The Wedding Wager. Deborah Hale

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СКАЧАТЬ and won effortlessly.

      Which led to the second consideration—Miss Leonora Freemantle was anything but the kind of female he usually preferred. She was too bookish, too determined.

      Too challenging.

      Was there such a thing? The notion brought him to an abrupt halt halfway down the stairs. All his life he had thrived on challenge and novelty. But not where women were concerned!

      And besides, what would Miss Freemantle want with a chap like him? Ill-bred. Uneducated.

      Even if he did fancy her—which he most emphatically did not—he could not afford to dally with a woman above his station. Not again.

      So Morse told himself as he slipped into the study, uncertain whether to encourage or to suppress his eagerness to begin the day’s lessons.

      “Early two days in a row, Sergeant Archer?” Leonora’s voice startled him. Roused him? “To what do we owe this unexpected development?”

      Morse felt his cheeks begin to sting. A reaction to the shaving soap, perhaps?

      No. It was more than that. Like any opponent worthy of his steel, Leonora had neatly turned the tables on him. Yesterday he had mounted a surprise attack, exploiting his advantage of being first to take the field. She had not let him enjoy that superior position for two days running.

      In spite of himself, a grin of something like admiration rippled across Morse’s lips. He recalled a word Lieutenant Peverill had sometimes used when an opponent proved wilier than he’d expected. Touché.

      Touché, Miss Freemantle. Touché, indeed.

      Too late, Morse tried to cover his confusion with a scowl. “Why am I early? Perhaps because I want to win that bet with Sir Hugo as much as you do. Have you any idea what a fresh start in the colonies would mean to a man like me?”

      Leonora stepped forward into the dim light of a single candle. No doubt about it—she’d been lying in wait to surprise him. Her smile, a rare and unexpected favor, erased Morse’s annoyance.

      “I think I have quite a good idea what it will mean, Sergeant. That is why I suggested it to my uncle. I hope the knowledge and skills I can impart to the girls at my school will provide them with similar opportunities.”

      The notion seized Morse and all but throttled him. “You suggested Sir Hugo offer me an estate in the colonies?”

      She nodded. “Someone had to. Uncle is the most generous man in the world, but he can also be the most selfish in some ways. Or maybe selfish isn’t the right word. Just unimaginative when it comes to understanding what other people want.”

      Her voice died away to a bemused murmur. “He can’t fathom why they should want anything but what he wants for them.”

      And what did Sir Hugo want for his bluestocking niece that she didn’t? Morse found himself wondering.

      Leonora seemed to become aware of his presence again, as though she’d been musing out loud. She blushed, a rosy cast Morse could easily detect even in the dim light of the library.

      He detected other things, as well.

      Like the wistful luster in her gray-green eyes. Perhaps it was the soft green shade of her gown that set them off so becomingly. This was the first time he’d seen her in anything but the dullest of dark hues. Lighter ones suited her complexion and coloring far better.

      Why would a woman go out of her way to look unattractive, when in fact—?

      “Sergeant Archer?”

      Morse suddenly realized she had spoken his name for the second time. “Sorry. Woolgathering. The early hour, I expect. You were saying?”

      “I was saying, perhaps we should take our seats and apply ourselves to today’s lesson. If we wish to have any hope of winning the wager, that is.”

      “Of course.” Morse had the unpleasant sensation that he was losing command of the situation, and himself.

      Then he remembered his secret weapon.

      Striding toward their study table, he tried to disguise the hitch in his step. With a flourish, he pulled out Leonora’s chair and beckoned her to sit.

      “To be frank, Miss Leonora, the inducement of your uncle’s wager is only part of my impatience to begin work this morning.”

      Casting him a wary glance, she took the seat he offered. “Indeed? And what might the other part be?”

      Morse settled into his usual place on the wider side of the table. During the course of yesterday’s lesson, his chair had migrated to his teacher’s end of the table.

      Now as he leaned close to her, he spoke in a quiet voice that suggested intimacy. “Can you not guess…Leonora?”

      The catch in her breath betrayed the lady’s awareness of the missing Miss, and all that its absence implied.

      Before she could respond, Morse supplied the answer. “It’s a rare dolt of a fellow who wouldn’t grasp at the chance to spend all day in the company of such a fetching lass.”

      Some scrap of insight warned Morse he was venturing far too close to the truth with his flattery.

      Another thought drove that one from his mind altogether. What if Leonora reacted to his comment as she had to his previous liberties—bidding him away, or bustling off herself?

      That had been his original plan, hadn’t it? Yet, at that moment, nothing could have been farther from Morse’s desire.

      To his massive relief, Leonora dismissed his fawning with an ironic lift of one brow and a toss of her head. “Really, Sergeant, we must put you to work with a dictionary. A woman of twenty-sev—of my years, hardly qualifies as a lass.”

      Touché again, Leonora!

      “That’s as may be. What man in his right mind wants the company of a simpering miss?” Morse took up his Latin grammar, suddenly disinclined to press his advantage and risk frightening her away.

      Why did it frighten her? he wondered—the romantic attentions of a man. Indignation or outrage, he could have understood from a woman of her character. Her anxious agitation puzzled and intrigued him.

      As did the lady herself.

      Though clearly reluctant to pursue their conversation further, Leonora Freemantle could not resist a parting comment. “In my experience, a simpering miss is precisely what most men do prefer. Now if you will indulge me by turning to page forty-three, Sergeant Archer. Perhaps we can attempt a short translation of Livy.”

      Not content to let her have the last word on most men’s taste in women, he muttered, “More fools, them.”

      Almost as if he meant it.

      Of course he hadn’t meant it.

      Leonora reminded herself of the obvious several times as she and Morse struggled over the Latin translation.

      Still, СКАЧАТЬ