by Hale Deborah
“No wicked waltzing for you on that leg, dear fellow,” Algie pronounced as if it were a death sentence. “Shame, too. The ability to squire a young lady on the dance floor will get you farther in this ‘heiress hunting’ business than all the billiards and card playing in the world.”
“Morse’s lameness may play to our advantage, Algie.” Leonora corralled the pair of them and Elsie Taylor into the music room for their first lesson.
She called for the gamekeeper, who had a reputation as a fine fiddler. “Rather than try to drill him on all the dances, we can concentrate on a few of the slower ones. If he finds himself confronted with an unfamiliar set when he’s out at a ball, he can simply beg off on account of his leg.”
“By Jove, you are clever, Leonora!” cried Algie. “Isn’t she though, Morse?”
The blatant adoration in Algie’s round brown eyes took Leonora aback. For all his lack of discernment, she had become quite fond of him. How could anyone not respond to those unflagging high spirits and that unfailing eagerness to help?
There was not a particle of harm in the dear fellow.
Yet, Leonora could not reconcile herself to the thought of becoming his wife.
“She’d make a fine general,” Morse replied to Algie’s question.
What made his dark eyes flash so provocatively when he spoke, and his firm jaw clench? He looked so solemn, Leonora could not resist poking gentle fun at him.
“You’ll have to devise more poetic compliments than that, Morse, if you expect the ladies to come flocking your way at Bath.”
Algie guffawed and Elsie Taylor tried to hide a smile by staring at the floor. Morse cast Leonora a challenging glance and a grin that conceded she’d scored a point off him.
Strangely, her own words struck Leonora less than funny once she’d uttered them. For they conjured in her mind an image of ladies flocking to Morse.
And they would. Game leg or sound, fawning compliments or wry jests.
Pretty ladies, witty ladies, wealthy ladies. Ladies eager to give him what all men wanted from women. And not necessarily with the inducement of a wedding ring.
It should not have mattered to her in the least. But the nauseating void in her stomach, the tightness in her chest and the crushing weight upon her heart told Leonora it did matter.
It mattered far too much.
“I say, Morse.” Algie placed his cue ball a precise six inches from the head spot and lined up his billiard shot. “Have you noticed the difference in our Leonora since she engaged Miss Taylor as her lady’s maid?”
His ball caromed off the cushions, striking the red, and just missing Morse’s cue ball by a hairbreadth.
“Difference?” grunted Morse, bristling over Algie’s our Leonora. How could he concentrate on making a decent shot with Blenkinsop prattling on like this? “I haven’t noticed any difference.”
It wasn’t true, but he didn’t want to dwell on it, let alone discuss it with the likes of Algie Blenkinsop. He’d noticed the changes in her appearance, subtle though they’d been, at first. They were proving a devilish distraction from his studies.
Even Algie’s mention of it, just now, devastated his concentration on their billiards match. His cue struck the ball much too hard and a hair off center, sending it in a wild trajectory around the table without so much as glancing either of the other balls. Worse yet, it set up a laughably easy shot for his opponent.
So easy, in fact, that Algie scarcely needed to spare it a crumb of his attention while he continued to talk.
“Not noticed? Clever cove like you? That’s rum, I’ll say. Most times you have to smash a bottle over my head to attract my attention, but this caught my eye straightaway.”
If the ashwood cue in his hand had been a rifle, Morse would have been sorely tempted to raise it and blow Algie Blenkinsop to kingdom come. Bad enough the thickheaded blue blood had the gall to notice Leonora, but did he have to rub a fellow’s face in it at every opportunity?
In an effort to quench his rising temper, Morse bolted a drink of his brandy.
“You mean, her new clothes?” He begrudged the question, not wanting to encourage Algie in this line of conversation, but unwilling to let himself be thought dense. “Bit more color in them of late.”
He tried to shut out any reply from Algie as he set up his next shot.
“Mmm. Take that frock she had on today. Pretty green, like an unripe apple.”
When Morse spared a glance at Algie, he couldn’t help but notice the fellow’s calf-eyed bemusement.
