The Wedding Wager Page 5

  There’d been nothing she could do to remedy the sleepless smudges beneath her eyes.

  “Not that it is any business of yours how I look.” She strode to the table. “I am here to teach you, not to provide you with an object to scrutinize. Is that understood?”

  If she expected his usual surly retort, it was not forthcoming this morning. “I understand you better every day, Miss Freemantle.”

  She could find no fault with his words, or with the cheerful tone in which they were uttered. Yet, Leonora could not escape the feeling that Morse Archer was having a sharp little jest at her expense.

  Retrenching to more solid conversational ground, she pointed to the open book in his hand. “I see you have shown some ambition in your reading course.”

  Teacher’s intuition whispered that she ought to appeal to his sense of pride by commending his initiative. Feminine suspicion warned her not to plunge headlong after what was in all likelihood a ruse. “What do you think of Colonel Hudibras’s adventures thus far?”

  She waited, in smug assurance that he would hem and haw with embarrassment and in the end admit he hadn’t read a word.

  “It’s interesting enough reading, I suppose.”

  Leave it to Archer to try bluffing his way out.

  Before she could devise a probing question to expose his ignorance, he continued. “I don’t think much of the colonel, truth be told. Treats that squire of his something shameful. When he made Ralpho take that whipping in his place, I wanted to leap into the book and throttle the blackguard.”

  There could be no denying his violent indignation. Morse’s emphatic brows knit together and his jaw jutted forward. He had read the material, after all. What’s more, he had been moved by it.

  The notion tugged at Leonora and would not let her go.

  In a flash Morse’s umbrage changed to chagrin. “I’ve known too many ranking idiots like Colonel Hudibras in my day,” he muttered. For the first time that morning, his gaze faltered before hers.

  “I dislike the character quite as intensely as you do, Sergeant Archer,” she confessed, taking a seat beside him. What galled her was the colonel’s mercenary pursuit of the widow. Like Morse, she had known too many loathsome creatures of that ilk. “Read on and I promise you’ll enjoy the part where he gets his comeuppance.”

  “That I shall.” He leafed through the volume searching for his place.

  “Would it surprise you to hear that the author is no fonder of Hudibras than we are?” Leonora pulled her chair closer to his. “It was Mr. Butler’s intent to satirize the Puritans, who had ruled England after the defeat of King Charles the First.”

  Morse looked up from the book. “Are you saying there was a time we had no king?”

  A lively discussion sprang up between them, about the history of the English Civil War, Cromwell’s Puritan Commonwealth and the eventual restoration of the Stuart monarchy. Then they went on to consider the nature of satire and its origins in the Greek literary tradition.

  Leonora could scarcely believe it when Dickon gave a tentative knock on the sitting room door and inquired whether they wished to take breakfast that morning, after all. She glanced at the mantel clock, amazed to discover the hands within a few minutes of ten.

  “I apologize, Sergeant Archer,” she stammered. “I had no idea the time had gotten away from me to such an extent. You’ll be starved.”

  He appeared almost as surprised by the hour as she. “I am hungry,” he confessed. “Though I can’t say I noticed it until this minute. I fear I got caught up in your talk. You have a knack for making this dry-as-dust history and literature come to life, Miss Freemantle.”

  His dark eyes glowed with admiration. Some long dormant feminine faculty within Leonora assured her it was quite genuine.

  Just then she became acutely aware of his knee pressing against hers. How long had that been going on? Even through the substantial fabric of her skirt and his buckskin breeches, it had kindled a warmth between them. A rush of that warmth wafted from Leonora’s knee to her thighs.

  She almost toppled the chair in her haste to put a safe distance between them.

  “We had better get to breakfast before everything is stone cold or burned to a crisp.” She gasped the words, hard-pressed to catch her breath. “I fear Cook will be cross with us.”

  She fled to the breakfast room before Morse Archer could reply. By the time he sauntered in, she had regained at least a crumb of her composure. Still, she was too flustered to correct his mess hall manners.

