Книга - Regency Gamble: A Lady Risks All / A Lady Dares
Regency Gamble: A Lady Risks All / A Lady Dares
Bronwyn Scott
A Lady Risks AllIt would be unwise to mistake me for an innocent debutante – for years I have graced the smoky gloom of many a billiards club and honed my skills at my father’s side.But now he has a new protégé – a Captain Greer Barrington – and while my father would see me attract the attentions of an eligible lord, I, Mercedes Lockhart, have other ambitions… Even if that means seducing the Captain to earn back my father’s favour! I know I must avoid falling for Greer’s charming smile . . . but his sensual kisses could be worth the risk …A Lady DaresAccording to society, I, Elise Sutton, haven’t been a lady for quite some time – a lady couldn’t possibly run the family company and spend her days on London’s crowded, tar-stained docks. And she most certainly wouldn’t associate herself with the infamous Dorian Rowland – privateer, smuggler and The Scourge of Gibraltar himself!But I need Rowland and his specialised expertise, especially with the wolves circling, waiting for me to fail. I yearn to feel alive and Rowland, who can kiss like the devil, inflames my senses and makes me dare to break free …
Regency Gamble: A Lady Risks All, A Lady Dares
A Lady Risks All
Bronwyn Scott
A Lady Dares
Bronwyn Scott
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Table of Contents
Cover (#u524c23ef-7102-5963-aa5c-30c0063b888a)
Title Page (#u9967ce4a-f1fe-5ef5-b2e0-03c517f7729f)
A Lady Risks All (#u6f095beb-fe54-58c6-8a77-042fad4e2698)
Extract (#u1b9a89d1-8ec0-533f-9681-da1a71186fc4)
About the Author (#u3c399c5d-0d28-5728-ad4d-a5229f77bd5d)
AUTHOR NOTE (#u105f5f4b-26f3-58ad-95c4-abee7739224b)
DEDICATION (#uf6fc217f-d6ba-5a79-894c-d1525493392c)
Chapter One (#u3669a942-571c-57e0-80e2-a65d06b44551)
Chapter Two (#u2286fed0-4d11-5057-b9e7-10b35bf15307)
Chapter Three (#uf629c05d-2232-5e91-93ba-b61f21d2a58f)
Chapter Four (#u0f57ec51-7a4f-5496-b4aa-1bf140f4b2ef)
Chapter Five (#u4bf2b5cc-b598-5c65-8da7-d242f4495cea)
Chapter Six (#ue039c6f2-b972-5c09-8ade-a5dc5d96f3d8)
Chapter Seven (#u2cd3c910-bffe-50fe-85d6-69acddb01849)
Chapter Eight (#ua92c34a4-d04d-5561-aaa6-bb06273a304e)
Chapter Nine (#u5fb458f4-a263-59a1-bab7-463d9d350ef2)
Chapter Ten (#udfb9453c-56e4-556f-9748-4c39081dc201)
Chapter Eleven (#u7b7bac9c-1ec2-58d5-b2f0-2caf3de0f6ff)
Chapter Twelve (#ud94fc3f4-99ad-5032-9edc-8e8d4f8ace86)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eignteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
A Lady Dares (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
AUTHOR NOTE (#litres_trial_promo)
DEDICATION (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eignteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
A Lady Risks All (#u905d9541-109c-5c0e-b782-f813e2a4252c)
‘Mr Ogilvy tells me you play a good game.’
Greer glanced around the room, smiling broadly. ‘Good enough to have beaten most of the gentlemen present on more than one occasion. He has compelled me to come and defend men everywhere.’ He gave the chalk on his cue tip an efficient blow, looking entirely likeable.
‘Hear, hear,’ came a few cries from the back of the room.
The dratted man was going to steal her crowd if she wasn’t careful. Usually she admired Greer’s ease, how people wanted to cheer for him. She wasn’t admiring that trait at the moment. Beneath his aura of bonhomie he was primed, a veritable powder keg, and the fuse was lit. He was going to ignite this room and she’d get caught in the explosion.
She hadn’t lost the room yet. And she wouldn’t. She’d beat Greer and give these boys a show they wouldn’t soon forget.
Mercedes met Greer’s gaze down the length of the table, eyes wide with secret laughter, her mouth a perfect, discreetly rouged ‘O’. A gentleman or two sighed when she chalked up and raised the cue to her lips in her trademark gesture and blew, knowing Greer would get the unspoken message: game on.
From the fabulous Bronwyn Scott comes a wickedly naughty and sensational new duet
LADIES OF IMPROPRIETY
Breaking Society’s Rules
Practised gambler Mercedes Lockhart takes on the big boys—and the irresistible Captain Barrington—in England’s billiards clubs in
A LADY RISKS ALL
July 2013
Elise Sutton is a lady in a man’s world when she finds herself fighting for her family’s company at London’s Blackwell Docks—but that doesn’t mean she can’t show the roguish privateer Dorian Rowland who’s boss in
A LADY DARES
August 2013
Two scandalously sexy stories.
Two alluringly provocative ladies who dare to flout the rules of the ton—and enjoy it!
Also, don’t miss out on the seductive Lucia Booth, proprietor of Mrs Booth’s Discreet Gentleman’s Club and former spy, in
A LADY SEDUCES
coming July 2013
to Mills & Boon
Historical Undone!
About the Author (#u905d9541-109c-5c0e-b782-f813e2a4252c)
BRONWYN SCOTT is a communications instructor at Pierce College in the United States, and is the proud mother of three wonderful children—one boy and two girls. When she’s not teaching or writing she enjoys playing the piano, travelling—especially to Florence, Italy—and studying history and foreign languages. Readers can stay in touch on Bronwyn’s website, www.bronwynnscott.com (http://www.bronwynnscott.com), or at her blog, www.bronwynswriting.blogspot.com (http://www.bronwynswriting.blogspot.com). she loves to hear from readers.
AUTHOR NOTE (#u905d9541-109c-5c0e-b782-f813e2a4252c)
Billiards is just about as English as horse racing. References note that by the seventeenth century there wasn’t a village in England that didn’t boast at least one billiards table in an assembly hall or tavern. Here are some fun facts about Greer and Mercedes’s story:
1838 is part of the ‘gateway’ period of billiards as it moves closer to the modern pool game.
John Thurston is a real historical figure and has a cameo appearance early in our story. In 1799 he established the House of Thurston in London, and is credited with new inventions for the table such as his 1835 rubber cushions, the use of warming pans to keep the cushions supple and replacing wood table beds with slate (c.1826). The table Greer mentions from his time in Greece is based on a true story.
1838 also sees the introduction of the ‘run’ style of today’s pool game. The run is first officially mentioned by Game Master Hoyle, in association with ‘the French following game’ in an 1845 edition of game rules. It crosses the Atlantic to America in 1857.
