The Wedding Wager

by Hale Deborah

  She gasped.

  Fearing the worst, Morse glanced up. Then he heard the glass shatter. Leonora had come to his rescue, nudging one of the waiters to spill the whole content of his tray on Pamela Hill’s provocative red gown. Some splashed on Frederica, too.

  Morse knew there was no love lost between his fiancée and her stepmother. But in common calamity they put aside their differences and fled together toward the ladies’ retiring room.

  He and Leonora fled in the opposite direction. Once they’d gotten far enough away, their laughter exploded like shaken champagne. “When you mount a counterattack, you don’t go in for half measures do you, General?”

  “Not very subtle.” She flashed him a wry smile. “But effective enough. It was my fault Mrs. Hill caught up with you. I should have known better than to leave her with Algie. You handled it well—do you think she recognized you?”

  Morse shook his head. “A mild suspicion that she’s seen me before, perhaps. Since you gave her no opportunity to pursue it, I think I’m safe for the moment. I’ll be more careful to keep clear of her until the wager’s won.”

  Was he relieved or insulted that his former mistress had failed to recognize him? Morse wondered.

  Relieved, he decided at last. In more ways than one. After so many years wasted trying to forget Lady Pamela Granville, he had come face-to-face with her again. Only to discover she had lost all power over him. He had been a fool comparing Leonora to such a vain, shallow creature.

  “Captain Archibald is a well-spoken fellow.” Leonora’s voice held a note of banter, but her eyes glowed with absolute sincerity. “When all’s said and done, though, I still prefer Sergeant Archer.”

  They had found a relatively quiet corner in the convivial hubbub of the Guildhall banquet room. Now Morse maneuvered himself to shield Leonora from the rest of the company, creating a tiny bubble of privacy in this very public place. He reached for her hand and held it with gentle but implacable pressure, as if he could not bear to let it go. Ever.

  “If you prefer Morse Archer, why did you refuse him?”

  With a gallant tilt of her chin, she looked him in the eye. Try as she might, she could not mask the pain and uncertainty that clouded her gaze. “Do the reasons matter, now?”

  “They matter a great deal to Sergeant Archer.”

  She sighed. “Then perhaps I will tell him, one day. But for now, it would serve no good purpose.”

  Or because she could not bear to speak of her reasons?

  He’d been so occupied with his hurts and griefs, foolishly supposing those of higher station must not suffer such things. Now he knew better.

  The pressure of her hand on his increased and her gaze intensified. “It is important that you know what my reasons were not.”

  His puzzlement must have been comical to behold, for Leonora smiled briefly. “Besides, you seem to forget, I did not refuse you. You refused me—in rather vehement terms as I recall. I’ve come to understand why, and I regret with all my heart answering your proposal with so grievous an insult.”

  What had made her do it? He should have known Leonora Freemantle was not the kind of woman to offer herself to a man without benefit of clergy. But he’d been too absorbed in his own cares to ask himself, or her, why she resisted matrimony so strenuously.

  “You must believe me.” Her hand grasped his tighter as if to compel his assurance. “I swear upon everything I hold dear—I did not decline your offer of marriage on consideration of your birth or because…” she hesitated “…I did not care for you enough to be your wife.”

  Morse sensed what it cost her to admit this.

  Her lower lip trembled and her eyes begged his forgiveness. He had never imagined his indomitable little general could look so vulnerable. Or so invitingly beautiful. Forgetting where they were. Forgetting how Sir Hugo’s wager now loomed between them. Forgetting everything but how she had taken possession of his heart, Morse leaned forward to kiss her.

  A forceful hand clutched at his coat sleeve and an insistent voice barked, “Captain Archibald!”

  It brought him crashing back to earth. Reluctantly he dropped Leonora’s hand, the kiss he longed to bestow still aching on his lips.

  He turned to face Herbert Hill.

  “Don’t go skulking in the corner, lad. This is to be your night. Come, I’ve someone who’s anxious to meet you.”

  Morse understood how this man had managed to wrest so large a fortune into his control. The force of his personality was almost impossible to resist. As Morse stammered excuses and tried to dig in his heels, Mr. Hill dragged him forward, until they stood in the presence of Sir Geoffrey Maxwell.

