The Wedding Wager

by Hale Deborah

  “You’re ready early, Captain Archibald.” She grinned with a compound of warmth and mischief once foreign to her. “For all men complain of women taking too long to dress, I have found it quite the contrary. Algie and Uncle will both be ages, yet.”

  She swept an appraising glance over him, which froze when it landed on his stock. Her brow puckered. “It’s not like Dickon to be so ham-handed. Bend down and let me see if I can repair the damage. We don’t want you making your Bath debut looking less than your best.”

  Morse stepped toward her and tilted his neck, as bidden. Somehow her presence calmed him—if only by offering a distraction from his misgivings. His pulse slowed and the tightness in his chest eased.

  “It’s my own fault about the stock,” he confessed as she untied it. “I couldn’t manage to stand still for poor Dickon.”

  She froze for a moment, the fillets of linen in her hands. “Morse Archer, you aren’t anxious about tonight, are you?”

  When he flashed a sheepish grin and dodged her gaze, she chuckled. “Well, put it out of your head this instant. I’m rather glad Uncle insisted on dragging Algie along with us. Stick close to him and you’re sure to sound every bit the gentleman of information by comparison.”

  As she spoke those reassuring words, she retied his linen with steady hands. Something within Morse warmed to the domestic intimacy of the moment.

  It seemed proper and natural that the two of them should spend a few close, quiet moments, preparing to venture out into society. Like soldiers, cleaning their rifles and passing a bottle over a bivouac campfire before battle. If he could always sally forth with a capable ally like Leonora by his side, Morse felt certain he’d be equal to anything life might deal him.

  “Be on your guard with the men,” she continued. “You’re as sharp-witted a fellow as ever I’ve met, so keep those wits about you. No overindulging at the punch bowl.”

  Morse pulled a mock salute. “Aye, General Freemantle. Any other orders, Sir?”

  “No. Only a suggestion.” She surveyed her handiwork and gave the front of his stock a final smoothing touch. “Stick with the ladies as much as you can. After a couple of your engaging compliments, I doubt they’ll care whether they’re talking to a dustman or the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

  Before he realized what he meant to say, Morse opened his mouth and blurted, “Marry me, Leonora?”

  Her eyes widened and her hands fell to her sides. “I b-beg your pardon?”

  “Will you marry me?” Morse repeated in a light, jesting tone, though he could scarcely tell if he was in jest or in earnest. “Once we’ve won the wager, I mean. I’ll be coming into a fine plantation in the colonies and you’ll be independent, too. I know you have your heart set on starting a school, but they must need schools abroad as much as they need them here in England. Perhaps more.”

  Her lips parted, but no words came out. She gazed at him, a hundred unguessable emotions reflected in her eyes.

  Suddenly, Morse realized how badly he wanted her to say yes. How much he wanted to build a future with her. How dreadfully he feared losing her from his life. His heart shrank from wanting anything so much. It left him exposed and defenseless.

  “I…I…Let me…think on it.”

  At least she hadn’t refused him outright. Morse summoned every logical, persuasive reason why she should accept, ready to pepper her with them like so much ammunition. Before he could fire off even a single volley, the sitting room door swung open.

  “Bless my soul!” boomed Sir Hugo. “You do look quite the gent, Archer…Archibald, I mean.”

  “Indeed,” chimed in Algie, looking rather well himself in a cunningly tailored coat. “You shall have the pick of the heiresses, old fellow, upon my word.”

  Morse only grinned in reply, venturing a self-conscious glance at Leonora. There might be more beautiful women in the world, at least on some objective scale. But none more appealing to him.

  He warmed to the thought that no other man could appreciate all her fine qualities as he did. Her keen intellect. Her strength of will and character. Her deep compassion that knew no bounds of birth or station. Not a heiress in Bath could tempt him as she did. Not the lot of them put together.

  After a few more minutes of chat, their party set off for a Wednesday night concert in the Upper Assembly Rooms. Uncertain whether to be encouraged or disheartened by Leonora’s preoccupied silence, Morse vowed to charm his way into Bath Society.

