The Wedding Wager. Deborah Hale

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 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