Heaving a sigh of admiration, Algie continued. “It set off her eyes quite splendidly.”
Morse had noticed, too. The realization had overwhelmed him like a surprise attack from the rear. But he would not have admitted the fact under torture.
Again his shot went wide. By sheer accident it struck the object ball, but came nowhere near the other.
Algie surveyed the table and clucked his tongue. “Rum luck, old fellow. Your game is off tonight, isn’t it?”
With a graceful economy of movement he had yet to demonstrate on the dance floor, Algie tilted his cue over the bridge of his long fingers and made his shot. Up the table, banked off one cushion, striking the red ball, off another cushion and another before striking Morse’s ball.
“Carom for me!” he cried.
To add insult to injury, Algie’s shot had placed Morse’s ball in a tricky corner position from which it would be almost impossible to score.
While Morse did his best to set up this preposterous shot, Algie lapsed back into worshipful contemplation of Leonora. “She has such a graceful step. Don’t suppose you noticed that, either, Morse. As finely turned an ankle as I’ve ever seen on a gel. And I do admire that new way Miss Taylor has done Leonora’s hair.”
That had not escaped Morse’s attention, either. The little village girl had persuaded her new mistress to cut the front part of her hair, rather than dragging it all back tight. Now those fine sable tresses clustered in soft wisps and tendrils around her face, accentuating the delicacy of her features and the stunning beauty of her eyes.
If only he could hold her in his arms, just once, and press his cheek to her hair.
“‘Course a chap would be lucky to get a wife like her supposing she was homely as a brush fence,” Algie declared, blithely oblivious to Morse’s rising vexation.
Too many more such remarks and he’d be lucky to escape a billiard cue getting cracked across his pointy pate.
Morse bungled yet another shot, though he was past caring. All he wanted now was for the match to be over and the besotted Algie Blenkinsop out of his sight for another day.
“Looks are well and good to begin with.” Though Algie appeared to be concentrating on his game even less than Morse, he scored another carom with ease. “But a chap’s got to remember he’ll be married to an old woman for a good deal longer than a young one. A gel like Leonora will look after a chap and see he doesn’t get into too many scrapes. And she’ll never lack for something interesting to say.”
Morse had never thought about women in those terms. Though it nettled him to admit it, Algie Blenkinsop had a point. Leonora was the type of woman a wise man would want to grow old with.
Gritting his teeth and clutching his billiard cue so hard his knuckles went white, Morse managed to score on his next shot.
Save for his one surprising insight, Algie Blenkinsop was not a wise man. Morse vowed, yet again, that he would do everything within his power to deprive Algie of the chance to grow old with Leonora. Starting with this billiards match.
Before the great pedestal clock in the entry struck midnight, Morse had managed to best Algie Blenkinsop, fifty caroms to forty-eight.
“Another new gown made up, already, Elsie?” Leonora shook her head in wonder and admiration of the jonquil yellow muslin. “You are a model of industry, I must say. I wish I’d had the good sense to engage your services sooner.”
Blushing at the compliment, Elsie’s gaze dropped d
own to her sewing. “It’s almost finished, miss. I could have it done for you by dinnertime. That is, if you don’t need me to make up a fourth for Sergeant Archer’s dancing lessons.”
“Not Sergeant Archer, Elsie,” Leonora corrected her. “With Bath less than a month away, we must all get into the habit of calling him Captain Archibald.”
Captain Maurice Archibald, they’d decided, sounded enough like his own name, while lending him a more high-born air.
“I’ll do my best to remember, miss.”
“Three weeks should give us all plenty of time to get used to it.” Leonora fell silent for a moment, puzzling the spasm of dismayed emptiness that rippled through her whenever she contemplated the end of their time together.
Perhaps it was only unease as to how Morse would fare in Bath society.
“I hope he’ll be ready in time,” she mused aloud.
“Do you think it’s right of him to be setting out to deceive a lady into marriage, miss?” asked Elsie.
Leonora detected a subdued note of censure in the girl’s voice that her mistress should be working so hard to help him.
