by Hale Deborah
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 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 the self-control of a lifetime to not trespass that tiny distance and press her lips to his.
A tentative tap on the library door boomed like a cannonade in Leonora’s ears.
Seized by a spasm of shame, she wrenched herself away from Morse and called, “Yes. What is it?” in a high, breathless voice.
Dickon pushed the door ajar and peeked in. “Pardon me, miss, but you did give orders I was to knock if you and Sergeant Archer hadn’t come to breakfast by
nine.”
Had she said that? Leonora’s thoughts whirled so that she could not swear to it.
“Thank you.” Her words came in little gasps. “We’ll be along in a moment.”
Morse rose from his chair and stretched. The way his muscles bunched under the tight fabric of his breeches made Leonora’s mouth go dry. There were so many things she didn’t know about men. And until this week, she hadn’t cared to find out. Now her freshly whetted curiosity knew no bounds.
“I think you could do with a good plate of breakfast and a strong cup of tea.” Morse cast her a solicitous look. “You don’t seem quite yourself this morning.”
It was all Leonora could do to keep from agreeing vocally.
She wasn’t herself. At least not the self she had shown the world for the past two decades.
Morse Archer’s obvious interest in her, and her curiosity about him, had kindled some long-quiescent ember of whimsy and excitement within her. Suddenly she was most anxious to see where it might take her.
Acting on a daring impulse, she reached for Morse’s arm. “I am feeling a trifle light-headed.” No lie, that. “Will you be so kind as to steady me on our way to breakfast?”
Her request appeared to catch him off guard. “I—don’t see why not,” he sputtered.
“We must make an effort to polish your social graces, Sergeant. The polite reply to a lady would have been, ‘I’d be honored, miss.’”
An embarrassed grin made him look endearingly boyish. “I am honored, Miss Leonora. Happy to be of service.”
She laughed. For the first time in how long? “You’re a quick student when you choose to be, Morse.”
The intimacy of his Christian name was out of her mouth before she realized it. The word felt very much at home on her tongue.
For a wonder, he politely refrained from comment, pulling out her chair from the breakfast table and making sure she was well settled before taking the seat opposite her.
Morse tucked into breakfast with his usual relish. Scarcely a wonder after the poor food he must have suffered during his days as a soldier. For her part, Leonora could not summon up much appetite.
Perhaps the odd sensations she was experiencing were only the symptoms of some malady, after all.
Chapter Six
“You’re looking very…well, this evening, Miss Freemantle.” As he watched Leonora descend the staircase, Morse congratulated himself on his restraint.
Part of him wanted to pay her a much more extravagant compliment. Tell her that the warm rose hue of her gown brought matching roses to her cheeks. Mention how the candlelight played frets of gold and copper through her loosely pinned hair.
Some wiser instinct urged caution. He did not wish to frighten her away tonight.
“Why, thank you, Sergeant Archer.”
Was it his imagination, or did she stand a little straighter, hold her head a fraction higher?
She awarded him a smile, glancing up suddenly through dense dark lashes. In any other woman, Morse might have suspected a hint of mischief or flirtation in such a look.
“Whatever slight indisposition I suffered this morning, I appear to have recovered.”
“Then you won’t need my arm to steady you?” Morse cocked his elbow anyway.
“Perhaps not.” A teasing note warmed her words. “May I take it just the same, simply because I wish to?”
The corners of Morse’s lips spread wide. “The best reason in the world for doing anything.”
They strolled into the dining room, where the long mahogany table had been set quite differently than for past meals. At those, Sir Hugo had occupied the head of the table while Morse and Leonora sat opposite each other halfway down the length of it. Tonight, their places had been set at one end, near the hearth, leaving the rest of the table empty.
Morse held Sir Hugo’s accustomed chair for Leonora. “Well, isn’t this cosy.”
Unfurling her napkin across her lap, she spoke without looking up at him. “While Uncle is away, I thought we might relax our formality a little. After your diligent work today, you deserve a pleasant evening.”
Barely suppressing a sigh of satisfaction, Morse took his own seat. He had this skittish filly eating out of his hand.
“I can imagine few pleasanter ways to spend an evening, than in your company, Miss Freemantle.”
She raised a brow. “Polishing your social graces, Sergeant?”
Morse grinned. “You said I should.”
Glancing down as the fish course was placed in front of him, he assessed his array of forks.
With exaggerated care, Leonora picked one up. “Begin at the outside and work your way in. When in doubt, watch your table companions for a cue. Now, let us have no more lessons for this evening. Tell me something about yourself, Sergeant. I know you served under Cousin Wesley with the Somerset Rifles. Were you born and bred in that part the country?”