I should also take a moment to mention Alan Lockhart. He is modelled after the nineteenth-century billiards champion Edwin Kentfield.
I hope you enjoy this first of two stories in my Ladies of Impropriety duet. Stay tuned for Elise Sutton’s story. In the meanwhile, stop by my blog at www.bronwynswriting.blogspot.com for forthcoming news.
DEDICATION (#u905d9541-109c-5c0e-b782-f813e2a4252c)
This one is for my dad who kept asking me when was that billiards book coming out. Here it is, finally, with much love.
Chapter One (#u905d9541-109c-5c0e-b782-f813e2a4252c)
Brighton—March 1837
There was nothing quite as exhilarating as a man who knew how to handle his stick. Mercedes Lockhart put an eye to the discreet peephole for a second glimpse, separate trills of excitement and anxiety vibrating through her. Rumour was right, he did have an amazing crack.
Outside in the billiards hall, that crack would sound like a cannon. But here in the soundproof peeping room, she could only watch and worry about what his presence in her father’s club meant.
There’s someone I want you to meet. The phrase rang through her head for the hundredth time. When fathers said that to their daughters it usually meant one thing: a suitor. But those fathers weren’t billiards great Allen Lockhart. He was more likely to bring home a gem-studded cue than a suitor. Perhaps that was the reason she’d been so surprised by the summons. ‘Come down to the club, there’s someone I want you to watch,’ he’d said. It had been a long time since he’d needed her in that way. She didn’t dare refuse. So, here she was, ensconced in the ‘viewing room’, eye riveted to the peephole, taking in the player at table three.
He was a man she’d have noticed even without her father’s regard. Most women would. He was well built; broad shouldered and lean hipped, an observation made inescapable by the fact he was playing with his coat off. At the moment, he was bent at the waist and levelling his cue for the next shot, a posture that offered her a silhouette of trim waist and tautly curved buttock, framed by muscled thighs that tensed ever so slightly beneath the tight fawn of his breeches.
Her eyes roamed upwards to the strong forearms displayed tan against the rolled back cuffs of his white shirtsleeves, to the taper of lean fingers forming a bridge through which his cue stick slid effortlessly, expertly as he made his shot.
He straightened and turned in her direction, accepting congratulations on the shot. He pushed back the blond hair that had fallen over his face. Mercedes caught a glimpse of startling blue eyes; a deep shade of sapphire she could appreciate even at a distance. He was confident, not cocky in the way he accepted the congratulations of others. There was no doubt he handled his cue with ease, his playing strategy sound but straightforward, his use of the ‘break’ progressive and in line with the new style billiards was starting to take.
But Mercedes could see immediately there wasn’t a lot of finesse in it. It was understandable. A player with his skill likely didn’t see the need for finer machinations. That was something that could be improved upon. Mercedes halted her thoughts right there. Why? Why should she improve him? Is that what her father wanted her opinion for? What interest did the legendary Lockhart want with a handsome young billiards player? The anxiety that had plagued her trilled again. Was he a suitor for her? A protégé for her father?
Neither option sat well with her. She had no intentions to marry although she was aware of her father’s ambition for her to wed a title. It would be the final feather in his cap of self-made glory—Allen Lockhart’s daughter married to a peer of the realm! But she had other goals and neither a suitor nor a protégé was among them.
Mercedes stepped back from the peephole and scribbled a short note to her father, who sat in the main room in plain sight. There was no skulking in private viewing chambers for him, she thought with no small amount of frustration. It hadn’t always been like this: spying through peepholes and pretending she didn’t exist. It used to be that she had the run of the place. But she’d grown up and it was no longer seemly or prudent, as past events had proven, for her to roam the halls of Lockhart’s Billiards Club, no matter how elegant the setting or how skilled the player. The bottom line was that men didn’t like to be beaten by a woman. Thus had ended her career of playing in public. For now.
This was why the thought of a protégé met with her disapproval. If there was to be one, it should be her. She’d honed her own skill at her father’s side. When she’d shown some aptitude for the game, he’d taught her to play as only a professional can. She’d learned his secrets and developed her own until she was on par with the best. Then she’d committed the crime of turning seventeen and her freedoms had been curtailed; in part by society and in part by her own headstrong judgement.
It was something of a curse that the one thing she was good at—no, not merely good at, excellent at—was a talent she did not get to display. These days she practised for herself, alone in the privacy of their home and she waited, forever ready if the chance to prove herself came her way.
Mercedes folded the note and sent it out to her father. She bent her eye to the peephole one last time, a thought occurring to her as she watched the man pot his final ball. Maybe he was her chance. Her earlier excitement started to hum again. She’d been waiting five years for her opportunity, alert for any possibility. In all that time, she’d never thought her chance would come in the form of a handsome Englishman—she’d had her fill of those. But if her father could use him, perhaps she could too.
Slow down, she cautioned herself. A good gambler always assessed the risk and there was risk here. If her father intended him to be a protégé and she assisted with that, she could effectively cut herself out of the picture altogether. She would have to go carefully. On the other hand, it would be a chance to show her father what she could do in a situation where he would be unable to deny her talent.
It was a venture that could see her exiled or elevated, but she was nothing if not her father’s daughter; a gambler at heart who knew the risks and rules of any engagement and chose to play anyway.
Gamblers of any successful repute generally acknowledged the secret to luck resided in knowing three things: the rules, the stakes and when to quit. No one knew this better than English billiards legend, Allen Lockhart. He couldn’t remember a time when the stakes hadn’t been high—they always were when all one had to risk was a reputation. As for quitting—if there was a time to quit, he hadn’t discovered it yet, which was why the usual ritual of a brandy with long-time friend and partner, Kendall Carlisle, did not fill him with the usual satisfaction on this dreary March afternoon.
Normally this time of day was his favourite. It was a time when he could sit back in one of the club’s deep chairs and savour his domain. His domain. Carlisle managed the place, but it had been his billiards money that had built this and more.
Across from him, oblivious to his restless observations, Carlisle took a swallow of brandy followed by a contented sigh. ‘This is the life, Allen. Not bad for two junior boot boys.’
Allen smiled in response. It was a well-loved reminiscence of his. The two of them had done well over the years kowtowing to the rich gentlemen in the subscription rooms of Bath for shillings. They’d watched and they’d learned, eventually establishing their own small empire. Now they were the rich gentlemen. Now they ran the subscription rooms, not in Bath, but in more lucrative Brighton. They earned much more than shillings from customers these days. At the age of forty-seven, Allen Lockhart took great pride in having used the rules of billiards to rise above his poor beginnings.