“Give Sergeant…I mean, Captain Archibald, the benefit of a doubt. There is far more riding on his success than you might think. In fact, you may have cause to thank him for his effort one of these days.”
“If you say so, miss.” The girl focused on her sewing once again. “He has the best teachers in you and Mr. Blenkinsop.”
“Algie?” Leonora rolled her eyes. “You’re right, though, I suppose. He has been a help, in his way, tutoring Morse in all the dissipations of a gentleman.”
“He’s a fine gentleman himself. Ser—Captain Archibald could learn a good deal just by watching him.”
“Really, Elsie.” Leonora strolled to the window, where she could see the two men practicing carriage handling in the courtyard. “Morse is twice the man Algie will ever be, regardless of their rank or fortune.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that, miss.” This was the first time Leonora could recall the girl quite so outspoken. “Mr. Blenkinsop isn’t as good-looking or as clever, perhaps, but I reckon a cheerful nature and a kind heart are better than any amount of looks or wits.”
“Elsie Taylor!” Leonora contemplated the girl in wonder. “Don’t tell me you’re smitten with Algie Blenkinsop?”
“Of course not, miss!” Elsie jabbed her needle into the muslin with brutal force, her cheeks suddenly as red as a pair of cherries. “I wouldn’t presume any such thing. Especially when it’s clear how much he fancies you. I never heard a man go on so about a lady.”
Leonora couldn’t argue that. It was one of the few things that kept her from liking Algie without reserve.
“Besides, he’s a good deal cleverer than you give him credit for,” Elsie added almost under her breath.
Turning away to hide a smile, Leonora shook her head. Algie could be far more clever than she imagined him and still not be mistaken for a genius.
“Don’t worry about finishing the dress today, Elsie. It looks rather too fancy for dinner at home, anyway. Perhaps I shall save it for an outing at Bath, or…”
An idea germinated in her thoughts and took root. “Your presence as a fourth for dancing would be most helpful, though. Shall we go call the men in from their carriage driving practice and put them to work polishing up their ballroom skills?”
“Oh, yes, miss! I should be ever so glad to help.” As Elsie scrambled up from her chair, her sewing cascaded to the floor like a pool of molten butter.
“I hope my pupil will greet the invitation with as much enthusiasm as you do.” Leonora chuckled.
As they hurried down the main staircase, Leonora spied her uncle in the entry hall.
“Off gadding again, Uncle Hugo.” She fastened the top button of his greatcoat and wound the woolen muffler around his neck. “You aren’t courting Colonel Morrison’s sister on the sly, are you?”
He pretended to chuff and bluster with indignation, but she could tell the quip amused him. “Nonsense. Courting at my age—nonsense! Glad to see young folk and high spirits back at Laurelwood again. You don’t need an old duffer like me hanging about all the time.”
So that was it. Leonora wasn’t certain whether to swallow a smile or to heave a sigh of exasperation. Uncle Hugo was purposely making himself scarce so as not to hamper Algie’s pursuit of her. Perhaps he entertained some vain hope that the impossible creature might win her heart, even if she and Morse ended up winning the wager.
No sense in telling him he could sail away to the South Seas and it would not influence her feelings for Algie Blenkinsop. Or rather, her lack of feelings. If it wasn’t what he wanted to hear, the words would go in one ear and come out the other.
“You’re not old,” she said instead. “And we all enjoy your company very much, so you needn’t go courting influenza by riding out on an endless round of visits.”
Leonora recalled the idea she’d been mulling over on the way downstairs. “Elsie, would you be so obliging as to summon Mr. Blenkinsop and Ser—Captain Archibald in for dancing practice? Promise them a cup of chocolate to warm up before we begin.”
As the girl scampered off to call Morse and Algie, Leonora called after her, “If that doesn’t budge them, promise brandy.”
Sir Hugo chortled. “You know how to manage men, my dear, and that’s a fact.”
She picked a thread from the breast of his coat. “When I first tried to recruit Morse for our wager, you told me I hadn’t a notion how to handle men.”
“Well, you’ve learned in the meantime.” Sir Hugo donned his hat. “These lessons of yours must be working both ways.”