  Let her see what a worthy consort he would make.

  Try as she might, Leonora could not keep her attention fixed on the musical program. All the notes flowed together in her mind as an accompaniment to Morse’s lyrics.

  Marry me, Leonora? Marry me, Leonora? Over and over the words echoed in her thoughts like a bewildering ballad.

  Could he mean it? For so vital a question as a proposal of marriage, he had tossed it out in a rather cavalier fashion. What had compelled him to raise the subject—now, of all times?

  As deeply as Morse’s motives perplexed her, her own reaction baffled Leonora more. Her first response had been a pleasant sense of astonishment that Morse had come to care for her so much. The thrilling aborted encounters during their final days at Laurelwood deluged her memory.

  A searing blush crept into her cheeks.

  Imagine having complete license to indulge her desire for him. And to learn all the delightful secrets he’d pledged to teach her. Such sanguine thoughts had lasted for the entire carriage drive.

  Once they reached the Upper Assembly Rooms, however, and Morse had entered the fictitious “Captain Maurice Archibald” in the subscription books, Leonora’s musings took a decidedly negative turn. For handsome “Captain Archibald” became an immediate favorite with the ladies. Leonora found herself physically pushed aside as they flocked to him.

  Beautiful women. Wealthy women. Titled women. Why should he want her when he could obviously have his pick of them?

  Leonora had never witnessed a group of women so smitten. They hung on his words and vied with one another for his smiles. And Morse was not miserly in dispensing, either. Rather too profligate, if anything.

  A whispered aside, behind the cover of an admirer’s fan. A gust of sincere-sounding laughter in response to another’s dull quip. A gaze caught and held, accompanied by the seductive rise of a brow and the hint of a secret smile.

  No matter how often she assured herself he was only doing what she’d trained him to do—what she needed him to do—Leonora could not dismiss the uneasy conviction that he reminded her of someone.

  The last and worst of her mother’s husbands.

  By the time they returned home, shortly before midnight, she was nursing a vicious headache, which did nothing to help her sort out her feelings. While the men indulged in a celebratory brandy, she slipped off to her bedchamber before Morse could corner her to demand an answer to his proposal.

  “You didn’t look as though you enjoyed the concert much, miss.” Elsie Taylor passed Leonora’s nightgown over the dressing screen.

  Leonora exchanged it for her evening dress and tossed a woolen wrap around her shoulders. Taking a seat at her dressing table, she began to brush out her hair. Each stroke made her headache worse, but she did not care.

  “The concert was very pleasant, Elsie.” She hesitated. “At least…I believe it was.” Her brush-wielding hand fell to her lap. “To tell the truth, I don’t recall a single piece they played.”

  Elsie hung the evening dress in Leonora’s wardrobe. “Is there anything wrong then, miss? You look to have something weighing on your mind—and not a good something, either.”

  Leonora tried to hold her tongue. She felt so rudderless and confused, however, that she had to confide in someone. And Elsie Taylor was such a discreet, sensible creature.

  “Sergeant Archer has asked me to marry him, Elsie. I don’t know how I should reply.”

  The girl disappeared behind the screen to retrieve Leonora’s shift and stockings. “I’d te
ll him to go jump off a bridge,” she muttered.

  In spite of herself, Leonora choked with laughter. “Elsie Taylor! Such a thing to say!”

  “I’m sorry, miss.” The girl kept her eyes downcast as she folded the undergarments. “You didn’t ask for my opinion and I shouldn’t have given it unasked.”

  “But that is your opinion?” Somehow, Elsie’s quip had restored a measure of her composure. “You’ve never liked Sergeant Archer from the start, have you? He hasn’t done anything to harm or frighten you…has he?”

  “No, nothing like that, miss.”

  As she let out a long breath, Leonora realized she’d been holding it.

  “He’s never paid me much mind at all,” continued Elsie. “But he wouldn’t, then, would he? Seeing as he’s supposed to be on the lookout for a rich wife. I can’t fathom why you and Sir Hugo and Mr. Blenkinsop think so well of a man who’s no more than a contemptible fortune hunter.”