From their grouping of chairs by the fire, Allen could hear the quiet snick of ivory balls on baize, the unmistakable sounds of lazy-afternoon billiard games going on in the room beyond him. Later in the evening, the club would be crowded with officers and gentlemen, the tables loud with the intensity of money games.
Allen felt his hand twitch in anticipation of the games to come. He didn’t play in public often anymore, not wanting to tarnish his image by making himself vulnerable to defeat. A legend couldn’t be beaten too often without damaging the illusion of being untouchable. But the desire was still there. Billiards was in his blood. He was the legendary Allen Lockhart, after all. He’d built this club on his fame. People came here to play, of course, but also to see him. It wasn’t enough to be good at billiards; one also had to be a showman.
He knew the power of a well-placed word here, a timely stroke tip there. It was heady stuff to think people would talk about a single sentence from him for months in London. ‘Lockhart says you have to hit the ball from the side’ or ‘Lockhart recommends African ivory for balls’. But lately, the usual thrill had faded. Such excitement had become de rigueur. He was restless.
The resounding crack of a hard break shattered the laconic atmosphere of the room. Allen briefly acknowledged it with a swift glance towards table three where a young officer played before turning back to Kendall.
‘I hope you’re coming up to the house tomorrow for the party.’
‘I wouldn’t miss it. I’m looking forward to seeing the new table.’ Carlisle raised his glass in a toast. ‘I hear Thurston has outdone himself this time.’
Lockhart grinned broadly like a proud first-time father. ‘Slate tables with rubber bumpers are the way of the future. They’re fast, Kendall.’ Another loud break from table three interrupted. This time Lockhart spared the table more than a passing glance. ‘Good Lord, that lad’s got some power.’ He chanced a look in the direction of the secret viewing room and wondered what Mercedes would make of it. Kendall hadn’t lied when he’d said the lad could play.
Their chairs were angled to take in the expanse of the elegant club if they chose. Both men fell silent, focusing on the game, looking out into the well-appointed billiards floor. Long windows let in enormous amounts of light for quality shots. Subtle forest-green wallpapering with matching floor-to-ceiling curtains gave the room the air of a sophisticated drawing room. This was no mean gambling hall. This was a place meant to invite a higher class of gentleman to engage in the noble sport of billiards and right now table three was heavily engaged.
The ‘lad’ in question was not a boy at all, but a blond-haired officer with the broad-shouldered build of a handsomely put-together man. A confident man too, Lockhart noted. Effortless charm and affability poured off him as he potted the third ball and proceeded to run the table. Affable and yet without any feigned humility.
‘He reminds me of you back in our salad days,’ Carlisle murmured after the officer made a particularly difficult corner shot.
‘How old do you think he is?’ Kendall would know. Information gathering was Kendall’s gift. His own was using it. The combined talent had been invaluable to them both over the years.
‘Mid-twenties. He’s been in a few times. His name’s Barrington. Captain Barrington,’ Kendall supplied as Lockhart had known he would.
At that age, he and Kendall had been living on the road, Lockhart thought wistfully. They’d played any money game they could find in just about every assembly hall between Manchester and London. They’d run just about every ‘angle’ too—plucking peacocks, two friends and a stranger and a hundred more.
‘He’s bought a subscription,’ Kendall volunteered.
‘On half-pay?’ Any officer in town these days with time for billiards was on half-pay. But on that salary, a subscription to his fine establishment was a luxury unless one had other resources.
Kendall shrugged. ‘I cut him a fair deal. He’s good for business. People like to play him.’
‘For a while.’ Lockhart shrugged. Barrington would have to be managed. If he was too good, players would tire of getting beaten and that would be just as bad for business. He didn’t want that to happen too quickly.
‘With the big championship coming up in July, I thought he might generate some additional interest,’ Carlisle began, but Lockhart’s mind was already steps ahead. Perhaps the Captain could be taught when to lose, perhaps he could be taught a lot of things. Carlisle was right. The young man could be very useful in the months leading up to the All England Billiards Championship. The old thrill began to course.
‘Thinking about taking a protégé?’ Kendall joked.
‘Maybe.’ He was thinking about taking more than a protégé. He was thinking about taking a trip. For what reason, he wasn’t sure yet. Perhaps the urge was nothing more than a desire to walk down memory lane one more time and relive the nostalgia of the old days. Perhaps he wanted more? His intuition suggested his restlessness was more than nostalgic desire. There were bigger questions to answer. At forty-seven, did he still have it? Could the legend make a comeback or was the ‘new’ game beyond him?
‘Is that all you’re thinking?’ He felt Kendall’s shrewd gaze on him and kept his own eyes on the game. It would be best not to give too much away, even to his best friend, if this was going to work. A footman approached with a folded note. Ah, Mercedes had announced her verdict.
Lockhart rose, flicking a cursory glance at the simple content of Mercedes’s note and made his excuses, careful to school his features. Kendall knew him too well. ‘I’ve got to go and see about some business.’ Then he paused as if an inspiration had struck suddenly. ‘Invite our young man up to the house tomorrow night. It might be fun for him to see the new table and I want him to meet Mercedes.’
If he was going to try this madcap venture at all, he would need her help. She’d already consented to the first bit by coming down today. The hard part would be convincing her to try it all on. She could be deuced stubborn when she put her mind to it. With any luck, he wouldn’t have to do the convincing. He’d leave that to a certain officer’s good looks, extraordinary talent with a billiards cue and a little moonlit magic. He knew his daughter. If there was anything Mercedes couldn’t resist it was a challenge.
Chapter Two (#u905d9541-109c-5c0e-b782-f813e2a4252c)
Captain Greer Barrington of the Eleventh Devonshire had seen enough of the world in his ten years of military service to know when the game was afoot. It was definitely afoot tonight, and it had been ever since Kendall Carlisle had offered him an invitation to the Lockhart party. There seemed little obvious logic in a man of Lockhart’s celebrity inviting an anonymous officer to dine.
Greer surveyed the small assemblage with a quick gaze as Allen Lockhart greeted him and drew him into the group of men near the fireplace, a tall elegant affair topped with a mantel of carved walnut. Suspicions confirmed. First, the small size of the gathering meant this was a special, intimate cohort of friends and professional acquaintances. Second, Allen Lockhart lived finely in one of the forty-two large town houses that comprised Brunswick Terrace. Greer had not been wrong in taking the effort to arrive polished to perfection for the evening, and now the buttons on his uniform gleamed appreciably under the light of expensive brass-and-glass chandeliers.
‘You know Kendall Carlisle already from the club, of course.’ Allen Lockhart made the necessary introductions with the ease of a practised host. ‘This is John Thurston, the man behind the manufacture of the new table.’ Greer nodded in the man’s direction. He knew of Thurston. The man ran a billiards works in London and a billiards hall off St James’s.