The idea struck Leonora dumb for a moment. She had learned a thing or two from Morse Archer—some harsh lessons, others far too pleasant.
As Sir Hugo stepped toward the door, she caught his coat sleeve. “If I’m such a dab hand at bending men to my will, can I persuade you to host a party at Laurelwood in a fortnight or so? We can say it’s a farewell to the neighborhood before we go to Bath. Morse is progressing very well, but I would like to give him a chance to test his wings on an audience that won’t be too critical.”
“Capital idea—capital!” boomed Sir Hugo. “Can’t think why the notion didn’t occur to me in the first place. We must ask the Misses Maperton and Colonel Morrison’s nieces. And that young nephew of Pewsey’s who’s been staying with him. You write up the invitations, my dear, and I’ll give our neighbors plenty of advance notice of their coming. Now I must be on my way before I melt in this coat and muffler.”
“Thank you, Uncle.” Leonora sent him off with a kiss on the cheek and a sneaking sense of satisfaction that she could manage one man, after all.
“I know it’s getting late and you’ve put in a full day already.” Leonora cast Morse a pleading look he could not resist. “We’ve only got two more days until the party, and only a week after that to get our ducks in a row before we head off to Bath. I want to make certain you have your background well memorized, so no one can trip you up.”
Morse gave a weary nod. “Go ahead.”
His mind was already swimming with Latin tags and French bon mots, not to mention the basic stories from far too many of Old Billy Shakespeare’s plays. After a long drive in the phaeton with Algie, then dancing for as long as his leg could tolerate, Morse was ready for a tip of spirits and an early bedtime.
Nothing would induce him to let Leonora down, however.
Particularly not when she appeared to know and appreciate exactly how hard he had been working. Besides that, their time together was running out. Morse found himself clutching at every opportunity for a moment alone with her, no matter how tiresome the subject of their studies.
When she told him about Caesar’s conquest of Gaul, or the plots and counterplots executed during the War of the Roses, it all sounded like the most fascinating adventure. When she read to him from the works of the great poets, Morse’s soul stirred in response. Even Latin had a pretty so
und when it issued from such beguiling lips—one minute firm and resolute, the next softly vulnerable.
“It won’t take long, I promise.” Her head tilted to one side. Her eyes glowed with empathy and encouragement. “Rather than recite it all by rote, though, we should practice in a way you’re likely to encounter at the party or at Bath. Let us pretend I’m a lady to whom you’ve just been introduced.”
Morse’s tiredness eased. Flashing her a smile, he sat up straighter on the chaise. The idea of playacting piqued his interest. No question, Leonora was a stimulating teacher—a stimulating…companion. He would miss that companionship, perhaps more than he’d ever expected.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Captain Archibald.” Leonora held out her hand to him and batted her eyelashes like a proper vacuous debutante. “What brings you to Bath, pray tell?”
Morse bit the inside of his lip to keep from laughing. With a touch as light as he would have used to handle delicate porcelain, he lifted her hand and brushed it with his lips.
“Enchanté, mademoiselle.” He’d worked many hours to master his few words of French. Might as well work them in at every opportunity.
He treated her to the look—an expression he’d perfected over the years to assure a woman that she was one of the most beautiful he’d ever laid eyes on.
“You might say I’ve come to enjoy the scenery.” His look and intonation were meant to leave no doubt that the lady herself was worth a long journey to gaze upon. Though Morse aped the upper-class drawl of a much-loathed officer he’d served under in India, the flattery was all his own.
For the past six weeks he’d manfully refrained from using his charm on Leonora. Their present exercise in make-believe freed him to say all the things he’d been hoarding within himself.
If he worried she might take issue with that, her trill of tittering laughter reassured him—even as it set his teeth on edge.
“Oh, Captain!” She raised her hand as if to shield a blushing face. “You are too gallant.”
“Not at all, Miss Husbandhunter.” Morse watched Leonora try to stifle a giggle at the name he’d invented for her. “The fact is, I came here with friends. Sir Hugo Peverill—perhaps you’ve heard of him? He thought the waters of Bath might do my game leg some good.”
