by Hale Deborah
Morse’s mouth fell open.
He hoped Frederica would not suddenly turn back from the window, for he had no hope of disguising the look of dismay that gripped his features. There could be no mistaking the insolent beauty that stared back at him from the portrait.
Not trusting himself to speak, Morse bolted.
From her window seat overlooking Laura Place, Leonora glanced out for the tenth time that hour. The low-hanging clouds had been menacing all day. If they meant to douse Bath in rain, she wished they would get on with it and be done! She could weather the inevitable deluge, but she hated waiting for it.
Just then Morse limped into view, making his way from Pulteney Bridge. From what Leonora could tell, he appeared to lean upon his walking stick more heavily than he had in some time. A shame his visit to the baths with Algie had not improved his mobility. With a guilty start Leonora realized her shallow pretext of checking the weather had only been an excuse to watch for Morse.
Closer and closer he came, and Leonora could not take her eyes off him. No use telling herself she had made her choice. The only safe, rational choice she could make. Her heart still yearned for Morse Archer. Irrationally. Dangerously.
But what was this?
As she watched, he passed the entrance of Sir Hugo’s premises and kept right on walking through Laura Place and up Great Pulteney Street. Where could he be going?
Before she had time to convince herself the matter was no concern of hers, Leonora had thrown a shawl around her shoulders, seized an umbrella and dashed out of the house after him. She managed to stay at a discreet distance while still keeping him in sight, until he reached Sydney Gardens.
The hexagonal expanse of lawns, groves and vistas was Leonora’s favorite spot in all of Bath. A day seldom passed without she and Elsie coming here for a stroll. She liked it best on days like this, when unsettled weather left the park free of fashionable ladies and gentlemen out parading their finery.
Indeed, Leonora found the pleasure garden all but deserted. For a moment she almost forgot her pursuit of Morse, captivated by Sydney Gardens at the height of its springtime charm. The wholesome sweetness of flowering fruit trees distilled in the mild, moist air. The varied, vivid greens of grass and leaf would have taxed an artist’s palette.
She soon overtook Morse, sitting on a low stone bench beside one of the footpaths, staring down Bathwick slope toward the River Avon. Leonora approached and retreated several times before she strayed close enough to catch his eye.
“Oh, hello.” He smiled, but absently, as though his thoughts were on something…or someone far away. Then he glanced behind her. “Miss Taylor not with you?”
Even that slight degree of awareness seemed to tax his concentration.
“No.” What use was it pretending she had just happened upon him during one of her strolls in the park? Even as unconventional a creature as she did not usually roam Sydney Gardens unchaperoned. “I saw you wander past the house. I wondered if something might be wrong.”
Since Morse appeared too preoccupied to offer her a seat, Leonora claimed one for herself, beside him on the bench. “Well, is there? Have you challenged someone else to a duel? Or has Miss Hill thrown you over for a suitor of more exalted pedigree?”
Morse answered with a slow shake of his head that told her nothing at all.
A fat, cold raindrop struck Leonora on the nose. Others followed. Opening her umbrella, she shifted closer to Morse, holding it up to shield them both from the rain. “We should get back to Laura Place. The sky has been threatening this rain all day. It’s likely to keep up for some time.”
His vacant gaze met hers. “Did you say something?”
Leonora’s curiosity gave way to alarm. “There is something wrong, isn’t there, Morse? Come now, you must tell me. Perhaps I can help.”
He stared back out over the vale, where a swath of mist had gathered above the river. His lips did not appear to move. Perhaps the words issued straight from his heart. “It was her.”
“It was she.” Schoolmistress reflex made Leonora say it before she could think to stop herself.
Morse’s head whipped around, the better for him to glare at her. “Her. She. What does it matter? It was my Pamela in that picture!”
The words slammed into Leonora, stunning her into silence. She half expected Morse to leap from the bench and hobble off.
But he didn’t.