  The words spewed out of her, almost defiantly, as though they’d been bottled up for a great while and allowed to ferment until they’d blown their cork.

  “You don’t think Sergeant Archer is after me for my money, do you?” demanded Leonora. The notion was almost as preposterous as Elsie’s misplaced spite against poor Morse. “Why, I’ve hardly a farthing in the world to call my own.”

  She would have, though, once she and Morse won their wager. A sufficient endowment to build a school and allow her to live independently. Try as she might to banish the suspicion, it would not go away.

  “He may not realize you have nothing in your own account, miss. I’m sure I never guessed. Don’t you have expectations from your uncle?”

  Leonora shook her head. “None to speak of.” At least none apart from the wager. Which Morse knew all about. “Really, Elsie, I don’t know why I’m bothering to argue this with you. The whole notion is quite ridiculous.”

  “Just as you say, miss.” Elsie bobbed a curtsy, her face ashen. “I shouldn’t have spoken out of turn.”

  Leonora relented. How could she blame her maid for entertaining doubts that she herself could not keep at bay? “You didn’t speak out of turn. I asked your opinion and you gave it, with my best interest at heart.”

  “I’m sure I only want to see you happy, miss. What with all you’ve done for me and for the other girls.” Her young friend looked so sweetly earnest. As though only her regard for Leonora would have prompted her to speak in so candid a fashion. “I don’t believe you would be happy with…him. Not in the long run, anyway. You deserve a husband who loves you for yourself.”

  “I don’t want any other husband.” Her reply came almost by rote, from years of practice.

  It was true. No other man had ever tempted her to matrimony. Only Morse Archer.

  Elsie nodded. “I’m sure you’ll mull it over well, miss, and decide what’s best for you. Only, do think on what I’ve said. When a woman has a hankering for a man, it can make it hard for her to see his true character.” She glanced around the room. “Is there anything else you need before I go off to bed?”

  Leonora waved her away with a smile of gratitude for her candor and concern. Once Elsie had closed the door behind her, Leonora turned to the woman in the mirror with a sigh. “What will I tell him?”

  Her thoughts swarmed back to the concert and to the attention heaped upon Morse. So many beautiful women throwing themselves at his head. Why on earth should he propose marriage to a plain, bossy, bookish creature like her?

  Unless…?

  She detested herself for thinking ill of Morse. More than anyone, she knew the fine qualities he possessed. But she was not alone in entertaining suspicions. Neither could she deny that he had duped her once already, by playing on her partiality for him. With so much more at stake, she could not afford to let her feelings for him blind her. No matter how potent those feelings might be.

  Long ago she had sworn never to repeat her mother’s mistakes with men. Now she found herself on the brink of doing precisely that.

  Was there some way to verify that his intentions were honorable and his feelings for her genuine?

  Then it came to her—the perfect test to determine if Morse wanted her for herself, or only as a means to Uncle Hugo’s fortune. Leonora scarcely slept a wink that night, riddled by anticipation and dread.

  If only she could be certain Morse would pass the test.

  He’d passed his first test with flying colors.

  Morse heaved a sigh of satisfaction as he waited in the sitting room for Leonora. The success of his first outing boded well for the Season and for their wager. Provided he kept his wits about him and didn’t yield to false complacency, he might soon realize the unavailing dream of a lifetime.

  The chance to make something of himself. To prove his true worth. With a woman by his side who already recognized it.

  That last thought gave Morse a moment’s pause. Leonora would accept him—wouldn’t she? After the effort he’d made to save her from a marriage to Algie Blenkinsop. After the way he’d let her get close to him—breaching defenses he’d spent years fortifying.

  He hoped the thwarted introduction to lovemaking he’d given her in their last days at Laurelwood might help overcome her aversion to marriage.

  Morse had no idea what had prompted him to blurt out his proposal. Now that he’d done it, though, he wanted desperately for Leonora to accept.

  A faint rattle of the doorknob brought him to his feet.

