Читать книгу The Wedding Wager - Deborah Hale - Страница 12

He had kissed her hand.

Several hours later it still tingled faintly and the memory of Morse’s lips on her skin continued to prompt a most ridiculous blush in Leonora’s cheeks. She had retreated to the sanctuary of her bedchamber, not trusting herself to face him again that day. On no account must that man see the foolish reaction he’d excited in her.

Pacing the carpet runner beside her bed, Leonora tried to dismiss the whole episode for the silly trifle she knew it to be. No doubt Morse Archer had kissed the hand of many a woman. More than their hands, too, unless she missed her guess.

Through the window she spied him striding the grounds of Laurelwood, his limp much less noticeable than when he’d first arrived. Some unaccountable force kept her rooted to the spot, watching Morse Archer until he disappeared from view.

Quite against her will, Leonora found herself slipping into a shameful reverie. Unbidden images cascaded into her mind, piquing her senses. Of all the places on women’s bodies where the attractive sergeant might have bestowed kisses.

On their lips, of course. Perhaps a bare neck or shoulder had enticed him to nuzzle. Might he have dropped one, delicate as a whisper, upon some pretty ear? Or pressed his face into a head of tousled tresses?

As each notion took hold of her, Leonora’s hand—her kissed hand—strayed to that part of her own person. Setting her lips aquiver as one fingertip brushed over them, gliding from shoulder, to neck, to ear. Extracting the pins from her hair.

When at last it fell in a fine, ebony billow around her shoulders, her strangely possessed hand reached up and threaded her fingers through the strands. Feeling and appreciating its delicate, silky texture for perhaps the first time in her life.

Catching sight of herself in the looking glass, Leonora almost did not recognize the face that stared back at her. That woman had a strange softness about her features. It made her look far younger than Leonora’s twenty-seven sensible years. Even her severe little spectacles could not disguise the dreamy shimmer in her gray-green eyes.

Leonora had seen that look before. Her stomach curdled and her throat constricted at the memory of it.

Mother.

Downy and pensive. Humming a little tune to herself. Fondling a nosegay of posies from her latest admirer. Such looks had meant only one thing. Clarissa Freemantle had welcomed a new suitor into her life. To Leonora, it had always spelled trouble.

Setting her mouth in a taut line, she squared her shoulders and willed that mooning creature in the mirror to vacate the premises forthwith. She would not repeat her mother’s mistakes, least of all over a shiftless, insolent ex-Rifleman that circumstances had forced upon her.

Leonora thrust her spectacles back up to the bridge of her nose. Plucking a hairbrush from the top of her dressing table, she coerced her locks into submission, plaiting them into such tight braids they made her head ache.

Dickon, the footman, almost dropped his water kettle the next morning when he arrived at Morse’s door to find the sergeant already awake.

“Don’t just stand there gaping, man.” Morse plucked the steaming kettle from Dickon’s hand and splashed a generous measure into his washbasin. “Lay out my clothes while I shave.”

“I didn’t reckon to find you in such fine fettle this morning, sir.” The burly footman rubbed his forehead. “Not after the quantity of cider you put away last night and how merry we was making.”

Morse worked his shaving soap into a good lather and smeared it on his face, inhaling the tangy aroma. “I’ve been up before dawn and in the thick of a battle after far worse debauches than last night’s wee tipple, man.”

He whistled a few bars of a Portuguese drinking song, the words of which he had never understood. “Sometimes a fellow’s all the better in the morning for a spot of revelry the night before.”

“If you say so, sir.” Dickon did not sound convinced. Clearly, he was paying a somewhat higher price for their evening’s merriment.

“I do say so, Dickon.” Morse rinsed his face and dried it off, flashing his reflection a wolfish grin. He wasn’t certain what had brought about his sudden bout of energy and high spirits. Perhaps his congenial evening with Dickon accounted for it. Or perhaps yesterday’s unscheduled holiday from his studies.

Or could it be…?

The fellow in the looking glass grinned more broadly still. Had he guessed the truth? That, at last, Morse had found himself an effective weapon in his running conflict with Miss Leonora Freemantle.

