The Wedding Wager

by Hale Deborah

  What brought Leonora Freemantle out here, week after week in every sort of weather, missing a hot dinner, when she could have stayed tucked up in comparative luxury at Laurelwood? Why had she labored so relentlessly with a blockhead like him, so she could win the wherewithal to finance a school for girls like these? When, instead, she could have been enjoying a round of house parties or tricking herself out for a Season at Bath to snare a rich husband?

  Clearly he had underestimated her, just as he had once underestimated a certain boyish lieutenant who’d been posted to the Fourth Somerset Rifles.

  A short while after the girls dispersed, Leonora walked through the vestry door and closed it firmly behind her. She appeared as unaware of his presence as her students had been. In the white moonlight and the yellow candle glow that spilled from the windows of the old stone sanctuary, Morse watched her.

  Her shoulders sagged with a weight of weariness, or perhaps discouragement. Her step was slow, almost tentative, as though reluctant to bear her back to Laurelwood.

  A lump rose in Morse’s throat as he considered his own shameful contribution to her low spirits.

  Stealing up behind her, he lifted the satchel from her hand. “Carry your books, miss?”

  She gasped and raised a hand to her heart. “Morse Archer! Whatever in the world are you doing here? It’s a wonder you didn’t scare me into a fit.”

  “I don’t reckon you scare that easily, Miss Freemantle.” He fell into step beside her as best he could. “I didn’t want to leave Laurelwood without discovering whereabouts you spent your Wednesday and Saturday evenings. I was almost convinced you must have a secret beau in the village.”

  She stopped then and turned toward him. The faint light that glowed from houses along the road was not sufficient to show Morse her expression.

  “Don’t mock me, Sergeant.”

  Once, it might have been a tart command. Tonight it sounded like a plaintive appeal. Morse’s shame threatened to overwhelm him.

  “It was only a little jest,” he protested.

  She began to walk again. “Not a very kind one, under the circumstances.”

  “Can you slow down a little? My leg’s paining like the devil.” Morse would not have admitted it to another living soul. What made this woman an exception?

  “You expressed the desire to accompany me, Sergeant, not the other way ’round.” Her tone had regained a little of its old pepper, but her gait slackened just the same.

  “Will it help if I say I’m sorry?”

  Her step hesitated. “For what—the quip about my having a beau?”

  “That.” Morse swallowed a deep breath and an almost indigestible slice of humble pie. “And for pretending to be your beau back at Laurelwood. It wasn’t the gentlemanly thing to do, I’ll own. But you’ve known all along I’m no gentleman.”

  Her reply was the last thing Morse expected. “I think you could be, Sergeant. That’s part of what saddens me in all this. I do think you could be a fine gentleman if only you would.”

  Those words, spoken with such a wealth of wistfulness and dashed hopes on his account, caught Morse like a bayonet to the belly.

  His armor pierced, a confession gushed out of him. “It won’t make a difference to anything, but I want you to know just the same. It wasn’t all a bluff, my making up to you. Oh, at first it was, like I told Dickon. But then, once you got off your high horse and acted friendly, I came to enjoy your company, Miss Freemantle. Got so’s I looked forward to our lessons in the library and our talks at dinner.”

  They had left the village behind now, walking along a narrow country lane that ran to Laurelwood. A silence fell between them, punctuated only by their footfall on the firmly frozen road and the whisper of a frosty breeze through the bare branches of the hedgerows on either side.

  “I’ll miss them,” he concluded at last.

  More silence. More footsteps. More wind. And the sound of a furtive sniffle, amplified out of all proportion.

  Forgetting how Leonora had pushed him away every other time he’d tried to offer her comfort, Morse reached for her, his hands encumbered by her satchel and his walking stick. When he put his arms around her, she melted against him.

  He rested his chin against the peak of her bonnet. “There now, lass. It’s not worth shedding tears over a scoundrel like me.”