‘John,’ Lockhart said with great familiarity, ‘this is Captain Greer Barrington.’ Lockhart had a fatherly hand at his shoulder and Greer did not miss the reference. Either Lockhart was a quick study of military uniforms or he’d done his research. ‘The Captain has a blistering break—sounds like a cannon going off in the club every time. He ran the table on Elias Pole yesterday.’
Ah, Greer thought. So Lockhart had been watching. He’d thought he’d sensed the other man’s interest in his game. Appreciative murmurs followed with more introductions.
Talk turned to billiards until a young woman materialised at Lockhart’s side, stopping all conversation—something she would have done without saying a word. ‘Father, dinner will be served shortly.’
This gorgeous creature was Lockhart’s daughter? Whatever game was afoot, Greer mused, he’d gladly play it and see where it went if she was involved. There was no arguing her beauty. It was bold and forthright like the flash of a smile she threw his direction.
‘Captain, you haven’t met my daughter, Mercedes,’ Lockhart said affably. ‘Perhaps I could persuade you to take her in to dinner? I believe she’s seated you with her at the one end.’
‘It would be my pleasure, Miss Lockhart.’ Yet another pleasant addition to the evening. This invitation was turning out splendidly. Mercedes Lockhart was a stunning young woman with dark hair and wide grey eyes framed with long lashes. But there was an icy quality to that perfection. Beautiful and cold, Greer noted. Greer was confident he could change that. He smiled one of his charming smiles, the one that usually made women feel as if they’d known him much longer than they had.
She was less than charmed. Her own smile did not move from that of practised politeness, her sharp grey eyes conducting a judicious perusal of their own. Greer stepped back discreetly from the group, drawing her with him until he had space for a conversation of his own.
‘Do I pass?’ Greer queried, determined to make this haughty beauty accountable for her actions.
‘Pass what?’
‘Inspection is what we call it in the military.’
She blushed a little at his bluntness and he took the small victory. She looked warmer when she blushed, prettier too if that was possible, the untouchable coldness of her earlier hauteur melting into more feminine features.
‘I must admit more than a passing curiosity to see the man who beat Elias Pole. My father talked of nothing else at supper last night.’
There was a fleeting bitterness in her tone, some of her hard elegance returning. Provoked by what? Jealousy? The defeat of her champion? Elias Pole was a man of middle years, not unattractive for his age, but certainly he wasn’t the type to capture the attentions of a young woman.
Greer shrugged easily. ‘I am flattered I aroused your curiosity. But it was just a game.’
Her eyebrows shot up at that, challenge and mild disbelief evident in her voice. ‘Just a game? Not to these men. It would be very dangerous to think otherwise, Captain.’
Ah. Illumination at last, Greer thought with satisfaction. Now he had a better idea of why he was here. This was about billiards.
Dinner was announced and he took the lovely Mercedes into supper, her hand polite and formal on the sleeve of his coat. The dining room was impressive with its long polished table set with china and crystal, surrounded by the accoutrements of a man who lived well and expensively: silver on the matching sideboards and decanter sets no doubt blown in Venice.
Greer recognised the subtle signs of affluence and he knew what they meant. Allen Lockhart aspired to be a gentleman. Of course, Lockhart wasn’t. Couldn’t be. Lockhart was a billiards player, a famous billiards player. But fame could only advance a man so far.
That was the difference between Lockhart’s shiny prosperity and the time-worn elegance of Greer’s family estate. Greer’s father might not be wealthy by the exorbitant standards of the ton, but he’d always be a gentleman and so would his sons. No amount of money could change that. Nevertheless, Greer knew his mother and sisters would be pea-green with envy to see him sitting down to supper in this fine room. He made a mental note to send them a letter describing the evening sans its circumstances. His father would be furious to think any son of his had sat down to supper with a gambler, even if the son in question wasn’t the heir.
Greer pushed thoughts of family and home out of his mind. Those thoughts would only make him cross. Tonight he wanted to enjoy his surroundings without guilt. He had delicious food on his plate, excellent wine in his goblet, interesting conversation and a beautiful woman in need of wooing beside him. He meant to make the most of it. Life in the military had taught him such pleasures were fleeting and few, so best to savour them to the fullest when they crossed one’s path. Life had been hard these past ten years and Greer intended to do a lot of savouring now that he was back in England.
‘Where were you stationed, Captain?’ A man to his right asked as the fish course was served.
‘Corfu, although we moved up and down the peninsula with some regularity,’ Greer answered.
Corfu caught John Thurston’s attention. ‘Then you may have played on the table we made for the mess hall there.’
Greer laughed, struck by the coincidence. ‘Yes, indeed I did. That table was for the 42nd Royal Hussars. I wasn’t with that regiment, but I did have the good fortune of visiting a few times. The new rubber bumpers made it the fastest game to be had in Greece.’
John Thurston raised his glass good-naturedly. ‘What a marvellously modern world we live in. To think I’d actually be sitting down to supper with a man who played on one of my tables a thousand miles away. It’s quite miraculous what technology has allowed us to do. To a smaller world, gentlemen.’
‘My sentiments exactly.’ Greer drank to the toast and applied himself to the fish, content to let the conversation flow around him. One learned a lot of interesting things when one listened and observed. Mercedes Lockhart must think the same thing. She was studying him once more. He could feel her gaze returning to him time and again. He looked in her direction, hoping to make her blush once more.
This time she was ready for him. She met his gaze evenly, giving every indication she’d meant to be caught staring. ‘They’re wondering if they can take you, you know,’ she murmured without preamble. ‘There will be games after dinner.’
Was that all they wanted? A game against the man who had beaten Elias Pole? Greer managed a nonchalant lift of his shoulders. ‘Elias Pole isn’t an extraordinary player.’
‘No, but he’s a consistent player, never scratches, never makes mistakes,’ Mercedes countered.
He raised a brow at the remark as if to say ‘is that so?’. The observation was insightful and not the sort of comment the women he knew made. The gently reared English women of his experience were not versed in the nuances of billiards. But Mercedes was right. He knew the type of player she referred to. They played like ice. Never cracking, just wearing down the opponent, letting the opponent beat himself in a moment of sloppy play. Yesterday that particular strategy hadn’t been enough to ensure Pole victory.
‘And now they know your measure. Pole has become the stick against which you are now gauged,’ she went on softly.
‘And you? Do you have my measure now?’ Greer gave her a private smile to let her understand he knew her game. ‘Is that your job tonight—to vet me for your father?’
‘Don’t flatter yourself.’ She gave him a sharp look over the rim of her goblet. ‘The great Allen Lockhart doesn’t need an agent to preview half-pay officers with shallow pockets for a money game.’