  One look into the colonel’s sound eye and Morse knew with sickening certainty the jig was up. Unlike Lady Pamela, Morse’s former commander had last seen him only months before. Neither was the colonel afflicted with class blindness that prevented him from seeing plain Sergeant Archer beneath the fashionable trappings of Captain Archibald.

  “Sir Geoffrey, I don’t suppose this young fellow needs any introduction to you, being one of your gallant lads wounded in the service of his country. Folks forget there’s only one army in Europe has stood up to old Bonaparte and prevailed.”

  Colonel Maxwell swept a look over Morse. One corner of his mouth curled up in a suggestion of tolerant amusement. “Give the Russians their due, Mr. Hill. They’ve made mince of the French legions in recent months.”

  “There you go, Sir Geoffrey, being too modest again,” Herbert Hill persisted. “I’m always lecturing Captain Archibald not to underrate himself. A starved and frozen army can’t fight worth a damn, and who knows what the outcome might have been if Bonaparte had been able to send all his troops east, instead of needing to leave so many back in Spain to guard his back door?”

  “That I will concede you, Mr. Hill.” The colonel planted his legs wide, perhaps to balance the wooden one. “I would be the last to slight our Peninsular army. The tide is turning on the Continent, and England has played her part bravely. Would you not agree, Captain Archibald?”

  For a moment Morse could not coax his vocal organs to frame a reply. Didn’t Colonel Maxwell intend to expose his masquerade?

  “M-many fine soldiers have fought bravely in this war, Sir.” Morse picked out Sir Hugo’s face in the crowd clustered around Colonel Maxwell. “And many gave their lives. It was an honor to serve with them.”

  Colonel Maxwell held out his hand. “Good to see you again, lad—and looking so fit. You’re a walking testament to the restorative powers of old Bath. I only hope the waters may do me as much good.”

  Morse snapped the colonel a salute, then grasped his hand. “Thank you, Sir. I hope so, too, Sir.”

  Herbert Hill insinuated himself between them, so puffed up with pride and felicity, his expensively tailored coat could barely contain him. “Lad’s fit as a fiddle and so will you be in jig time, Sir Geoffrey. Though it’s not only the waters that have worked their medicine on the young captain. I fancy the tonic of love had a bit to do with it. Where’s our Frederica?”

  “Here I am, Father.” She squirmed through the press of admirers surrounding them. Her rose-colored gown looked none the worse for Leonora’s liquid ambush. She latched onto Morse’s arm with at least as much force as her father had.

  Mr. Hill introduced his daughter to Colonel Maxwell. “Sir Geoffrey and Captain Archibald have just been renewing their acquaintance, my dear. What do you think of that? The colonel remembering your particular young man?”

  Morse spoke up. “I expect Colonel Maxwell would remember soldiers even beneath a captain’s rank. That’s why the men of his command would follow him anywhere.”

  “I’m certain any commander would remember you, my dear Maurice.” Frederica looked to Colonel Maxwell. “Captain Archibald is modesty itself when it comes to his exploits in battle. Can you tell us something of his heroic actions?”

  “Please, Frederica, I’m sure the colonel would—”

  Colonel M
axwell cut Morse off. “Tut-tut, my boy. We must not disappoint this charming young lady.”

  He proceeded to spin the most fantastic tale of Morse’s heroism. To hear him tell it, one would wonder how any French troops on the Peninsula had survived. The performance sent Frederica and her father into paroxysms of reflected glory.

  Morse’s cheeks burned scarlet with shame. Once upon a time he would have chafed at not receiving his due. Now he squirmed with chagrin as unearned honor heaped upon him.

  When Colonel Maxwell’s powers of invention had exhausted themselves, Herbert Hill could contain himself no longer. “It does my heart good to hear what I suspected all along. Sir Geoffrey. Ladies and gentlemen of Bath. It is my supreme honor to announce the engagement of my youngest daughter, Miss Frederica Hill to Captain Maurice Archibald!”