Until yesterday she had possessed all the artillery, not to mention strategic field position. His only recourse had been a dogged refusal to capitulate. Then, just when he’d thought himself all but beaten, Morse had discovered his own tactical advantage—Leonora’s agitated reaction to a little harmless flirtation.

This set them on even ground at last. The prospect of a well-matched contest stirred Morse’s blood as nothing had since the rout at Bucaso.

He eyed the suit Dickon had chosen for him. “Don’t suppose you can find something more colorful by way of a waistcoat? If a fellow has to act the gentleman, might as well look the part, eh?”

With a glance that questioned if he truly could be Morse Archer, Dickon rummaged in the wardrobe and produced a brocade garment of forest green shot with gold.

Once he had donned his gear, Morse looked himself over in the mirror, approving what he saw. Even that tiny hint of green in the waistcoat reminded him of his Rifle Brigade uniform. It heartened him for whatever battles might lie ahead today.

He let Dickon give his coat a final brush, then Morse descended the stairs to the drawing room as rapidly as his injured leg would allow. Finding the place dark and deserted, he rubbed his hands with gleeful anticipation.

If Sir John Moore had drummed one precept into the minds of the Rifle Brigade, it was the benefit of being first to arrive on the field of battle. One gained superiority of position together with the element of surprise.

Morse lit several candles and picked up the volume of Hudebras he’d been reading the previous day. Settling into his chair, he affected an air of one who had been in the throes of diligent study for some time. Fortunately, he did not have to keep up the pose for long before he heard Leonora’s footsteps.

Something stirred inside him at the sound, and he had to admit it was more than the anticipation of catching her off guard. His lips warmed at the memory of kissing her hand.

As the door eased open, Morse tried to rein in the eager grin that tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“You are late, Miss Freemantle.”

Leonora gasped at the sound of Morse Archer’s voice. In the very next instant she berated herself for letting him catch her off guard—again.

“Considering this is the first morning you have managed to arrive on time, Sergeant, it ill-behooves you to criticize.”

Blast the man to kingdom come! She had been anxious to reassert her authority this morning and already he had put her on the defensive.

Morse closed his book. Had he read that much since yesterday? She heartily doubted it.

Leaning back in his chair, he swept her with a look that made Leonora break out in gooseflesh from head to toe.

“You mistake me, Miss Freemantle.” His tone sounded far too cordial for her liking. The warm baritone wrapped itself around her heart. “I didn’t mean to criticize, only to state the fact. If you took a few extra minutes to dress and fix your hair, I would be the last to complain. You look particularly charming this morning.”

Her heart hammered and her stomach clenched. How had he guessed that she’d dithered a full ten minutes in her choice of a gown? That, against all logic, she’d spent more precious minutes dressing her hair in a marginally less severe style.

Her feet itched to flee, but Leonora stood her ground. “I will thank you not to mock me, Sergeant. I am well aware I look a fright this morning.”

There’d been nothing she could do to remedy the sleepless smudges beneath her eyes.

“Not that it is any business of yours how I look.” She strode to the table. “I am here to teach you, not to provide you with an object to scrutinize. Is that understood?”

If she expected his usual surly retort, it was not forthcoming this morning. “I understand you better every day, Miss Freemantle.”

She could find no fault with his words, or with the cheerful tone in which they were uttered. Yet, Leonora could not escape the feeling that Morse Archer was having a sharp little jest at her expense.

Retrenching to more solid conversational ground, she pointed to the open book in his hand. “I see you have shown some ambition in your reading course.”

Teacher’s intuition whispered that she ought to appeal to his sense of pride by commending his initiative. Feminine suspicion warned her not to plunge headlong after what was in all likelihood a ruse. “What do you think of Colonel Hudibras’s adventures thus far?”

She waited, in smug assurance that he would hem and haw with embarrassment and in the end admit he hadn’t read a word.

“It’s interesting enough reading, I suppose.”

Leave it to Archer to try bluffing his way out.

Before she could devise a probing question to expose his ignorance, he continued. “I don’t think much of the colonel, truth be told. Treats that squire of his something shameful. When he made Ralpho take that whipping in his place, I wanted to leap into the book and throttle the blackguard.”