There was no sense in being hurt. The statement was true enough. There was no advantage to fleecing an officer. He had no source of funds to fleece. Even his subscription to the club had been bought on skill and a politely offered discount from Kendall Carlisle. Lockhart had to know. Whatever someone at this table managed to win from him would hardly be more than pocket change.
Greer dared a little boldness. ‘Then perhaps you’re in business for yourself.’
‘Again, don’t flatter yourself.’ Mercedes took another sip of wine. To cover her interest? Most likely. She was not as indifferent to him as she suggested. He knew these discreet signs: the sharp comments meant to push him away in short order; the pulse at the base of her bare neck, quickening when his gaze lingered overlong as it did now.
This room displayed her to perfection. Greer wondered how premeditated this show had been. In the drawing room, she’d merely looked like a lovely woman. In the dining room, she might have been posed for a portrait. Her blue gown was a shade darker than the light blue of the walls. The ivory ribbon trimming her bodice, a complement to the off-white wainscoting and moulding of the room, acted as an ideal foil for the rich hues of her hair, which lay artfully coiled at her neck. Greer’s hand twitched with manly curiosity to give the coil a gentle tug and let its length spill down her back.
But he could see the purpose of the demure coil. It drew one’s attention to the delicate curve of her jaw, the sensual display of her collarbones and the hint of bare shoulders above the gown’s décolletage. It was just the work of another skimming glance to sweep lower and appreciate what was in the gown’s décolletage, that being a well-presented, high, firm bosom. Mercedes Lockhart was absolutely enticing in all respects.
She would be stunning regardless of effort, but Greer couldn’t shake the feeling that this had all been engineered, right down to the colour of Mercedes’s gown for some ulterior purpose he had yet to divine. He understood the basic mechanics of the evening well enough. This dinner party was about business.
Under the bonhomie and casual conversation, there was money to be had. Lockhart, Carlisle and Thurston were in it together. Thurston wanted to sell tables. He’d likely promised Lockhart and Carlisle a commission for the advertising. Each of the other gentlemen at the table owned billiard halls, some in Brighton, a few others from nearby towns. Purchasing a table would be good for their businesses in turn. They understood the favour Lockhart did them by letting them be the first to place orders. It was all very symbiotic. He alone was the anomaly. No one would mistakenly assume he’d be purchasing a table on tonight’s venture.
Mercedes took up an unobtrusive spot in the large second-floor billiards room and plied her needle on an intricate embroidery project. She knew she looked domestic and that was the point. Billiards was a man’s domain. The men gathered around the new Thurston table would not dream of her joining their game. But as long as she looked utterly feminine and devoted herself to her embroidery, her presence would be acceptable. They would see her as the indulged only child of Allen Lockhart, a daughter so loved, her father could not bear to let her wander the house alone while he entertained close business acquaintances. Under those circumstances, what could really be wrong with her joining them as long as she stayed quietly placed in her corner?
Mercedes pulled her needle through the linen and surreptitiously scanned the men. They had finished talking business. Rubber bumpers, warming pans and all the latest technologies to keep the table fast had been discussed. Now it was time for action, time to see what the table could do. It was time to play, the one thing the men had been yearning to do all night.
Her father passed around ash-wood cues from a rack hung on the wall. The two men from the other Brighton billiards halls had the honour of the first game. But her eyes were on the young captain, Greer Barrington. Up close, he did not disappoint. He was precisely as she’d seen him from behind the peephole: tall, blond, broad shouldered and possessed of an easy charm that had no limit. Those blue eyes of his were captivating, his flirtations just shy of obvious, but that was part of his charm. He was not one of London’s sleek rogues with deceitful agendas, even though he possessed the unmistakable air of a gentleman.
Mercedes watched him laugh with Thurston over a remark. Instinctively, she knew he was genuine. Honest in his regard. Yet many would mistake that quality for naïveté, to their detriment. That could be a most valuable commodity if she could tame it. He was no gullible innocent. He’d spent time in military service. He’d seen men die. He’d probably even killed. He knew what it meant to take a life. He knew what it meant to live in harsh circumstances even as he knew what it meant to be comfortable amid luxury.
The opulence of her father’s home had not daunted him. This was where her father was wrong. He saw a young man with no purpose, a half-pay officer at loose ends with few prospects outside the military. Mercedes disagreed.
Greer Barrington was a gentleman’s son. She’d lay odds on it any day. He didn’t have the beefy build of a country farm-boy, or the speech of a lightly educated man. That could be sticky. Gentlemen’s sons didn’t take up with billiards players mostly because gentlemen’s sons had better prospects: an estate to go home to, or a position in the church. Her father, whatever his intentions were, wasn’t counting on that.
Captain Barrington stepped up to the table. The prior game was over and her father was urging him to play one of the men who’d come over from nearby Hove. Carlisle spoke up as the two players chalked their cue tips. ‘You’re a good player, Howe, but I’ll lay fifty pounds on our Captain to take three out of five games from you.’
Mercedes’s needle stilled and she sat up a bit straighter. Fifty pounds wasn’t a large bet by these men’s standards, merely something small and friendly, but big enough to sweeten the pot. But fifty pounds would support a man in Barrington’s position for half a year. There was a murmur of interest. To her father’s crowd, the only thing better than playing billiards was making money at billiards.
Howe chuckled confidently and drew out his wallet, dropping pound notes on the table. ‘I’ll take that bet.’
‘Captain, would you care to lay a wager on yourself?’ her father asked, gathering up the bets.
Barrington shook his head without embarrassment. ‘I don’t gamble with what I can’t afford to lose. I play for much smaller stakes.’
Her father laughed and clapped him on the back. ‘I’ve got a cure for that, Captain. Don’t lose.’
But he did lose. Captain Barrington lost the first two games by a narrow margin. He won the third game and the fourth. Then Carlisle upped the wager. ‘Double on the last game?’
Howe was all confidence. ‘Of course. What else?’
Mercedes wondered. Was this a set-up? Had Carlisle and her father arranged this? Were they that sure of Barrington’s skill and Howe’s renowned arrogance? If so, it would be beautifully done. Howe wasn’t the best player in the room, but he thought he was and that made all the difference. If Barrington beat Howe, the others would be tempted to try, to measure their skill.
Barrington had the lay of the table now. He’d made adjustments for the speed of the slate and the bounce of the rubber bumpers. He won the break and potted three balls to take an early lead. But Howe wouldn’t be outdone. He cleared three of his own before missing a shot.
Mercedes leaned forwards in her chair. Barrington’s last two shots would be difficult. He stretched his long body out, giving her an unadulterated view of his backside, the lean curve of buttock and thigh as he bent. The cue slid through the bridge of his fingers with expert ease. The shot was gentle, the cue ball rolling slowly towards its quarry and tapping it with a light snick, just enough to send it to its destination with a satisfying thud in the corner pocket while the cue ball teetered successfully on the baize without hazarding. Mercedes let out a breath she’d been unaware she held.