Instead, as if drained by his outburst, he slumped forward until his elbows rested upon his knees and his head nestled in his hands. Leonora was suddenly conscious of the contact between them—from hip to knee. Her hand holding the umbrella began to tremble.
“It’s been so long.” Morse’s voice sounded oddly hushed and again his mouth scarcely seemed to move.
Leonora fought the uncanny notion that she might be hearing his unspoken thoughts.
“So long. All the army years between then and now. But when I looked at her picture, it might have been yesterday.”
Word by word it poured out, with no attempt to explain or interpret for her sake. Some instinct forbade Leonora to question. Yet, piece by piece it came clear at last.
How it had been between Lady Pamela Granville and young Archer, the footman. He spoke of their intimacy, with no thought of censoring it for Leonora’s ears. A smarting heat radiated from her leg where it pressed against Morse’s. An answering fervor smoldered in her heart—a combustible compound of passionate arousal and primal jealousy.
He had done things with another woman that would make her writhe and whimper in her empty bed, wanting him. When he described—or relived their final interview, Leonora scarcely heeded the bitter pain in his voice, so consumed was she by the image of Morse provoking the lust of his highborn mistress. The passions within her had reached their flash point when Morse struck tinder.
His own agitation had eased with the gradual seepage of memories, until at last he was able to expel a slow breath—part wistful sigh, part derisive chuckle. “To think our lives would collide again after all this time, and in such a way. It would serve Lady Pamela right if I did wed her stepdaughter.”
Leonora could contain herself no longer. Surging up from the bench, she let the umbrella fall forward until it loomed between them like a shield. Or a weapon.
“What manner of warped creature are you, Morse Archer? To casually speculate on wedding this young woman only to revenge yourself on her stepmother. Whatever made me think I could turn you into a gentleman? I’m sorry I ever set eyes on you!”
Her charge struck Morse like a load of grapeshot to the bowels. Putrid shame gushed from the wound.
No sense protesting that he hadn’t meant it that way. Perhaps, in some coarse, petty corner of his soul he had. But blast him to hell if he’d bow to Leonora Freemantle’s self-righteous judgment.
Pulling himself erect, though his leg throbbed worse than it had since Bucaso, he covered his weakness by going on the attack. “No sorrier than I am, madam. I’m so sick of your hypocrisy, I could gag.”
Thunder rumbled in the distance and the rain pelted down upon them. Morse raised his voice to be heard above the storm. “Quit pretending such lofty scruples. I can see through them well enough. Too good to wed me yourself, but you can’t abide the notion of my being happy with some other woman. You’re nothing more than a dog in the manger!”
She raised a hand to wipe the sodden hair from her forehead, but made no move to hoist her umbrella. “That’s the most ridiculous—”
“I’m not finished! You’re no better than Pamela Granville. At least she didn’t pretend to care for anything but rank and fortune. No fine-sounding cant about education and equality.” He strode past her in the downpour, marching back toward Great Pulteney Street with his best parade ground swagger.
His leg wound revenged itself upon him with every step and threatened further reprisals in the days to come. Morse’s pride refused to submit. He would not give Leonora Freemantle the satisfaction of watching him falter.
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Oh, they were cut from the same cloth, these two wellborn ladies who provoked his desire as intensely as they mutilated his pride. It would serve them both right if he wed the most eligible heiress in Bath!
Chapter Seventeen
Leonora did not even watch Morse go.
For a few moments after he stalked off, she continued to stand there with the sky weeping spring rain upon her. Too stunned and indignant for action—even the slight effort of lifting her umbrella.
A dog in the manger. How dare he accuse her of such pettiness?
Her own steady, dispassionate reason suddenly turned traitor, asking if she truly wished to see him happy with another woman. It seemed pointless to lie to herself.
No, she acknowledged with a shuddering sigh. She did not want to see him with another woman. Did not want to think of him with another woman. Could not even stand to hear of his past encounters with another woman.
Morse was wrong about the rest, though.
He’d claimed she didn’t want him, and that was not true. She did resent Frederica Hill’s place in his life and Pamela Hill’s former place in his arms. But only because she wanted so badly to be there in their stead.