“Aye…that is…yes, Miss Freemantle. Near Pocklington. Been Archers thereabouts for as long as anyone can recollect. My folk weren’t like yours—traveling from a great family seat in the country to a town house in London or Bath for the winter. We stayed put. I’m the first of my family to ever have gone abroad.”
She flinched at his words and the color drained from her face. “Don’t disdain permanence, Sergeant. Many people would envy you a place to call home.”
“Not if they saw it they wouldn’t.”
Morse could not keep a note of bitterness from his laughter. His family’s tenant cottage, with its smells and drafts that had contributed to the deaths of his three younger sisters—it would have fit inside Laurelwood’s vast dining room with space to spare.
“Is that why you chose to enlist, then? So you could travel far from Somerset?”
Now Morse flinched, remembering what had driven him into the army. “You might say so. A chance to get away from the past. I don’t suppose you can understand that, can you, Miss Freemantle?”
She laid her fork down upon the plate and waited for the serving girl to remove them. Then she looked up at him. “I may understand better than you think. I envy anyone who feels no need to escape his or her past.”
With a wide sweep of his arm, Morse indicated the damask draperies, the marble mantelpiece, the highly polished sideboard. “What could anyone want to escape in all this?”
After a long look Morse could not interpret, Leonora stretched her lips into a fleeting grin. “What, indeed? If you do not wish to dwell on your childhood, perhaps you might tell me about your days as a Rifleman. When did you meet my cousin Wesley?”
Eager for any distraction from painful memories, Morse seized her question. “In India. Did he never tell you the story?”
For a wonder, it did not bother him to speak of Lieutenant Peverill in India. Perhaps because the lad had been so much alive then, with years ahead of him. Or perhaps it was the bond of affection he shared with Leonora for her cousin. Could she be coaxed to share some stories from their childhood?
Indeed she could.
So passed one of the most enjoyable dinners Morse had ever eaten. As an audience for his soldiering stories, Leonora proved superior even to Dickon. The way her eyes trained upon him, her apt questions and perceptive comments, all made him feel proud of his modest accomplishments and minor adventures.
And when she spoke of long-ago summers spent in the country with her cousin, Morse almost felt himself a part of their merry escapades.
He watched with jealous eyes as the serving maid removed his final plate, thinking it a shame this meal must end.
Leonora seemed to divine his thoughts. “I know we must be up early tomorrow to resume our studies. But if you would care to join me in the drawing room, I could play for you on the pianoforte. A gentleman should cultivate some knowledge of music, after all.”
“I should like that very much.”
Morse caught himself staring at her hands again. For the first of many times that evening.
He had always liked a ni
ce tune, but never before had he heard such music as Leonora played on the pianoforte. Her supple fingers danced across the ivory keys, coaxing forth rich harmonies, some sad, some sweet, that caught Morse by the heart and held him. At times she seemed unaware of his presence, lost in the golden echoes of her art. If he had ever thought Leonora lacked passion, he now knew better.
As the final notes died to a whisper, they both stirred from their trance.
She glanced up at him, a bright blush staining her cheeks. “I fear I am boring you, Sergeant.”
“No.” He strove to frame words of praise half fine enough, but failed. “Not in the least.”
He was only a common soldier, after all. One of the other ranks. A mere servant of his superior officers. How could he hope to appreciate such refinements as learning and art?
Leaning over to the canterbury stand that held her sheet music, she spoke in a tone of apology. “I do know some livelier tunes—old ballads and such. Will you look and see if there’s anything here you might know? We could sing together.”
She slid down the bench to make room for him.
“Most of the songs I know are fighting or drinking songs.” Reluctance and eagerness tugged Morse in opposite directions, but he left his armchair and joined Leonora at the pianoforte.
“What about this one?”
She had played only a few notes when Morse cried, “‘The Merry Milkmaids’! I do know that one.”
He began to sing the words and she joined him. Then she struck up another familiar old tune, and another.
Many of them were about love, Morse realized, conscious of his leg pressed against Leonora’s. Often, love gone wrong.
Amarillis told her swain,
That in love he should be plain,
And not think to deceive her…
The notion pricked Morse’s conscience, but he shrugged it off. He’d never claimed to love Miss Freemantle. As for his sham wooing, he had the uncomfortable sense it was becoming too much in earnest.
“‘Amarillis told her swain…’” Leonora found herself humming the tune as she hurried back to Laurelwood from her Wednesday evening class. Her conscience bothered her a little for having dismissed the girls early, but what use was it trying to teach them if she could not keep her mind on the lesson?