There could be no denying his violent indignation. Morse’s emphatic brows knit together and his jaw jutted forward. He had read the material, after all. What’s more, he had been moved by it.

The notion tugged at Leonora and would not let her go.

In a flash Morse’s umbrage changed to chagrin. “I’ve known too many ranking idiots like Colonel Hudibras in my day,” he muttered. For the first time that morning, his gaze faltered before hers.

“I dislike the character quite as intensely as you do, Sergeant Archer,” she confessed, taking a seat beside him. What galled her was the colonel’s mercenary pursuit of the widow. Like Morse, she had known too many loathsome creatures of that ilk. “Read on and I promise you’ll enjoy the part where he gets his comeuppance.”

“That I shall.” He leafed through the volume searching for his place.

“Would it surprise you to hear that the author is no fonder of Hudibras than we are?” Leonora pulled her chair closer to his. “It was Mr. Butler’s intent to satirize the Puritans, who had ruled England after the defeat of King Charles the First.”

Morse looked up from the book. “Are you saying there was a time we had no king?”

A lively discussion sprang up between them, about the history of the English Civil War, Cromwell’s Puritan Commonwealth and the eventual restoration of the Stuart monarchy. Then they went on to consider the nature of satire and its origins in the Greek literary tradition.

Leonora could scarcely believe it when Dickon gave a tentative knock on the sitting room door and inquired whether they wished to take breakfast that morning, after all. She glanced at the mantel clock, amazed to discover the hands within a few minutes of ten.

“I apologize, Sergeant Archer,” she stammered. “I had no idea the time had gotten away from me to such an extent. You’ll be starved.”

He appeared almost as surprised by the hour as she. “I am hungry,” he confessed. “Though I can’t say I noticed it until this minute. I fear I got caught up in your talk. You have a knack for making this dry-as-dust history and literature come to life, Miss Freemantle.”

His dark eyes glowed with admiration. Some long dormant feminine faculty within Leonora assured her it was quite genuine.

Just then she became acutely aware of his knee pressing against hers. How long had that been going on? Even through the substantial fabric of her skirt and his buckskin breeches, it had kindled a warmth between them. A rush of that warmth wafted from Leonora’s knee to her thighs.

She almost toppled the chair in her haste to put a safe distance between them.

“We had better get to breakfast before everything is stone cold or burned to a crisp.” She gasped the words, hard-pressed to catch her breath. “I fear Cook will be cross with us.”

She fled to the breakfast room before Morse Archer could reply. By the time he sauntered in, she had regained at least a crumb of her composure. Still, she was too flustered to correct his mess hall manners.

Several times he spoke with his mouth full. He ate bits of ham off the point of his knife. Over coffee, he hunched forward, resting his elbows upon the table. Had she made no headway at all with him in the past fortnight?

For all her disquiet on that score, Leonora had to admit their late breakfast was the most pleasant meal she had passed in his company.

One of the most pleasant she had ever passed, come to that.

Morse Archer picked up the thread of their prior conversation, plying her with any number of thoughtful, pertinent questions about the roots of the English Civil War and its effect upon the Scottish uprising of the last century. Evidently he had been listening to her and retaining what he’d learned. What made this morning’s lesson so different from those of the past two weeks?

Could it be because…?

Leonora could not deny the eagerness with which he hung on her words. The strange, piquant way he gazed at her from time to time. Was it possible he had taken a fancy to her?

She came to herself with a start, realizing he had just spoken to her. Really, she would have to exercise a good deal more self-control from now on.

“I asked if you would care for another splash of coffee, Miss Leonora.”

“I—” No other words would come just then. He had spoken her Christian name for the first time, each syllable gliding off his tongue like spiced honey. She had never thought a word could sound so beautiful.

“Yes—p-please,” she finally managed to stammer, though the prim schoolmistress within her protested. The beverage was a stimulant, after all. The last thing she needed at the moment was further stimulation.

Leonora cast about for any topic that promised to distract her from this adolescent preoccupation with Morse. Good heavens! Now she was thinking of him by his Christian name, as well.

“I hope Uncle Hugo didn’t miss our company at breakfast.” The sentence erupted from her in a breathless rush.