In the throes of anguish too hot for any amount of rain to quench, Leonora turned and ran back through Sydney Gardens and down Great Pulteney Street.
Afterward, Morse scarcely remembered wending his way to Camden Place in the pouring rain, his heart smoldering in his chest like a white-hot coal. In his mind, Leonora Freemantle and Pamela Granville melded into one. Provoking him to desire and love. Then turning on him to demand the former and disdain the latter.
If he’d had his wits about him, he would never have turned up at Frederica’s door soaked to the bone and hardly able to stagger another step. What had drawn him there, he could not guess. By this hour she and the Fitzwarrens must be out to a concert at the Assembly Rooms or some private party.
The servants knew him well enough by sight, though. Out of pity they might show him to a chair by the kitchen hearth until he could muster the nerve to return to Laura Place.
Morse knocked.
The door opened about halfway and the butler eyed him with suspicion. “Tradesmen to the kitchen do—Dear me, is that you, Captain Archibald? Come in, sir, before you drown.”
“Too late.” Morse managed a wry grin as he stepped into the entry hall. Strangely, he felt his own cold and wetness to a greater degree in contrast to the warmth and dryness around him.
He was about to apologize to the butler for turning up during the family’s absence, when Frederica called from the head of the stairs. “Hardy, who’s come calling at this hour and on such an evening?”
Before the butler could answer, Morse did. “I thought you’d be out. May I stay a few minutes to get myself dry?”
“Maurice?” She came flying down the stairs in her dressing gown. “Henrietta and Eustace went out to a party, but I didn’t feel—Gracious! We must get you into dry clothes at once.”
“Really, that won’t be nec—”
“Go fetch a dressing gown of Lord Fitzwarren’s,” she ordered the butler. “Nothing else would be big enough.”
Though Morse tried to protest, she peeled off his coat and made him sit down to pry off his boots. Before he could gain his feet again, she plucked off his hat.
Then, perhaps realizing it would be improper for her to disrobe him further, she blushed a very becoming shade of pink. “Perhaps you had better go change clothes in Eustace’s dressing room. In the meantime I’ll see if Cook has a little mulled wine on hand. She often does on a rainy night.”
“Please, don’t go to any trouble.”
His protests fell on deaf ears. “Come down to the drawing room once you’ve put on dry clothes. The fire’s better there than in the parlor.”
The news did not disappoint Morse. Rather than sit in the same room with Lady Pamela’s portrait, he would have walked back out into the storm—coatless, hatless and barefoot.
When he limped into the drawing room a quarter of an hour later, Morse smelled the mellow spicy aroma of mulled wine and the faint smoke of a well-stoked coal fire. He shrugged his shoulders, trying to get comfortable in the borrowed dressing gown. A fine, warm garment, it must have hung loose on Fitzwarren’s whippet frame. It clung to Morse like a luxurious strait waistcoat.
“Come sit by the fire and dry out.” Frederica perched on a footstool beside the massive wing chair she’d tugged in front of the hearth.
Sinking into the chair gratefully, Morse closed his eyes for a moment to rest them. And to avoid Frederica’s searching gaze. He could not stop his ears to her questions, though.
“Whatever were you doing out in such weather?”
“Walking.” His hoarseness made the answer sound gruff, which he instantly regretted.
She fell silent for a time. Morse occupied himself with drinking his toddy. A few sips sent a ripple of warmth coursing through him.
“You left here so abruptly.” Her words held a question.
“I remembered a piece of urgent business.”
Her voice took on a tentative, wary note. “I wondered if I’d frightened you off with my talk of matches and suitors.”
Morse squirmed in his physically comfortable seat. Just then he felt like an accused criminal in the docket.
What could he answer? Yes would brand him a coward and a cad. No might suggest he welcomed such overtures.
“Business,” he croaked again. “Urgent business.”
“At least you came back here.” She seemed determined to find reassurance. If not in his words, then in his actions.
