Deborah Hale - The Wedding Wager

Morse understood about pride. He could appreciate what it cost her to speak those words. If only she’d left him with a moment to reply. The best he could do was a little show of gallantry, helping her into the carriage. As he caught a glimpse of one trim ankle encased in a fitted leather boot, Morse felt that confounded surge of warmth again.

Impatient with himself, he tried to tamp down the feeling. It did not yield to his control.

Climbing in behind Miss Freemantle, he sank gratefully into the seat opposite her and Sir Hugo. If he’d needed any reminder of the comfortable life he could expect at Laurelwood, the elegantly appointed interior of the barouche provided it—in spades. Mahogany, oiled and polished to a gleaming finish. Fine brass fittings. Supple leather upholstery.

Reaching up with his ivory-handled walking stick, Sir Hugo rapped on the ceiling of the carriage. Without a moment’s hesitation, the barouche rolled smoothly away on the frozen road.

Sir Hugo fixed his intent gaze upon Morse. “I’ll come to the point straightaway, Archer. No shilly-shallying about. I know you military chaps haven’t much patience for that. The fact is, Leonora and I need you most desperately to help us with our wager.”

“Yes, well…sir…as a matter of fact…I must tell you…” Morse groped for the words that would allow him to accept Sir Hugo’s largesse while surrendering as little of his self-respect as possible.

“Say no more, my boy,” interjected Sir Hugo in a manner that brooked no gainsay.

Both his tone and the my boy set Morse’s oversensitive pride abristle, though he tried in vain to quell the feeling.

“I know just what’s on your mind,” Sir Hugo continued. “My niece and I can hardly expect you to relinquish several months of your life, not to mention putting all your plans in abeyance, while we settle a philosophical conundrum of no consequence to anyone but ourselves.”

When the older man paused for breath, Morse tried to voice his objection. “No, no, Sir Hugo. That’s not—”

Sir Hugo raised a stout hand to bid Morse be quiet. “Hear me out, young fellow. At least don’t refuse us until you’ve heard the compensation I mean to offer you.”

Morse wanted to laugh. Compensation? They meant to pluck him out of the cold, hungry, jobless life that awaited him, and cast him into the lap of luxury. Now, on top of that, they proposed to compensate him for doing it. He was hard-pressed to imagine how they reckoned to sweeten the pot. Curiosity, together with his respect for Sir Hugo, kept him from interrupting further.

“If you’ll agree to help us,” said Sir Hugo, “I’ll engage on your behalf the best legal counsel money can buy. I’ll also bring to bear every scrap of influence I can muster. No false promises, of course, but I should be very much surprised if the Board of Inquiry doesn’t throw out your case.”

Morse felt his jaw go slack. What could he say? Here was Sir Hugo offering to smooth out all the wrinkles of his life as casually as a housemaid straightening the bedsheets.

As he struggled to find his voice, Miss Freemantle spoke. “Don’t forget the rest, Uncle.”

Morse could not believe his ears. There was more?

“Of course, my dear.” Sir Hugo took a deep breath. “My niece advises me that you should have a stake in the success of her little experiment. An inducement for you to give it your best effort.”

Morse experienced a momentary pang of affront at the notion that he would ever give less than his best. Sir Hugo’s next words drove the slight from his mind.

“If you succeed in passing yourself off as a gentleman officer at Bath, I’ll see you set up somewhere that a man’s caste isn’t of such consequence. Any British colony you want to name—the Caribbean, North America, Botany Bay. I’ll wangle you a decent grant of land and provide you with gold to buy equipment, stock and seed. Whatever you need. That should make it worth your while putting up with our foolishness, what?”

His generous mouth spread into a broad grin as he waited for Morse’s answer.

Morse clamped his own lips together, to keep from saying the first thing that came into his mind.

Damn! He’d managed to curb his pride enough to accept Miss Freemantle’s original offer. Now, with the kindest intentions in the world, Sir Hugo had heaped a double helping of charity on top of the first. Much as the prospect tempted him, Morse knew it was too rich a dish for him to stomach.

“It’s a generous offer, sir.” Morse strove to keep his temper in check. The old man meant well, after all. He just didn’t understand. “But I can’t accept.”

The curve of Sir Hugo’s smile pulled straight and taut. The color began to rise in his face. He looked like a man struggling to contain an outburst.

Morse was suddenly aware of Leonora Freemantle, too. She looked quite stricken. Though why the founding of a school should mean that much to her, Morse could not fathom. Neither could he fathom the unaccountable urge he felt to take her in his arms and comfort her.

He wished he could find it within himself to oblige them. To oblige himself for that matter. If he could have contrived some way to appease his damnable pride, he’d have leaped at Sir Hugo’s offer.

“Are you mad, boy? How can you think of turning up your nose at—”

“There, there, Uncle. Don’t fret yourself.” Miss Free-mantle patted his arm.

She cast Morse a look as frigid as the crust of snow that blanketed the surrounding fields. Perhaps he’d only imagined her instant of vulnerability. “It’s clear Sergeant Archer does not feel himself equal to the challenge of our wager.”

Her words struck Morse like a leather glove whipped across his cheek. His pride, already piqued to quivering pitch, dove to take up the gauntlet.

“Challenge? You call that a challenge, to masquerade as some arrogant puppy of an officer? I’ve suffered enough of those fools that I could do it tomorrow, without your three months’ tutoring.”

She appraised him with her eyes, and he returned the insult. Somewhere within him, Morse felt a flash of admiration for a worthy opponent and a yearning to win her admiration in return.

“Prove it, Sergeant. Take the wager.”

“I have nothing to prove to you, or to anyone else, Miss Freemantle.” Morse felt reason and control slipping from his grasp like a greased rope, but he could not tamely swallow this woman’s baiting.

“Admit it, Sergeant. You haven’t the nerve to try.”

“I never heard such confounded rot.”

“It isn’t rot.”

“’Tis.”

“Then you’re up to the challenge?”

“Bloody right.” The words were out of his mouth before Morse realized what he’d said. He saw a flicker of triumph in his opponent’s striking eyes. “I mean, no. I can’t. I could, but I won’t.”

“Now, now, Archer,” interjected Sir Hugo. “Don’t tell me a Rifleman would go back on his word. You accepted. Heard it with my own two ears. I mean to hold you to it.”

Part of Morse longed to call back the acceptance he’d flung at Leonora Freemantle during their childish tit for tat. The greater part surrendered to a wave of relief that she had galled him into doing what he’d wanted to do all along.

“Since you’ve left me no choice, how soon can we start?”

Sir Hugo appeared to rouse himself from his amazement at Morse’s abrupt turnabout. “If the sawbones at Bramleigh will pronounce you fit enough, we can load your gear and be back to Laurelwood in time for tea.”

Morse stared at Leonora Freemantle with a gaze that held its own challenge. “That suits me.”

His stomach growled just then, though the others politely ignored the sound. The notion of tea at Laurelwood set his mouth watering, and his stiff muscles yearned for the luxurious embrace of a feather bed. After a hard decade of soldiering, surely this Rifleman deserved a soft billet. Then he noticed Leonora Freemantle eyeing him with the speculative gaze of a drill sergeant sizing up a raw recruit. A shiver of apprehension ran through him.