Morse’s eyebrows raised. “Did he not tell you he was going off to London? Of course—you weren’t at dinner last night. He said he’d be away for a few days. Some urgent matter of business. I’m afraid it’ll be just the two of us until he gets back.”

An unaccustomed giddiness expanded inside Leonora, as though she was one of those newfangled hot-air balloons inflated too quickly. She tried pulling herself back to earth, without much success.

“We must return to work now, Sergeant Archer.” How she despised the beseeching note she heard in her voice.

“That’s what I’m here for.” He walked around the table and pulled out her chair.

The backs of his fingers grazed her upper arm. Had it been accidental, or deliberate? Either way, it set her head spinning and her breath skipping.

Leonora made a last desperate attempt to regain mastery of the situation, and of herself. Her entire childhood had been spent at the mercy of forces beyond her control. At least she had been mistress of her own feelings—cool and detached where her mother was passionate and imprudent.

Now, this man, with the most insignificant look, word or touch, threatened to overpower her carefully cultivated composure and turn her whole world on its ear.

She jerked her arm away from his hand. “We must return to our Latin studies.”

When he met her suggestion with a groan, she flared up at him. “I warned you from the start this would not be a stroll through the park, Sergeant Archer! You boasted you were equal to the challenge, but until this morning I have seen no sign of it. At this rate, we will be laughed out of Bath. You will never see your estate in the colonies and I—”

She bit her tongue. It was none of his business what his indolence would cost her. If he knew, he would only take advantage of the power it gave him over her fate.

Fortunately he quit the breakfast room without asking her to finish her sentence. In all likelihood he did not care a whit about her dire stakes in the wager.

Summoning up every ounce of frosty aplomb she could muster, Leonora stalked off after him. They had dabbled in quite enough sensational subjects for the day. The rest of their lessons would be given over to mathematics, dead languages and anything else she could furnish that might throw cold water on her growing preoccupation with Morse Archer.

Leonora’s blatant insult to his diligence kept Morse focused on his studies until almost teatime. To his surprise, he found the Latin beginning to make sense. And he had always been good with numbers, particularly as they applied to situations in real life.

How many rounds could a Rifleman fire in so many minutes? How fast would a company have to march to be at such a place by such a time?

It still irked him that none of their lessons showed any practical application to Leonora’s stated goal of passing him off as a gentleman. Several times he had tried getting the point across to her. On each occasion she had almost bitten his head off for presuming to question her authority.

On that score, she put him in mind of two inept officers who’d been his superiors in Portugal. Their blinkered stupidity and blank refusal to accept advice from anyone of lower rank had contributed largely to the fiasco that had ended his military career.

And Lieutenant Peverill’s life.

Looking up suddenly from his book, he caught Leonora staring at him. Fresh from thoughts of his young lieutenant, Morse recognized an appealing family resemblance in her face.

“I never served under a better officer than your cousin.” He wasn’t certain what propelled those words out of him.

To his surprise, Leonora did not order him back to work at once. Neither did she question what had prompted him to speak of the lieutenant for the first time since coming to Laurelwood.

“Cousin Wesley mentioned you in his letters. I think he would be pleased to know you’re here.”

Her little chin, so intrepid for all its delicacy, betrayed a subtle quiver. Behind the bastion of her spectacles, Morse thought he spied a fine mist rising in Leonora’s eyes.

Ordinarily, Morse Archer was not a man who had any patience for tears or overwrought outbursts. Yet something launched him out of his chair and to Leonora’s side. His hands closed over her shoulders.

“I’m sorry I mentioned him. I didn’t mean to distress you, honestly.”

At the slightest provocation he would have taken her in his arms. But Leonora gave him no opportunity. And no quarter.

Twisting free of his chaste touch, she flew to the opposite corner of the room and pretended an exaggerated interest in whatever she saw out the window. The steady drip of icicles melting from the eaves, perhaps.

“You have worked well today, Sergeant.” She did not bother to turn and address him face-to-face. “As a reward, you are excused from lessons for the remainder of the day.”

Earlier in the week Morse would have welcomed the news with a whoop of glee. Now he cursed himself roundly. What should have been a reward felt instead like…exile.