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