The Wedding Wager. Deborah Hale

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      How could she with stakes as high as her future happiness? Lose the wager and she had sworn to marry a man of her uncle’s choosing. If she had not wanted her school so desperately she never would have agreed to Sir Hugo’s terms.

      “Another thing you’d better remember is that I have the sole right to choose the subject for our wager. I won’t settle for anyone but Morse Archer.”

      “But, Uncle, I told you…”

      “So you did. Now I’m telling you, Leonora—if Archer won’t agree to come, the wager’s off.”

      “You can’t mean that.” Leonora blanched. Without this one chance, however slim, she’d never have her school.

      “I assure you, I do mean it. Now, don’t look so stricken, child. I’ll go along with you, and between the two of us I’m sure we can win Sergeant Archer ’round. Why don’t you spruce yourself up a bit for our visit. Haven’t you any colored gowns?”

      She wanted to protest that her appearance was the last consideration likely to sway Sergeant Archer. A maypole tricked out in ribbons was still a stick.

      “Gray’s a color, Uncle.”

      “’Tisn’t. Not in a gel’s frock, anyhow. Neither is black, brown nor that dull green. Do something with your hair, while you’re about it. Can’t you twist it up some way to make it curl?”

      “Yes, Uncle.” Leonora sighed. There was no talking sense to him in such a mood.

      She did not look forward to her return visit to Bramleigh. Sharing the same room with two of the most exasperating men she’d ever met, Leonora wondered how she’d resist the urge to knock their heads together.

      When Lieutenant Peverill’s father and cousin tracked him down on the hospital grounds, Morse was hobbling along a mud-churned footpath with a stout tree branch for support.

      It was a cold winter for Somerset, even to people who hadn’t spent a decade baking in the heat of India and Iberia. Experiencing his first English winter in ten years, Morse felt the cold more keenly than he’d expected. Be that as it may, he could not stand being cooped up in the ward a moment longer.

      He was an outdoorsman, a man of movement, a man of action—well suited to life in the Rifle Brigade. Whether the army discharged him or not, the time had come to hang up his green jacket. He would miss it.

      In spite of the danger, the bad food, the miserable pay, the heat, the flies, the hatred of the local people, the blinkered stupidity of the officer corps and the occasional loneliness. It was all he had known for ten years. He felt rather empty and adrift to think of leaving it all behind. All the more, when he considered the bleak future that lay before him.

      “Halloo! Sergeant Archer!”

      Morse glanced up to see Sir Hugo Peverill bearing down on him, Leonora Freemantle coasting along in her uncle’s wake. Without quite realizing what he was doing, Morse found himself approving the way she walked. Chin up. Eyes firmly fixed on her target. No mincing along, fussing about the mud that might spatter the hem of her cloak and gown.

      “Wondered if we were ever going run you to ground, man.” Sir Hugo gasped for breath.

      With a start, Morse realized what they must want with him. The notion of three months at Laurelwood lured him like a beacon in an otherwise murky future. If only his cursed pride would not rear up and spoil everything.

      Morse extended his hand. “Good to see you again, sir.”

      “Indeed. I believe you’ve met my niece, Miss Free-mantle.” Sir Hugo pushed the young woman forward by the elbow, until her hand met Morse’s.

      Their previous interview flashed in Morse’s mind. He remembered the touch of her hand on his bare arm, and the crude jest he’d made when she would not let him go. Little wonder she thought he could do with some gentlemanly polish.

      Determined to show her he was not devoid of manners, he bowed over her hand. “I have had that pleasure.”

      The wind had whipped a few spirals of dark hair loose from beneath her bonnet—a less severe piece of headgear than she’d worn on her previous visit. The cold had coaxed an engaging spot of color into the ivory flesh over her high cheekbones. Her spectacles had slipped down to the tip of her nose, leaving unguarded a pair of most attractive gray-green eyes.

      Eyes that shot him a look of censure, which he could not fathom. What had he done wrong now?

      She snatched her hand back, as if she feared he might bite it. “You did not appear very pleased with our first meeting, sir.”

      Morse felt his own cheeks tingle. Perhaps it was time to come in from the cold. “I must beg your pardon for that, miss. There are days this place would try the patience of a saint. I’m sorry you had the misfortune to catch me on a bad one.”

      Sir Hugo clapped his niece around the shoulders, but he addressed his words to Morse. “Only natural, my boy. Of course, Leonora will pardon you. She’s one of those rare females who doesn’t hold a grudge.”

      “Rare, indeed.” Morse smiled again into those gray-green eyes, hoping to make peace.

      Leonora Freemantle replied by abruptly jamming her spectacles back into place. It was as though she had slammed a heavy door in his face. Morse took an involuntary step back.

      Sir Hugo raised a hand to anchor his hat against a strong gust of winter wind. “We’d like to talk to you again, if we may, Sergeant?” He shouted to make himself heard over the rising rush of the wind. “No sense freezing our giblets out here, though. If you’re not ready to go back in just yet, perhaps we could take a little drive around the neighborhood?”

      “Very well, sir.” It had been many a year since he’d driven in a good carriage.

      “Capital!” Sir Hugo flashed an open, appealing grin.

      It reminded Morse so forcefully of his young lieutenant that a choking lump rose in the back of his throat.

      Sir Hugo pivoted and strode toward the driveway, calling back over his shoulder. “Lend the sergeant your arm, Leonora. This ground looks uneven.”

      She shot Morse a look that might have been apology or defiance—it was difficult to tell behind those grim spectacles.

      Then she took his arm, as bidden.

      Morse fought back a smile that tickled at the corner of his mouth. Plenty of women would have been delighted to take his arm. Leonora Freemantle looked positively martyred by the effort. No question that she was an unusual creature, unique in his experience. That novelty attracted Morse. He wouldn’t mind getting better acquainted with her.

      “Go ahead and grin, Sergeant.” She kept her eyes fixed straight ahead. “I know you want to. Enjoy my humiliation.”

      “I don’t understand what you mean, miss. You don’t look much humbled to me.”

      Between the sturdy fabric of his greatcoat and the thick wool of her pelisse, there was no real contact between his arm and hers. Not like their previous meeting, when she’d clutched his bare СКАЧАТЬ