  At his words, Leonora pulled back again and began to beat on his chest with her fists. “You? God in heaven, you are a scoundrel, Morse Archer! Do you suppose everything a woman thinks or feels revolves around you? Why you conceited, self-important, vainglorious man. I’ll have you know I have plenty more to cry about than whether or not you make love to me!”

  Morse stood there, letting her pummel him. If it helped ease her feelings, why not? He could not decide whether to be relieved or slighted that she wept on account of something other than his behavior.

  “Is it your school, then?” Having heard her pupils talk, he could regret the loss of the wager on their account. What he could not fathom was why it mattered so very much to Leonora.

  She stopped her rain of blows.

  Morse expected her to turn away from him, but she didn’t.

  As Leonora stood before him, her balled fists opened like reluctant flowers in spring until her outspread hands rested against the breast of his coat.

  “It’s everything, Morse.” She sounded so very forlorn, he yearned for her with all his heart. “Did it never occur to you what penalty I’d incur upon losing the wager?”

  He thought for a moment. None too clearly, for her nearness and the faint sensation of her touch befuddled him. “Well, you won’t get that school you hanker after.”

  A sound erupted from her, somewhere between a chuckle and a sob. “That would be a rather one-sided wager, don’t you think? If I win, I get my school, if I lose, I don’t. What would Uncle stand to gain by offering me a bet like that?”

  Morse had never thought of it in quite those terms.

  “What did you stake?” A sudden ache of foreboding in his wounded leg told him he was not apt to like what he heard.

  “Only my freedom. And everything that makes my life worthwhile.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t follow you.” Sir Hugo obviously doted on his niece. Morse could not believe he would exact so cruel a penalty.

  “It’s quite simple really.” Her words floated in the darkness, bitter and forlorn as a winter night. “If I win, I get the capital I need to run my school and a sufficient income that I’ll never need to wed. Lose the wager and I agree to marry a man of my uncle’s choosing and give up my bluestocking ways.”

  Marry a man of my uncle’s choosing. The words reverberated in Morse’s mind like a volley of cannon fire at too close a range.

  “Blenkinsop!” he gasped. “Is he the man Sir Hugo will have you marry?”

  Her hands dropped from his coat, as though she no longer possessed the strength to hold them aloft. “You are quite the logician, Sergeant. Oh, Uncle hasn’t come right out and said so, but his motives aren’t difficult to divine. He’s never made any secret of his hankering for me to catch a husband. Settle down and present him a troop of courtesy grandchildren. Now he’s gone one better, making sure I’ll never be turned out of Laurelwood. I’m sure he considers it the greatest kindness he could possibly do me.”

  “All the same—Blenkinsop?” Morse’s mouth puckered just saying the name.

  “No doubt Mr. Blenkinsop has many qualities that recommend him as a husband in Uncle’s eyes. He hasn’t a spark of temper, I’m certain.”

  Morse recalled the flash in Leonora’s eyes when she’d crossed verbal swords with him. She deserved a partner with more spirit.

  “He doesn’t seem the type to squander his fortune drinking, or gambling or keeping other women,” Leonora continued.

  She made them sound like rare virtues.

  “No doubt he’d be a kind father.”

  The thought of her bearing children by that highborn dimwit made Mor
se positively bilious. He’d heard quite enough praise for Algie Blenkinsop, modest though it might be.

  “That’s all very well,” he blurted out before she could list any more of the fellow’s merits. “He’s still not the man for you. You deserve better.”

  His words rocked Leonora. The earnest conviction with which he uttered them set her heart racing and an unwelcome warmth rising in her face.

  “As far as I’m concerned, the best husband in the world is none at all. And that is what I want.” Flinging down that bitter declaration, she turned from him and set off walking again. “It’s fruitless to discuss, in any case. The wager’s lost and there’s an end to it. Let’s get home before we catch cold.”

  Behind her, she heard Morse struggling to catch up. Walking into the village could not have done his leg any good. Yet he had undertaken it for an opportunity to apologize.