  Several times he spoke with his mouth full. He ate bits of ham off the point of his knife. Over coffee, he hunched forward, resting his elbows upon the table. Had she made no headway at all with him in the past fortnight?

  For all her disquiet on that score, Leonora had to admit their late breakfast was the most pleasant meal she had passed in his company.

  One of the most pleasant she had ever passed, come to that.

  Morse Archer picked up the thread of their prior conversation, plying her with any number of thoughtful, pertinent questions about the roots of the English Civil War and its effect upon the Scottish uprising of the last century. Evidently he had been listening to her and retaining what he’d learned. What made this morning’s lesson so different from those of the past two weeks?

  Could it be because…?

  Leonora could not deny the eagerness with which he hung on her words. The strange, piquant way he gazed at her from time to time. Was it possible he had taken a fancy to her?

  She came to herself with a start, realizing he had just spoken to her. Really, she would have to exercise a good deal more self-control from now on.

  “I asked if you would care for another splash of coffee, Miss Leonora.”

  “I—” No other words would come just then. He had spoken her Christian name for the first time, each syllable gliding off his tongue like spiced honey. She had never thought a word could sound so beautiful.

  “Yes—p-please,” she finally managed to stammer, though the prim schoolmistress within her protested. The beverage was a stimulant, after all. The last thing she needed at the moment was further stimulation.

  Leonora cast about for any topic that promised to distract her from this adolescent preoccupation with Morse. Good heavens! Now she was thinking of him by his Christian name, as well.

  “I hope Uncle Hugo didn’t miss our company at breakfast.” The sentence erupted from her in a breathless rush.

  Morse’s eyebrows raised. “Did he not tell you he was going off to London? Of course—you weren’t at dinner last night. He said he’d be away for a few days. Some urgent matter of business. I’m afraid it’ll be just the two of us until he gets back.”

  An unaccustomed giddiness expanded inside Leonora, as though she was one of those newfangled hot-air balloons inflated too quickly. She tried pulling herself back to earth, without much success.

  “We must return to work now, Sergeant Archer.” How she despised the beseeching note she heard in her voice.

  “That’s what I’m here for.” He walked around the table and pulled out her chair.

  The backs of his fingers grazed her upper arm. Had it been accidental, or deliberate? Either way, it set her head spinning and her breath skipping.

  Leonora made a last desperate attempt to regain mastery of the situation, and of herself. Her entire childhood had been spent at the mercy of forces beyond her control. At least she had been mistress of her own feelings—cool and detached where her mother was passionate and imprudent.

  Now, this man, with the most insignificant look, word or touch, threatened to overpower her carefully cultivated composure and turn her whole world on its ear.

  She jerked her arm away from his hand. “We must return to our Latin studies.”

  When he met her suggestion with a groan, she flared up at him. “I warned you from the start this would not be a stroll through the park, Sergeant Archer! You boasted you were equal to the challenge, but until this morning I
have seen no sign of it. At this rate, we will be laughed out of Bath. You will never see your estate in the colonies and I—”

  She bit her tongue. It was none of his business what his indolence would cost her. If he knew, he would only take advantage of the power it gave him over her fate.

  Fortunately he quit the breakfast room without asking her to finish her sentence. In all likelihood he did not care a whit about her dire stakes in the wager.

  Summoning up every ounce of frosty aplomb she could muster, Leonora stalked off after him. They had dabbled in quite enough sensational subjects for the day. The rest of their lessons would be given over to mathematics, dead languages and anything else she could furnish that might throw cold water on her growing preoccupation with Morse Archer.

  Leonora’s blatant insult to his diligence kept Morse focused on his studies until almost teatime. To his surprise, he found the Latin beginning to make sense. And he had always been good with numbers, particularly as they applied to situations in real life.

  How many rounds could a Rifleman fire in so many minutes? How fast would a company have to march to be at such a place by such a time?

