The Wedding Wager. Deborah Hale

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.

      Why did it frighten her? he wondered—the romantic attentions of a man. Indignation or outrage, he could have understood from a woman of her character. Her anxious agitation puzzled and intrigued him.

      As did the lady herself.

      Though clearly reluctant to pursue their conversation further, Leonora Freemantle could not resist a parting comment. “In my experience, a simpering miss is precisely what most men do prefer. Now if you will indulge me by turning to page forty-three, Sergeant Archer. Perhaps we can attempt a short translation of Livy.”

      Not content to let her have the last word on most men’s taste in women, he muttered, “More fools, them.”

      Almost as if he meant it.

      Of course he hadn’t meant it.

      Leonora reminded herself of the obvious several times as she and Morse struggled over the Latin translation.

      Still, part of her felt ridiculously grateful he’d said it—sincere or not.

      How many times a day, during her girlhood, had Mother admonished her to get her nose out of a book, lest she never land a husband?

      Every time, Leonora had clenched her lips to keep from hurling a disrespectful retort. If her mother’s later husbands were representative of the marriage pool, she would prefer to not fish for one at all.

      Little had Mother guessed that she had taken the warning as wise counsel. Everything Mother cautioned to avoid—unflattering clothes, spectacles, too much book-learning, Leonora had taken pains to acquire. For a husband was obviously someone to be eluded at all costs.

      All the same, something in her had hungered for the occasional pretty gown, the odd dance at a ball. Even, now and then, the counterfeit flattery of a handsome man.

      Thinking of handsome men…

      To her dismay, Leonora found herself hovering over Morse’s broad shoulder, prompting him when his translation faltered. The muted scent of his shaving soap and the rich cadence of his voice set her senses reeling.

      They made her long to lean closer still, until she succumbed to the invitation of his thick, chestnut hair—running her fingers through it, or nuzzling it with her cheek.

      And if she did—how might he react? What might he do in return?

      Certainly Morse Archer had betrayed more interest in her than any other man ever had. Even before she’d begun making subtle improvements in her appearance. Apart from his rapidly healing leg injury, he was a healthy, vigorous, virile specimen of manhood. One who’d been denied the company of women for some little time. Yet she had no fear of catching him for a husband.

      The notion took Leonora’s breath away.

      That was the subject of the wager, after all. He was abetting her quest to avoid marriage. And if they failed, she would have to marry some aristocratic half-wit of Uncle Hugo’s choosing.

      With a shudder of distaste, she banished that thought from her mind. Her preoccupation with Morse Archer had a will of its own, however. It would not be banished.

      So Leonora reached a compromise with herself.

      Uncle Hugo would be gone for a few days. Apart from the servants, she and Morse had Laurelwood to themselves. Perhaps tonight, after dinner, she might invite him to take a glass of port with her in the drawing room. They could put their studies aside and simply talk. About his experiences as a soldier. His plans for the future. Suddenly she was hungry to know everything about him.

      Or she might offer to play the pianoforte. She imagined Morse sitting beside her, or leaning over her shoulder to read the words from her sheet music.

      An unguarded sigh escaped from between her lips.

      “Is something wrong?” Morse turned, then, to look at her.

      Leonora knew she should pull herself away. Stand straight. Take a few steps back.

      Her body refused to cooperate.

      It hung there, bent over Morse, scant inches separating them. They could not have held that position for more than a few seconds, Leonora later reasoned. But in that time, as his eyes locked on hers and the brief space between them fairly shimmered with heat, it took all