The Wedding Wager by Deborah Hale

Author:Deborah Hale [Deborah Hale]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Historical Romance, Love Story, Romance, Regency Romance, England, London
ISBN: 9780373291632
Google: j47KAgAAQBAJ
Amazon: 0373291639
Barnesnoble: 0373291639
Goodreads: 712005
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2014-03-14T14:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

Bath.

Leonora’s throat constricted as their barouche crested Widcombe Hill and the stately spa town came into view.

She had been planning and working toward this moment for weeks, yet now that it had arrived she wanted nothing so much as to turn tail and bolt back to the rustic security of Laurelwood. Gazing down at the tiers of elegantly proportioned town houses of golden stone nestled among the trees, she tried to quell her misgivings with a dose of cool logic.

It was only natural that she should feel some apprehension about their visit to Bath. So much rode on Morse’s social success here, after all. If he could rise to the occasion, her future would be assured. She tried in vain to banish thoughts of her destiny—and his, if Morse should fail.

As if nudged by her worries, Sir Hugo stirred from his doze on the seat beside her. Tipping his tall beaver hat back off his forehead, he blinked his deep-set eyes and yawned. “There already, are we? Bless my soul.” He cast a doting smile at his three young friends. “This is the only way to come to Bath—bring one’s own company, don’t you know. Leonora wouldn’t come with me last spring and I had a perfectly miserable time. Mind you, those foul-tasting waters did wonders for my gout.”

Algie pulled a wry face. “No waters for me. Grandmama used to bring me here every spring when I was a child and dose me liberally with the stuff. She reckoned the tonic might fatten me up, but it never did a scrap of good that I could see. Quite spoilt my appetite, as a matter of fact.”

He turned to Morse, who sat silent and uncommonly solemn beside him. “The baths might do your leg good, though, old fellow. If you can spare the time from your heiress-hunting project, that is.”

Morse acknowledged Algie with a vacant nod. Was it the overcast day, or did he look rather pale? Leonora noted the tightness in his jaw muscles and his brow. Could the soldier who had risked his own life to pull her cousin from a sea of French bayonets be frightened of the poky, respectable gentry who flocked to Bath?

Somehow the notion endeared him to her even more. She wanted to squeeze his hand and reassure him that all would be well. She longed to embrace him in gratitude for how hard he’d worked on her behalf. She yearned to linger in his arms and soak up the sensation of it—a memory to treasure through the long celibate years ahead.

Her eyes began to sting just then, much to Leonora’s chagrin. What cause had she for tears, after all, with her wager all but won? She would be able to lead a productive, independent life. A secure life, well within her control.

And if she had begun to suspect there might be something missing from such a life—something as vital as meat or drink or air—she must quell such traitorous notions. And take care to do nothing that might jeopardize her plans for the future.

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