  When Leonora cast him a tentative but hopeful smile as she let herself in, he could not restrain the urge to cross the room and take her in his arms.

  There was nothing tentative in the way she met his kiss. But much that was hopeful.

  They’d kissed often enough that the movements had become familiar as a favorite dance. He must stoop so far and she must poise on her toes to meet him. His head must tilt just so. Hers the other way. Their lips must part slightly, merging with subtle but vital mobility.

  Morse sensed the blood in his veins pulsing faster and hotter. His body strained taut with desire for the woman in his arms. He could hardly wait for this tiresome idyll at Bath to be over so they could embark upon their life together. Then he could complete her initiation into the rites of love. Might there be more still for him to learn as they explored together?

  Nothing could have prompted Morse to stir from that kiss. Except the longing to hear Leonora utter the words that would commit her to him. Reluctantly he pulled back and drank in the dear perfection of her face.

  He’d knocked her spectacles slightly askew with his impatient ardor. He’d mussed her hair and brought a bright flush to her cheeks. And she looked all the more appealing for these traces of disarray.

  Morse could not contain himself. “You have decided to marry me, haven’t you, Leonora? Dear heaven, lass, you’ve made me the happiest man in the world.”

  “I will go with you, Morse.” She straightened her spectacles. “If you’ll have me.”

  If? His mouth spread into a gloating grin so broad, Morse wondered that his face could compass it.

  “I’ll share your home…and your bed.” Her gaze faltered before his and she blushed furiously.

  He could scarcely contain himself from hoisting her into his arms and whisking her off to his bed that very moment.

  Leonora took a deep breath and looked back into his eyes with a gaze at once defiant and…beseeching? “But I will not take vows or sign a marriage bond with you, Morse. I have always aimed never to wed and my feelings for you have not changed that.”

  Though he willed himself to not flinch, Morse felt as though he’d taken the butt end of a rifle in the belly.

  Perhaps Leonora did not perceive his shock and distress, for she continued, almost eagerly, “If we win the wager with Uncle Hugo, and if you are willing to take me on my terms, then I am yours, Morse Archer.”

  Morse tried to master his vocal organs to reply. He feared his voice would crack like that of a green boy—for so he felt. In his heart
he was once again a callow youth offering his hand and his name to a woman who disdained both, even as she fancied his body and his service. How could he have been such a fool as to hope for more?

  By instinct, Morse sheathed the great sucking wound in his chest with the protective armor of icy wrath. The muscles of his face, so supple and easy only moments ago, froze into a mask of rigid antagonism.

  Leonora must have sensed the change, for she caught his hand and flashed him an anxious smile that beseeched a reassuring one from him. “Come, Morse. Kiss me and say it’s all right.”

  Words from his parting encounter with Pamela Granville echoed in Morse’s mind. Stop talking nonsense and come kiss me.

  He had a vague intuition there was a difference between Lady Granville’s rebuff of his marriage proposal and Leonora’s. But he was too hurt, too humiliated and too furious with his own folly to consider such a subtle distinction.

  So he pushed past her to the door.

  “Go to hell, Miss Freemantle.” Only with the most intense effort was he able to discharge the words from his constricted throat.

  Chapter Fourteen

  For several minutes after Morse shut the sitting room door with such restrained ferocity, Leonora stood where he had left her. Empty. Aching. Betrayed.

  She had thought him a man of honor, different from so many of the men she’d known. But with his own words and his own decision, he had proven himself just another charming, grasping scoundrel.

  If he cared for her—sincerely, as he claimed to, and not with any consideration of property—he would have accepted her counterproposal in the blink of an eye. Happy to have her by his side on any terms. Instead he had rejected her. Without legal rights to her fortune, Leonora, the woman, meant nothing to him.

  A sob rose in her throat, but she strangled it unuttered. She had behaved like a perfect idiot over Morse Archer. Damned if she would shed one more tear on his unworthy account!

  Yet when a soft knock sounded on the sitting room door, Leonora’s heart bounded from her toes back up into her chest, pounding at thrice its normal speed. Had Morse reconsidered? Had he come back to apologize?