When Morse made no reply, she abruptly changed the subject. “Have you heard Colonel Maxwell is coming to Bath?”
“No, I hadn’t. What brings him, do you suppose?”
“The same thing that brought you, perhaps. An effort to recover his health.”
Having received grievous wounds during his service under Wellington, Colonel Sir Geoffery Maxwell was esteemed only a degree below the great general himself. His coming would set Bath society atwitter. Morse knew he would have to keep a safe distance from his idol and former commander, for Colonel Maxwell could expose his true identity in the blink of an eye.
“Let’s hope the colonel has more sense than to go walking in the rain.” Morse laughed giddily at his feeble quip. Both the tension in his body and the turmoil in his thoughts began to ease. The mulled wine must be more potent than he’d realized.
“There’s to be a grand ball in Colonel Maxwell’s honor at the Guildhall,” said Frederica. “Father and Stepmother will be in town by then. That should put father in a good temper—he admires the colonel so.”
She talked on about the ball. What she would wear. The music. The refreshments. How Morse’s presence would open all the right social doors for her and her family. Her conversation washed over Morse, bubbling around him and buoying him up. Like the hot spring water of Bath—soothing and relaxing him.
Perhaps this was what he needed from a woman.
The notion formed in his mind as if planted there by some outside agency. It found fertile ground, though, tilled by the day’s disturbing events and the wine he’d consumed far too quickly. Perhaps this was what he needed from a woman. Not challenge and zest, but ease and tranquility. If nothing else, a woman prepared to greet his marriage proposal with an enthusiastic yes.
Frederica’s chatter trailed off little by little as he added no fresh fuel to the conversation. Yet she did not chide him for failing to speak or interrogate him about the privacy of his thoughts. By degrees she subsided against him until her head rested lightly against his knee.
Almost of its own accord, his hand reached out and stroked her hair. She excited not an ounce of desire in him, but perhaps that was no bad thing. Having been scorched by the heat of passion in the past, more tepid feelings now appealed to him.
“Your father expects you to make a good match this season?” His hoarseness now sounded husk
y and tender.
Frederica held still. Her head continued to rest against his knee as she stared toward the hearth. “He may not say it in so many words. But I know he does.”
“Would I suit him, do you suppose?”
“Suit him?” She whispered the words on an intake of breath.
“As a son-in-law, I mean,” Morse persisted. “Or perhaps what I should ask is, will I suit you?”
She sat up and turned to stare at him. “Are you asking for my hand, Captain?”
“I suppose I am.” His own voice sounded as surprised as hers. “Shall I be disappointed?”
“Yes!” She lunged at him, throwing her arms around his neck. Morse wondered if her excitement stemmed more from relief than affection. “I mean—no. No, you shall not be disappointed. Yes, I will accept.”
Morse recalled the sensation of his body after emerging from Cross Bath—limp and boneless. He felt something akin to that now in his mind and his heart. Had he just crowned a life full of mistakes with the most grievous mistake of all? If he tried to back out now, Leonora’s wager would be lost.
Uncle did not look well. The folds of his craggy face hung flaccid, as though someone had just clubbed him senseless with a poker. He held the open newspaper before him, but his eyes did not scan the page. Rather they fixed on one spot and gazed into a distance far beyond it.
“Whatever is the matter, Uncle Hugo?” Leonora dropped to her knees beside his chair. “Shall I summon the doctor?”
He shook his head, and his spirit seemed to return to his body from its wayfaring. “No doctors. I’m plenty fit with all that vile mineral water I’ve been drinking.”
Leonora had scarcely expelled a breath of relief when Sir Hugo folded up his newspaper and announced in a most accusatory tone, “I suppose you’ve been party to all this.”
“Party to what? I promise I’ve been behaving myself.”
“Are you saying you had nothing to do with this engagement nonsense Morse has taken into his head?”
Sir Hugo’s words bludgeoned her.
“Engagement?” she squeaked. “To Miss Hill?”