‘Impossible!’ Carlisle exclaimed in delight. ‘One shot in a million.’
‘Think you can make that shot again?’ Howe challenged, not the happiest of losers.
Her father shot her a look over the heads of the guests and she mobilised into action, crossing the room to the table. ‘Whether or not he can must wait for another time, gentlemen.’ She swept into the crowd around the table and threaded an arm through Captain Barrington’s. ‘I must steal him away for a while. I promised at dinner to show him our gardens lit up at night.’ Whatever her father’s reasons, he didn’t want Barrington challenged further. As for her, she had suddenly become useful for the moment.
Chapter Three (#u905d9541-109c-5c0e-b782-f813e2a4252c)
‘So this is what billiards can buy.’ Barrington looked suitably impressed as they strolled the lantern-lit paths of the garden, which must have been what her father intended. The gardens behind their home were well kept and exclusive.
‘Some of it is.’ Mercedes cast a sideways glance up at her companion. He was almost too handsome in his uniform, buttons winking in the lantern light. ‘My father invests.’
‘Let me guess—he invests in opportunity, like tonight.’ His insight pleased her. Barrington was proving to be astute. Would such astuteness fit with her father’s plans? ‘Tonight’s party was about selling tables.’
He’d guessed most of it. Her father was selling tables tonight, but he was also attempting to buy the Captain. Perhaps her father meant to use him to drum up business for the All England Billiards Championship.
‘That doesn’t explain what I’m doing here. I’m not in the market for a table and your father knows it.’
Too astute by far. Mercedes chose to redirect the conversation. ‘What are you doing here, Captain? Any plans after you leave Brighton? Or do you await orders? We’ve talked billiards all night, but I haven’t learned a thing about you.’
‘I thought I’d wait a few months and see if I am recalled to active duty. If the possibilities are slim, I’ll sell my commission.’
‘You like the military, then?’
Captain Barrington fixed her with a penetrating stare. ‘It beats the alternative.’
They’d stopped walking and stood facing each other on the pathway. There was seriousness in his eyes that hadn’t been there before and she heard it in his voice.
Her voice was a mere whisper. ‘What’s the alternative?’
‘To go back and run the home farm under my brother’s supervision. He’s the heir, you see. I’m merely the second son.’
She heard the bitterness even as she heard all the implied information. A man who’d experienced leadership and independence in the army would not do well returning to the constant scrutiny of the family fold. A little thrill of victory coursed through her. She’d been right. He was a gentleman’s son. But he was staring hard at her, watching her for some reaction.
‘Are you satisfied now? Is this what you brought me out here to discover? Had your father hoped I might be a baron’s heir, someone he might aspire to win for your hand?’ His cynicism was palpably evident.
‘No!’ Mercedes exclaimed, mortified at his assumptions, although she’d feared as much earlier, too. Her father had tasked her with the job of unearthing Barrington’s situation, but hopefully not for that purpose. If not that, then what? An alternative eluded her.
‘Are you sure? It seems more than billiards tables are for sale tonight.’
‘You should ask yourself the same thing, Captain.’ Mercedes bristled. He’d put a fine point on it. She’d stopped analysing her father’s motives a long time ago. Mostly because being honest about his intentions hurt too much. She didn’t like thinking of herself as another of his tools.
The comment wrung a harsh laugh from the Captain. ‘I’ve been for sale for a long time, Miss Lockhart. I just haven’t found the highest bidder.’
‘Perhaps your asking price is too high,’ Mercedes replied before she could think better of the words rushing out of her mouth. She had not expected the charming captain to possess a streak of cynicism. It forecasted untold depths beneath the charming exterior.
‘And your price, Miss Lockhart? Is it too high as well?’ It was a low, seductive voice that asked.
‘I am not for sale,’ she answered resolutely.
‘Yes, you are. We all are.’ He smiled for a moment, the boyish charm returning. ‘Otherwise you wouldn’t be out here in the garden, alone, with me.’
They held each other’s gaze, blue challenging grey. She hated him in those seconds. Not hated him precisely—he was only the messenger. But she hated what he said, what he revealed. He spoke a worldly truth she’d rather not recognise. She suspected he was right. She would do anything for her father’s recognition, for the right to take her place at his side as a legitimate billiards player who was as good as any man.
‘Are you suggesting you’re not a gentleman?’ Mercedes replied coolly.
‘I’m suggesting we return inside before others make assumptions you and I are unlikely to approve of.’
Which was for the best, Mercedes thought, taking his arm. She wasn’t supposed to have brought him out here to quarrel. Of all the things her father had in mind, it wasn’t that. Perhaps her father thought they might steal a kiss, that she’d find the Captain charming; the Captain might find her beautiful and her father might find that connection useful. She could become the lovely carrot he dangled to coax Barrington into whatever scheme he had in mind.
The garden had not been successful in that regard. Not that she’d have minded a kiss from the Captain. He certainly looked as if he’d be a fine kisser with those firm lips and mischievous eyes, to say nothing of those strong arms wrapping her close against that hard chest. Truly, his manly accoutrements were enough to keep a girl bothered long into the night.
‘Shilling for your thoughts, Miss Lockhart.’ His voice was deceptively close to her ear, low and intimate, all trace of cynicism gone. The charmer was back. ‘Although I dare say they’re worth more than that from the blush on your cheek.’
Oh, dear, she’d utterly given herself away. Mercedes hazarded part of the truth. ‘I was thinking how a quarrel is a waste of perfectly good moonlight.’
He’d turned and was looking at her now. ‘Then we have discovered something in common at last, Miss Lockhart. I was thinking the same thing.’ His blue eyes roamed her face in a manner that suggested she had the full sum of his attentions. His hand cupped her cheek, gently tilting her chin upwards, his mouth descending to claim hers in a languorous kiss.
She was aware only of him, of his other hand resting at the small of her back, intimate and familiar. This was a man used to touching women; such contact came naturally and easily to him. Warmth radiated from his body, bringing with it the clean, citrusy scent of oranges and soap.
It wasn’t until the kiss ended that she realised she’d stepped so close to him. What distance there had been between their bodies had disappeared. They stood pressed together, her body fully cognisant of the manly planes of him as surely as he must be of the feminine curves of hers.
‘A much better use of moonlight, wouldn’t you agree, Miss Lockhart?’
Oh, yes. A much better use.
‘Will you help me with him?’ It was to her father’s credit, Mercedes supposed, that he’d waited until breakfast the following morning before he sprang the question, especially given that breakfast was quite late and the better part of the morning gone. The men had played billiards well into the early hours, long after Captain Barrington had politely departed and she’d gone up to her rooms.