  He acknowledged the applause of the company as if he had contrived the courtship himself, from start to finish.

  Frederica flashed her enormous engagement ring for all to see. She looked up at her fiancé, eyes brimming with adoration. Morse knew he deserved it no more than he deserved Colonel Maxwell’s counterfeit accolades. He’d asked Frederica Hill to marry him in large measure because he knew she would say yes. After Leonora had turned him down, he’d needed that reassurance. Now Morse realized she had not accepted him at all and never would. Frederica had accepted Captain Maurice Archibald.

  A man Morse Archer was growing to hate more by the minute.

  From the fringe of the crowd, Leonora watched Morse transform disaster into triumph. Her heart swelled with pride.

  Swelled so much, it pained her.

  “I have another announcement.” Mr. Hill raised his voice to be heard over the drone of congratulations. “Since Captain Archibald and my daughter met and courted here in Bath, I think it only proper that they cap off the Season by wedding here. As many of you will soon be taking yourselves back to the country for the summer months, I propose the wedding take place as soon as a Special License can be procured for the purpose. That way, Sir Geoffrey may attend the nuptials as our honored guest.”

  Leonora could picture it all. The ceremony in Bath Abbey. A magnificent wedding breakfast in the Lower Assembly Rooms. It would do wonders for the town’s economy.

  And herself?

  She would find some excuse to quit Bath before then. Perhaps she’d return to Laurelwood and scout out a site for her school. Possibly begin construction for it to open in the fall. Her life would slip back into a safe, familiar groove, with the added benefit of an independent future assured. In short, everything she’d so ardently desired before fate and Uncle Hugo had flung Morse Archer into her path.

  As if summoned by her thoughts, Leonora heard Sir Hugo’s voice behind her. “Will you look at that, now? From a rough-mannered Rifleman facing court-martial to the toast of Bath. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”

  The wonder in his voice softened to regret and he heaved a great sigh. “No question you’ve won the wager, my dear. I’ll have my solicitor draw up all the necessary papers tomorrow.”

  She could not bring herself to gloat. He had gone to great trouble—engineering this wager in hopes of obliging her to do what he believed would make her happy.

  “Thank you, Uncle.” She was not referring to the solicitor.

  As she watched the cream of Bath Society surround Morse and Miss Hill with congratulations, Leonora fought down a lump in her throat and exhorted herself to rejoice. After all, she had accomplished everything she’d set out to. Soon she’d be free to found her school and to live her life in complete independence.

  Why, then, did it feel like her heart was breaking?

  Morse woke in a sweat with the bedclothes twined around his body like a strait waistcoat. Never in all his years soldiering, with his life in daily jeopardy, had he been prey to such nightmares. He’d dreamed of standing in a docket while the judge signed his death warrant. Then he’d been trussed to a stake for burning. The fancy had been so vivid, Morse woke with the stench of smoke in his nostrils.

  For a moment, when he realized it had only been a dream, the weight on his chest lifted and he took an easy breath. Then he remembered his triumph at the Guildhall, and thought ahead to his future. The weight settled upon him once again, all the heavier, for there could be no fortunate escape from what awaited him.

  Wait just a minute! his reason demanded. What great terrors did his future hold? Marriage to a beautiful, congenial young woman of fortune. A life of luxury and ease. No more pressing worry than which coat to wear or how many weeks of hunting season left. Every retired Rifleman should endure such hardship.

  But he would be living a lie, his conscience protested. Many lies. Pretending to be a gentleman. Pretending to love Frederica. Part of him yearned to take to his heels and reclaim his lost liberty. Let the whole benighted mess of this wager sort itself out without him!

  When he heard a soft tap on his door, Morse longed to ignore it. Force of gentlemanly habit made him call, “Come in.”

  In Dickon came, grinning as widely as if he had just consumed a quantity of potent hard cider. “Good morning, sir, and congratulations! I heard all about your triumph from Lord Melbury’s valet. You’re the talk of Bath after last night. We shall be sorry to lose you around Laurel-wood, though, sir. Perhaps you’ll come for a visit now and again, what?”

  “Thank you, Dickon. Perhaps so.”

