him. Roused him? “To what do we owe this unexpected development?”

Morse felt his cheeks begin to sting. A reaction to the shaving soap, perhaps?

No. It was more than that. Like any opponent worthy of his steel, Leonora had neatly turned the tables on him. Yesterday he had mounted a surprise attack, exploiting his advantage of being first to take the field. She had not let him enjoy that superior position for two days running.

In spite of himself, a grin of something like admiration rippled across Morse’s lips. He recalled a word Lieutenant Peverill had sometimes used when an opponent proved wilier than he’d expected. Touché.

Touché, Miss Freemantle. Touché, indeed.

Too late, Morse tried to cover his confusion with a scowl. “Why am I early? Perhaps because I want to win that bet with Sir Hugo as much as you do. Have you any idea what a fresh start in the colonies would mean to a man like me?”

Leonora stepped forward into the dim light of a single candle. No doubt about it—she’d been lying in wait to surprise him. Her smile, a rare and unexpected favor, erased Morse’s annoyance.

“I think I have quite a good idea what it will mean, Sergeant. That is why I suggested it to my uncle. I hope the knowledge and skills I can impart to the girls at my school will provide them with similar opportunities.”

The notion seized Morse and all but throttled him. “You suggested Sir Hugo offer me an estate in the colonies?”

She nodded. “Someone had to. Uncle is the most generous man in the world, but he can also be the most selfish in some ways. Or maybe selfish isn’t the right word. Just unimaginative when it comes to understanding what other people want.”

Her voice died away to a bemused murmur. “He can’t fathom why they should want anything but what he wants for them.”

And what did Sir Hugo want for his bluestocking niece that she didn’t? Morse found himself wondering.

Leonora seemed to become aware of his presence again, as though she’d been musing out loud. She blushed, a rosy cast Morse could easily detect even in the dim light of the library.

He detected other things, as well.

Like the wistful luster in her gray-green eyes. Perhaps it was the soft green shade of her gown that set them off so becomingly. This was the first time he’d seen her in anything but the dullest of dark hues. Lighter ones suited her complexion and coloring far better.

Why would a woman go out of her way to look unattractive, when in fact—?

“Sergeant Archer?”

Morse suddenly realized she had spoken his name for the second time. “Sorry. Woolgathering. The early hour, I expect. You were saying?”

“I was saying, perhaps we should take our seats and apply ourselves to today’s lesson. If we wish to have any hope of winning the wager, that is.”

“Of course.” Morse had the unpleasant sensation that he was losing command of the situation, and himself.

Then he remembered his secret weapon.

Striding toward their study table, he tried to disguise the hitch in his step. With a flourish, he pulled out Leonora’s chair and beckoned her to sit.

“To be frank, Miss Leonora, the inducement of your uncle’s wager is only part of my impatience to begin work this morning.”

Casting him a wary glance, she took the seat he offered. “Indeed? And what might the other part be?”

Morse settled into his usual place on the wider side of the table. During the course of yesterday’s lesson, his chair had migrated to his teacher’s end of the table.

Now as he leaned close to her, he spoke in a quiet voice that suggested intimacy. “Can you not guess…Leonora?”

The catch in her breath betrayed the lady’s awareness of the missing Miss, and all that its absence implied.

Before she could respond, Morse supplied the answer. “It’s a rare dolt of a fellow who wouldn’t grasp at the chance to spend all day in the company of such a fetching lass.”

Some scrap of insight warned Morse he was venturing far too close to the truth with his flattery.

Another thought drove that one from his mind altogether. What if Leonora reacted to his comment as she had to his previous liberties—bidding him away, or bustling off herself?

That had been his original plan, hadn’t it? Yet, at that moment, nothing could have been farther from Morse’s desire.

To his massive relief, Leonora dismissed his fawning with an ironic lift of one brow and a toss of her head. “Really, Sergeant, we must put you to work with a dictionary. A woman of twenty-sev—of my years, hardly qualifies as a lass.”

Touché again, Leonora!

“That’s as may be. What man in his right mind wants the company of a simpering miss?” Morse took up his Latin grammar, suddenly disinclined to press his advantage and risk frightening her away.