Deborah Hale - The Wedding Wager

“What can such a lovely lady want with the likes of me?” asked Sergeant Archer once the room had cleared. His voice was as rich and mellow as well-aged brandy. Once again he unleashed his potent smile.

A shiver of icy wrath went through Leonora. Lovely lady? The liar! Did this cynical charmer expect her to lap up his spurious flattery? As she pulled off her glove, she longed to smack it against his cheek. Remembering how desperately she needed to win his cooperation, she curbed her ire and thrust out her hand for him to shake.

“Sergeant Archer, I’m Leonora Freemantle. I believe you know my uncle, Sir Hugo Peverill. I’ve come to make you a proposition.”

She could tell her words unsettled him, though he made a determined effort to hide it. Those expressive brows drew together and his mien darkened like a summer sky before a storm. His deep voice rumbled with the muted menace of distant thunder.

“Go away, Miss Freemantle. I’m not interested in your proposition.”

He tried to execute a crisp pivot on his heel. Apparently his wounded leg refused to cooperate. His stern frown crumpled into a grimace of pain as he staggered.

Before she had a chance to think better of it, Leonora reached out to steady him. The sleeves of his coarse-woven shirt were rolled up to the elbows. As she grasped his bronzed forearm, she felt the taut power of his muscle, the disconcerting warmth of his bare skin and the provocative caress of his dark body hair.

A jolt of mysterious energy surged in her. From the sensitive tips of her fingers and the palm of her hand, it radiated up her arm—to her throat and her bosom and the pit of her belly.

She hated it.

How dare this exasperating creature provoke her so? Even as he dismissed her without hearing a word she’d come to say. Long ago she had vowed never to submit to a man’s whims. She had no intention of starting now. Not with her whole future at stake.

When he tried to wrench his arm away, she tightened her hold. “I’ll let go when you agree to hear me out, Sergeant Archer.”

Animosity warred with amusement—every nuance of the battle showing on his vigorous, mobile face. Amusement won.

A row of square, even teeth flashed briefly in a fiendish grin. “This could turn out to be a very interesting day, if I choose not to listen.”

Leonora’s cheeks smarted. She knew what he would say next. Her own thoughts had raced ahead to the same conclusion.

“Not to mention an even more interesting night.” A warm, infectious chuckle bubbled up from some well of humor deep within him.

Abruptly, Leonora released his arm. Tears of impotent fury prickled in the corners of her eyes. She refused to let them fall. Why had Uncle Hugo chosen this infuriating man as the subject of their wager?

As he limped toward the door, she leveled a desperate parting shot at his back. “Strange. I didn’t take you for a fool, Sergeant.”

Her words found their mark. He hesitated in midstride, and his shoulder blades bunched, as though he had just taken a blow between them.

Leonora pressed her momentary advantage. “In my experience, only a fool shuts his ears to a proposal that might benefit him.”

Though he continued to face the door, Morse Archer lobbed his reply back at her. “When a woman like you comes with a proposition for a man like me, Miss Free-mantle, it isn’t often to his benefit. At least, not in the long run.”

A shriek of vexation rose in Leonora’s throat, but she stifled it—barely. She’d assumed Morse Archer would leap at the opportunity she offered him. Instead he had thrust her into the role of supplicant. One she abhorred.

It made her twice as determined to win Uncle Hugo’s wager and free herself from the need to go cap in hand to a man ever again.

“Pray, what do you mean by a woman like me, Sergeant Archer?”

“Don’t be thick, woman.” He rounded on her. “I mean a lady of your class.” The disdain in his voice was palpable.

At last—a scrap of leverage to use on him.

“Would it surprise you to learn that I care no more for the notion of class than you do?”

“It would.”

Drawing an unsteady breath, Leonora forced herself to look squarely into his penetrating gaze. “I believe all that separates the so-called upper and lower orders of our society is education.”

“Do you then?” He crossed his arms over his chest in a pose that demanded, And what’s that to me?

At least he made no further move to quit the room.

“I do. That is why I’m here. Uncle Hugo thinks I’m a crank, as does nearly everyone else of my acquaintance.”

One mercurial brow lifted a fraction, as if to cast his opinion with the rest. Leonora hurried on, before he took a notion to dismiss her again.

“My uncle has set me a wager, to test the validity of my theory.”

At the word wager, she sensed a subtle air of interest from Sergeant Archer.

Eagerly, she explained the plan. “I have three months to educate a common soldier and pass him off as a gentleman officer during a Season at Bath. If I win the bet, Uncle Hugo will finance a school for indigent girls, of which I shall be headmistress.”

“And I’m the common, ignorant soldier you plan to work your magic on?” The question sounded innocent enough, but the subtle curl of his lip conveyed scorn.

“If by magic you mean something easy or illusionary, you’re mistaken, Sergeant. It will be three months of very hard work for both of us. In the end, I believe you’ll find the result worthwhile. Will you do it?”

He smiled now—with his lips at least. “No, Miss Free-mantle. I will not.” His tone and posture were a parody of high courtesy. “Now please be so kind as to go away. You’ve taken up quite enough of my time for one afternoon.”

Didn’t he recognize the chance she was offering him? Couldn’t he see the noble cause it would serve?

“Are you devoid of ambition, man? Not the least bit interested in improving yourself?”

The insincere smile disappeared. Nostrils flared, he bore down on her like a charging bull. Against her will, Leonora retreated a step before his menacing advance. He stopped within a whisker of her, so close she could feel the heat of his breath on her face. He spoke with muted intensity, his whisper more intimidating than most men’s thunderous bluster.

“I have plenty of ambition, Miss Freemantle. On my terms. I happen to like who and what I am. So you can keep your improvements. I don’t need you or anyone else turning me into some mincing, mutton-headed gentleman.”

Leonora held her ground. Somewhere deep within her, she fought to quench a flicker of admiration for Morse Archer’s pride and independence. Remembering all she stood to gain…and lose, she forced herself to try one last time.

“Please, Sergeant. If not for yourself, think of my school.”

“Where you can turn wholesome farm girls into useless debutantes? An admirable cause, to be sure.”

With all the dignity she could muster, Leonora replied, “I don’t expect you to understand my motives. No one else does.”

“The trouble is, I understand all too well, Miss Free-mantle. I know all about having the charity of my betters crammed down my throat and having to tug a forelock and say ‘Thankee, ma’am’, even while I choke on it.”

His words smote her. Her school would be nothing like what he described…or would it? “We are not talking about charity, Sergeant.”

“Aren’t we, Miss Freemantle?” His burst of rage seemed to collapse on itself. Slowly he turned away from her and hobbled toward the door.

For a moment Leonora just stood, watching him go. Limp and spent, she felt as though she’d been buffeted by a violent storm. As she gathered up her courage to once again run the gauntlet of stares and whispers in the ward, she wondered how her uncle would react to this turn of events. He’d been so adamant on engaging this particular man.