  It still irked him that none of their lessons showed any practical application to Leonora’s stated goal of passing him off as a gentleman. Several times he had tried getting the point across to her. On each occasion she had almost bitten his head off for presuming to question her authority.

  On that score, she put him in mind of two inept officers who’d been his superiors in Portugal. Their blinkered stupidity and blank refusal to accept advice from anyone of lower rank had contributed largely to the fiasco that had ended his military career.

  And Lieutenant Peverill’s life.

  Looking up suddenly from his book, he caught Leonora staring at him. Fresh from thoughts of his young lieutenant, Morse recognized an appealing family resemblance in her face.

  “I never served under a better officer than your cousin.” He wasn’t certain what propelled those words out of him.

  To his surprise, Leonora did not order him back to work at once. Neither did she question what had prompted him to speak of the lieutenant for the first time since coming to Laurelwood.

  “Cousin Wesley mentioned you in his letters. I think he would be pleased to know you’re here.”

  Her little chin, so intrepid for all its delicacy, betrayed a subtle quiver. Behind the bastion of her spectacles, Morse thought he spied a fine mist rising in Leonora’s eyes.

  Ordinarily, Morse Archer was not a man who had any patience for tears or overwrought outbursts. Yet something launched him out of his chair and to Leonora’s side. His hands closed over her shoulders.

  “I’m sorry I mentioned him. I didn’t mean to distress you, honestly.”

  At the slightest provocation he would have taken her in his arms. But Leonora gave him no opportunity. And no quarter.

  Twisting free of his chaste touch, she flew to the opposite corner of the room and pretended an exaggerated interest in whatever she saw out the window. The steady drip of icicles melting from the eaves, perhaps.

  “You have worked well today, Sergeant.” She did not bother to turn and address him face-to-face. “As a reward, you are excused from lessons for the remainder of the day.”

  Earlier in the week Morse would have welcomed the news with a whoop of glee. Now he cursed himself roundly. What should have been a reward felt instead like…exile.

  Chapter Five

  Leonora listened to Morse’s retreating footsteps with an exasperating mixture of relief and regret.

  If she had not fled the warm invitation of his hands upon her shoulders, if she had not dismissed him from the room with her next breath, she might have surrendered to her impulses. She might have pivoted into his powerful arms and wept a woman’s weak tears against his sturdy shoulder.

  The prospect tempted her, as much from curiosity as…anything else. She had no experience of seeking comfort from another person. Mother had always been too much in need of support herself to lend it elsewhere. And Leonora would have died under torture before betraying a hint of weakness to any of her detested stepfathers. By the time she had come to live with Aunt Harriet and Uncle Hugo, she was well past the age for tearful outbursts.

  Yet somewhere in the mists of early memory there lurked the phantom fancy of a comforting embrace. The faint musk of horses and tobacco. The croon of a deep, affectionate voice. The subtle scratch of a serge coat against her cheek. It had been her one and only experience of security.

  And it had been ripped away from her long before she was able to understand why.

  Since then she had learned to rely upon herself alone. Not upon her looks, as she had seen some foolish women do. In time, creamy skin would wrinkle. Bright eyes would lose their sparkle. Shiny hair its luster.

  Intelligence, determination and self-control—these would stand the test the time. Neither were they a happy accident of nature. They could be learned and properly cultivated in any girl so inclined.

  Leonora returned from her reverie to find her hands balled into tight fists. So tight, in fact, that her fingernails bit into her palms.

  She was determined to cultivate those serviceable virtues in other young women whom fate had placed at a disadvantage. In her school, she would recover the kind of security she vaguely recalled from her childhood.

  But how would she ever win her school if she didn’t coax a better effort out of Sergeant Archer? He had shown some improvement today, in his attitude at least. Would it be enough?

  “Oh, Wes,” she whispered. If her cousin’s spirit lingered anywhere in the mortal world, it would be here at Laurelwood. “You won his devotion and disciplined him into a good soldier. What am I doing wrong?”

  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 effortles
sly.

  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.”