  Grudgingly, she slowed her pace.

  In the night sky above them, the wind chased a swath of cloud across the face of the nearly full moon. Illuminated by the silvery-white light, it looked like the billowing sail of some ghostly barque.

  Morse fell into step beside her. “Is your wager lost? I mean, have you told Sir Hugo you’re prepared to concede defeat?”

  Leonora hesitated to answer. The very thought of it made her gorge rise. “I haven’t had an opportunity,” she said finally. “He and Mr. Blenkinsop arrived just when I had to come away to teach my class.”

  “In that case, can we have another go at this wager of yours? We both know I wasn’t putting forward my best effort, before. If you’ll give me another chance, I swear I’ll work my heart out for you, Miss Freemantle. Now that I understand exactly what’s at stake.”

  Morse’s offer enticed Leonora almost as much as it unnerved her. Could she continue to work with him after the way she’d let him play her for a fool? Could she bear to let her hopes rise again, only to have them dashed if he failed? A month of their three had been wasted—could they make up for that lost time, no matter how hard he was prepared to work?

  “Well?” he prompted when the moments passed and he got no answer.

  “I’m thinking about it!”

  They rounded a bend in the road and Laurelwood hove into view. The light from its windows beckoned them home. Suddenly the only consideration that weighed in Leonora’s heart was how empty the place would seem without Morse’s presence.

  “Very well.” She stopped and turned toward him. “I’ll give you one more chance. Though I warn you, I have my doubts we can bring it off.”

  “I accept,” Morse replied readily. “On one condition.”

  Condition? The audacity of the man! Begging for another chance, then setting conditions upon his participation.

  “Need I remind you, Sergeant? You asked for another opportunity to prove yourself. That hardly puts you in a position to demand concessions.”

  “I know.” The moonlight glinted in his dark eyes like so much devilment. “But I’m asking, anyway. Because I do want to win you this wager and because I think you’re going about it the wrong way.”

  Leonora began to bluster in protest, but he cut her off. “The trouble we ran into before—it’s because I’m not good at taking orders.”

  “There’s an understatement if I ever heard one.”

  “Listen, Miss Freemantle. If you’d been raised on a tenant farm, like I was, always at everybody’s beck and call, you might balk at taking orders, too.”

  This was not the first time he’d spoken of his childhood, always with such bitterness of his tone. Leonora found herself entertaining a hundred questions about his early years. They sounded as disagreeable in their own way as hers had been.

  Leonora shivered. “We’ll discuss this more once we’re warm inside.” She started up the cobbled drive.

  From behind Morse’s words ambushed her. “Do you ride at all, Miss Freemantle?’

  What did that have to do with anything? “I used to.”

  “Then you’ll know some horses don’t like being curbed too hard.” Morse fell into step beside her. “It’s apt to make them buck or bolt. You’re better to point them in the right direction, then give them their head. They’ll gallop you off to your destination without a whit of trouble and faster than a more manageable beast.”

  “So you’re telling me Morse Archer is like a green-broken stallion?” The image stirred her.

  “Something like that.”

  She stole a glance at him, then quickly looked away again. “You feel you’re apt to learn faster if I give you more autonomy?”

  “If that means letting me have some say in what I learn and how—then, yes.”

  It irked Leonora to admit a fault. But Morse had frankly admitted one of his. “As much as you dislike taking orders, Sergeant, I feel compelled to give them. For the longest time, there was no regularity in my life—you have no idea how frightening that can be for a child. Once I was in a position to impose some kind of structure upon my little world, I set about it with a vengeance. Perhaps it’s time I learned to be less directive.”

  The last few yards to the front entrance their steps slowed, as if somehow reluctant to leave behind the freedom of the outdoors and the darkness.

  “Do we have a truce, then, Sergeant?”

  He seemed to mull it over before answering. “A truce—that’s a cease-fire between enemies, Miss Freemantle.” In the soft glow of the door lamp, he searched her eyes. “I hope we haven’t been that. Opponents, maybe, testing each other’s steel.”