Mercedes pushed her eggs around her plate. ‘I think that depends. What do you want him for?’ She would not give her word blindly; Barrington’s remarks about being for sale were still hot in her ears.
Her father leaned back in his chair, hands folded behind his head. ‘I want to make him the face of billiards. He’s handsome, he has a good wit, he’s affable and he plays like a dream. For all his inherent talents, he needs training, needs finishing. He has to learn when it pays more to lose. He has to learn the nuances of the game and its players. Billiards is more than a straightforward game of good shooting between comrades in the barracks. That’s the edge he lacks.’
‘Playing in the billiard clubs of Brighton won’t give him that edge—they’re too refined. That kind of experience can only be acquired …’ Mercedes halted, her speech slowing as realisation dawned. ‘On the road,’ she finished, anger rising, old hurts surfacing no matter how deeply she thought she’d buried them. She set aside her napkin.
‘No. I won’t help some upstart officer claim what is rightfully mine. If you’re taking a protégé on the road, it should be me.’ She rose, fairly shaking with rage. Her father’s protégés had never done her any good in the past.
‘Not this again, Mercedes. You know I can’t stakehorse a female. Most clubs won’t even let you in, for starters.’
‘There are private games in private houses, you know that. There are assembly rooms. There are other places to play besides gentlemen’s clubs. You’re the great Allen Lockhart—if you say a woman can play billiards publicly, people will listen.’
‘It’s not that easy, Mercedes.’
‘No, it’s not. It will still be hard, but you can do it. You just choose not to,’ she accused. ‘I’m as good as any man and you choose to do nothing about it.’
They stared at each other down the length of the small table, her mind assembling the pieces of her father’s plan. He wanted to take Barrington on the road, to promote the upcoming July tournament in Brighton.
‘Maybe he’s not interested.’ Mercedes glared. What would a gentleman like Barrington say to being used thusly? Maybe she could make him ‘uninterested’. There were any number of things she could do to dissuade him if she chose. A cold shoulder would be in order after the liberties of last night.
‘He’ll be interested. That’s where you come in. You’ll make him interested. What half-pay officer turns down the chance to play billiards for money and have a lovely woman on his arm?’ So much for the cold-shoulder option.
‘One who has other options. He’s a gentleman’s son, after all.’ Of course it was a wild bluff. She knew how Captain Barrington felt about his ‘options’. ‘Even if his options are poor, no family of good birth is going to let their son go haring about the country gambling for a living.’
That comment struck home. Her father had always been acutely aware of the chasm between himself and his betters. No amount of money, fame or victory could span that gap. ‘We’ll see,’ he said tightly. ‘Men will do all variety of things for love or money. Fortunately, post-war economies do much for motivating the latter.’ Mercedes feared he might be right on that account.
‘I need you on this, Mercedes,’ he pleaded. ‘I need you to travel with us, to show him what he needs to know. I’ll be busy making arrangements and setting up games. I won’t have near enough time to mould him.’
‘I’ll think about it.’ She was too proud to surrender easily, but in her heart she knew it was already done. It was the only offer she was likely to get and she was her father’s daughter. She’d be a fool not to invest in this opportunity. On the road, she could show her father how good she really was, how indispensable she was to him. Perhaps they could recapture some of the old times. They could be close again, like they’d been before her tragic misstep had driven a wedge between them. Anything might happen on the road. Even the past might be erased.
‘Well, don’t think too long. I’m sending a note to Captain Barrington inviting him to dinner. If this proposition succeeds, I want to leave within days.’
Yes, anything might happen, especially with weeks on the road with the attractive Captain and his kisses. Damn his blue eyes. His presence would make the trip interesting once she decided if she should love him or hate him. He was both her golden opportunity and the fly in her ointment. He was the man stealing her place beside her father, but, in all fairness, the place hadn’t been hers to start with. She didn’t possess it outright and hadn’t for years. She merely aspired to it, as much as the admission galled her. Then there were his kisses to consider, or not. She had to be careful there. Kisses were dangerous and she wasn’t about to fall in love with her father’s protégé. She knew from experience such an act would dull her sensibilities, make her blind to the job that needed doing. But perhaps one could just have the kisses. She’d be smarter this time.
All in all, going on the road was an offer she couldn’t afford to refuse. Perhaps Barrington would say she’d just found her price.
Greer sat at the small writing desk in his lodgings, sorting through the dismal array of post. At least he had an ‘array’ of it. He should take comfort that the world had not forgot him even if it had nothing pleasing to send.
He slit open the letter from the War Department. It was his best hope for good news. A friend of his father’s with higher rank and influence had enquired about a new posting on his behalf. Greer was eagerly awaiting a response. He scanned the contents of the letter and sighed. Nothing. It was something of an irony that the goal of the military—to maintain peace and order—was the very thing that made the military a finite occupation. In peace, there was no work for all the aspirants like himself.
Greer set aside the letter. It was becoming more evident that his military options were coming to a close. Of course, he could stay on half-pay as long as he liked, but with no re-posting imminent, it seemed a futile occupation.
The second letter was from home and he opened it with some dread. He could predict the contents already: news of the county from his mother and a directive to return home from his father. As always, a letter from home filled him with guilt. He should want to go back. But he didn’t. He didn’t want to be a farmer, and he didn’t want to be a countryman. His father was a viscount, but a poor one. The title had come with only an estate four generations ago, and money had always come hard for the Barringtons. He did not want a life full of expenses he could barely meet and responsibilities he was required to fulfil. His older brother was better suited to that life. To what he himself was suited for, Greer did not yet know.
He reached for the third letter, surprised to see it was from Allen Lockhart. The short contents of the note brought a smile to his face. Mercedes and I would like to invite you to a private supper this evening to become better acquainted.
The sentiments of the note might be Lockhart’s, but the firm, cursory hand that had penned it was definitely Mercedes’s. Greer could see Mercedes penning the note with some agitation, her full lips set in an imperious line, in part because she didn’t want to see him again and in part because she did. He was quite cognisant that Mercedes had no idea what to do with him—kiss him, hate him, or something in between if that was possible.
Mercedes.
She’d stopped being Miss Lockhart the moment he’d taken her in his arms. Their kiss had been far too familiar, far too intimate to think of her any longer on a last-name basis. In his arms, she’d been alive, warm and far more passionate than the sum of her cold hauteur had indicated at dinner. It had been the most pleasant surprise in an evening full of surprises. Therein lay the rub.
Had it been a surprise? Greer thumbed the corner of the heavy paper in contemplation. The kiss had seemed completely spontaneous at the time. They’d been quarreling. He’d thought the moment for stealing a kiss had passed and then suddenly the moment had returned.