  “Sir Hugo sends his compliments, sir, and asks if you might join him and Miss Leonora in his library in half an hour.”

  What could that be about?

  “You’ve also had several messages from Miss Hill this morning.” Dickon handed him the notes.

  As he dressed, Morse read Frederica’s messages.

  He must come to Camden Place at once to consult on the wedding plans. Send word immediately to his family in case they wished to attend. On second thought, he mustn’t inform his family—they could never hope to arrive in time. Before anything else, he must acquire the Special License that would allow them to wed without the bother of posting banns.

  When he finished the last one, Morse tossed them all onto the grate. At this time of year there were no glowing coals to set the paper alight…unfortunately.

  In spite of the season, Sir Hugo had a good fire going in the library when Morse joined him and Leonora there.

  “That was quite a performance last night, Morse, I must say. Have a seat, lad. I won’t keep you long—I know you’ll be wanting to get off on your wedding errands.”

  The older man’s words lacked their usual hearty note. In truth, everything about him seemed diminished. “Well, I got a wedding out of this wager, though not the one I planned.”

  Morse could not bring himself to look Leonora in the face as he dropped into a chair beside her. He longed to ask if she knew why they’d been summoned.

  Sir Hugo did not keep them long in suspense. Taking two papers from his writing desk, he handed one to Morse and one to his niece. In his own paper, Morse recognized the promissory note he’d signed when Sir Hugo had advanced him the money for Frederica’s engagement ring.

  “I pride myself on being an optimist.” Sir Hugo shook his head. “But I can see the writing on the wall. The Season here in Bath won’t be breaking up for another week or two, but I don’t foresee much changing between now and then. You have won the wager, both of you.”

  Morse turned the note over and over in his hand.

  “Toss it on the fire, lad,” Sir Hugo urged him. “That ring is yours now, free and clear. By my calculations you’re owed a bit besides. Might come in handy for that license—I’ve heard they’re deuced expensive.”

  With a convulsive twitch of his hand, Morse consigned his note to the flames. As he watched, it blazed and blackened into a tissue of cinders.

  “Leonora,” continued Sir Hugo. “Your paper outlines the settlement I’ve made over to you. It should provide sufficient income to build and maintain your school. And to let you keep y
our precious independence.”

  He produced a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. “I only hope you won’t remove too far from Laurelwood.”

  Leonora catapulted out of her chair and threw her arms around his neck. “Of course not, Uncle. I’ll look for a piece of property within walking distance and I’ll visit every day.”

  Morse fought down a lump his in own throat. His affection for Lieutenant Peverill’s father had grown with each passing day of their acquaintance. Now came respect.

  Nothing bound Sir Hugo to honor the costly terms of this wager—as expensive to his heart as to his purse. He could have kept Leonora dependent on him until she was left with no choice but to wed the heir to Laurelwood. But he’d given his word as a gentleman, and that was sacred, no matter what the cost.

  “There, there, my dear.” Sir Hugo patted Leonora on the shoulder. “You must not feel obliged to weep over my loss. Instead, let us raise a toast to your victory.”

  He produced a bottle of champagne and three glasses. The cork erupted from the bottle with a hiss. Sir Hugo poured a measure of wine into each of their glasses and held his in the air for them to toast. “Here’s to Leonora and Morse. May your winning bring you much happiness.” Try as he might, Sir Hugo could not censor the doubt from his voice.

  “To the wager.” Morse wondered if there had ever been such a tepid toast drunk in all of history.

  He could understand Sir Hugo’s low spirits and his own well enough. But what right had Leonora to look so glum? She would have her independence and her school.

  His own brief taste of education had convinced Morse that would be the most worthwhile consequence of their wager. He would do nothing to jeopardize it. Once he and Frederica were married, he would set about to complete his own education, which Leonora had begun.

  Morse permitted himself one brief glance at her. Two bright spots glowed high in her otherwise pallid cheeks and her eyes shone with unshed tears. Yet she forced a little smile and mouthed the words, Thank you.

  If he had to strive the rest of his life, Morse vowed, he would become a true gentleman to do her proud.