  “You found me a worthy opponent?” The notion appealed to her.

  “Aye.” He smiled. “Though you like to use a barrage of heavy artillery when a single rifle shot would do.”

  Leonora lifted an eyebrow and fought to stifle the answering smile. “While you favor a sneak attack from the rear.” She had to admit, sparring with Morse Archer had a rather stimulating effect upon her.

  With a wry chuckle, he conceded the point. “A talent for deception is apt to come in handy during the campaign ahead of us. Take it from a soldier, different fighting styles can sometimes dovetail into the best alliances.”

  “Allies?” Leonora considered the idea. It sounded uncomfortably like a partnership. Long ago she had reconciled herself to operating alone.

  “Very well,” she said finally. “Shall we find a quiet spot to sit and discuss our tactics for the coming weeks? Perhaps drink a little toast to our alliance?”

  Morse pulled the great front door open and ushered her into the welcoming warmth of the entry hall. “It would be an honor and a pleasure, Miss Freemantle.”

  The glass of her spectacles fogged up, as they were apt to do when she came in from the cold. Leonora pushed them down her nose and glanced over the lenses at Morse. Perhaps it was only her shortsightedness that lent him such a soft, appealing aspect.

  “I declare, Sergeant, you sound more like a gentleman, already.”

  Chapter Nine

  “What, in your estimation, am I doing so very wrong, Sergeant?” asked Leonora as she and Morse settled into a pair of upholstered armchairs on either side of the library hearth, to drink their glasses of port wine.

  It went against her grain to ask a man’s advice on any matter, let alone take it. But she had promised Morse she would try to involve him in the decision-making and she meant to keep her word.

  Things would be different this time around. For a start, Morse would know better than to try any more of his sham wooing on her. Why did the prospect leave her with an empty, wistful feeling?

  Morse took a slow drink, as though giving himself time to frame his argument. “You wouldn’t be doing anything wrong, if we had two years more to prepare instead of two months. The way I see it, you’re trying to polish this great lump of coal into a genuine diamond, when all you really need to do is make a paste gem that’ll pass casual inspection.”

  “I’m not sure I see what you mean.” Conceding ignorance to a man came almost as hard as soliciting advice.

/>   Yet she couldn’t help wishing they had two years ahead of them instead of a meager two months.

  In the armchair opposite her, Morse hunched forward, his elbows resting on his knees. The flickering light from the hearth fire made the port in his glass gleam like liquid rubies. It also played over his strong, emphatic features in a way that made Leonora want to sigh with admiration.

  Morse Archer was a striking fellow, no question of that. How could she have been foolish enough to think he’d be attracted by a plain, bookish creature like her?

  “Take that Latin, for instance,” he said. “How many gentlemen have you met who walk around rhyming off all the conjugations of their verbs or cases of their nouns?”

  Understanding must have dawned in her expression, for he chuckled. “I’ve never come across one, either, and don’t fancy I will anytime soon. Now and then, you do hear one toss out a quote that shows off his fine education. So prime me with half a dozen handy Latin tags that might cover a broad range of occasions.”

  “You mean like aut disce aut discede?”

  Morse’s brow furrowed. “Either…learn or…leave?” He cracked a wide grin and winked at her. “Touché, Miss Freemantle. That’s an apt quote. Shows what a clever woman you are.”

  Ovid or Plautus might have supplied her with a fitting proverb about the folly of heeding a flatterer, but at that moment Leonora could not think of one. The mellow tone of this flatterer’s voice set her thoughts whirling too furiously.

  “I haven’t time to read all those thick books before we go to Bath, either.” Morse gestured toward the floor-to-ceiling bookcases that lined the interior wall. “Though now that you’ve got me started, I might like to study them at my leisure. For the moment, you can just tell me what’s in them and what makes them important for a chap to know about.”

  She was beginning to see his point. “Very well, but what of history…or mathematics?”