He’d done the kissing. He distinctly remembered making what might be termed as the ‘first move’. But Mercedes had supplied the motivation. She knew very well what she was doing with her reference to moonlight. Was the flirtation contrived? Had it been her last effort to comply with some secret plan of her father’s for the evening? Had she realised that quarrelling with a coveted guest was not constructive? The note he held in his hand certainly suggested as much. There had to be a reason for getting ‘better acquainted’. And yet the kiss itself did not seem contrived in his memory. Instead, it seemed very much the honest product of curious passion.
And now there was to be a private dinner. Greer was aware there was more to it than a simple dinner, but even so, he was looking forward to it a great deal. There would be good food, good wine and the intriguing Mercedes would be there. That alone was enough to secure his acceptance.
Chapter Four (#u905d9541-109c-5c0e-b782-f813e2a4252c)
The atmosphere at dinner was decidedly different than it had been the prior evening—less orchestrated, less of a show—but no less impressive because of it, and Greer found he was enjoying himself immensely.
The three of them dined informally in a small, elegantly appointed room done in subtle shades of gold designed expressly for the purpose of holding more intimate entertainments. Even the mode of eating reflected that intimacy. They dined en famille on juicy steaks and baby potatoes, helping themselves to servings from the china bowls in the centre of the round table and pouring their own rich red wine from glass decanters, thus removing the need for hovering footmen.
Greer had lived with the deprivations of military life long enough to fully appreciate the little luxuries of the moment, and man enough to appreciate the woman across from him.
Mercedes Lockhart glowed in the candlelight, dressed in a copper silk trimmed in black velvet, a gown so lovely it would have driven his sisters to violence. Her hair shone glossy and sleek, the flames picking out the chestnut highlights winking deep within the dark tresses. Tonight, she wore those tresses long, their length furled into one thick curl that lay enticingly over the slope of her breast, a most provocative cascade to be sure and a most distracting one. He nearly missed Lockhart’s next question.
‘What are you doing in Brighton, Captain?’ Lockhart poured wine into his empty glass. ‘Our sleepy little resort town must be tame by comparison to the military.’
Greer picked up his newly filled goblet. ‘Waiting for the next adventure.’ Brighton wasn’t all that different in that regard than the military. There’d been plenty of waiting in the army as well. Hurry up and wait; wait to live, wait to die. He was still waiting, only the scenery had changed.
‘Will there be one? Another adventure?’ Lockhart probed in friendly tones but Greer sensed he was fishing for something, looking for some piece of information. He’d discussed his situation with Mercedes last night but she’d apparently not chosen to pass the details on to her father. He shot Mercedes an amused glance. Why? To prove she wasn’t her father’s agent as he’d accused?
‘Well, that’s the question.’ Greer saw no reason to dissemble. His life was a fairly open book for those who cared to read it. Open and relatively dull, if the truth was told. ‘A family friend is making enquiries on my behalf, but I am not alone in my desire for a posting.’
‘I expect not these days,’ Lockhart replied with a knowing nod. ‘There are a lot of officers looking for work. Half-pay is a hard way to live. It’s not enough to support a wife or start a family.’ Lockhart offered him a smile that bordered on fatherly. ‘No doubt those things are on your mind at your age.’
‘Eventually, I suppose, sir.’ Greer thought the question a bit too personal on such short acquaintance. Lockhart was still fishing, but this time Greer chose not to bite. Lockhart was not put off by his cool response.
‘Sir?’ Lockhart laughed good-naturedly. ‘The military has trained you well, but there will be none of that here. We are not so formal as that, are we, Mercedes?’
‘Of course not, Father. We’re very friendly here,’ Mercedes said. She spoke to her father, but she was looking at him, something sharp and aware in her eyes as she studied him.
‘Call me Allen.’ What was going on here? Greer was instantly suspicious. The request was friendly enough, to borrow Mercedes’s word, but far too familiar. His father had raised him to be wary against such easily given bonhomie.
‘Allen’ leaned forwards. ‘Have you considered that you don’t need the military to provide the next adventure?’
Ah, things were getting interesting now. Very soon, all would be revealed if he played along. ‘Forgive my lack of imagination; I’m hard pressed to think of another outlet.’ What would a man like Lockhart have in mind? Did he want to make a salesman out of him? Have him sell Thurston’s tables? Wouldn’t that rankle his father? A viscount’s son hawking billiards tables. It might be worth doing just to stir things up.
‘Come on the road with me. I need to drum up business for the All England Billiards Championship in July. Why don’t you come along? I’ll pay all expenses, give you a cut of whatever money we hustle up along the way, and the best part of it is, I am not asking to put your life on the line for a little fun and adventure.’ Unlike the military came the unspoken jab at his other alternative. And he could bet with surety they wouldn’t be sleeping in the mud and the rain or eating bread full of weevils and spoiled beef.
‘What would I do?’ Greer questioned. He’d have to do something to earn his keep; his pride wouldn’t let him accept a free ride around England.
Allen shrugged, unconcerned. ‘You play billiards. Kendall tells me people like to play you. Your presence will be good for business, help people think about making their way to Brighton when summer comes.’
It sounded simple, simple and decadent—to make money doing something he was so very good at. But something philosophic and intangible niggled at him, likely born of the conservative life-lessons his father had instilled in him. Lockhart was right: he wasn’t risking his life. But he might well be risking something more. His very soul, perhaps. ‘The offer is generous. I don’t know what to say.’ This was not the ‘gentleman’s way’.
Lockhart smiled, seemingly unbothered by his lack of immediate acceptance. ‘Then say nothing. Take your time and think about it. I like a man who isn’t too hasty about his decisions.’ He set down his napkin and rose. ‘I must excuse myself. I have some last-minute business to take care of at the club tonight.’
Greer rose, understanding this to be his cue to leave as well, but Lockhart waved away his effort. ‘Sit down, stay a while, talk it over with Mercedes.’ Lockhart winked at Mercedes. ‘Persuade him, my dear,’ he chuckled. ‘Tell him what a fabulous time we’ll have on the road, the three of us bashing around England. We’ll hit all the watering holes between here and Bath, catch Bath at the end of their Season, and turn north towards the industrial centres.’
Greer raised a brow in Mercedes’s direction. ‘The three of us?’
Mercedes gave a small, almost coy smile, her eyes fixed on him knowingly as if she understood her answer would seal his acceptance. ‘I’ll be going, too.’
She was daring him with those sharp eyes. Was he man enough to go on the road with her? Or had he had enough after last night? Was he brave enough to come back for more? More of what? Greer wondered. Her tart tongue or her sweet kisses? Potent silence dominated the room as they duelled with their eyes, each very aware of the thoughts running through the other’s mind.
Allen Lockhart coughed, a thin, near-laughing smile on his lips as he reached into his coat pocket. ‘In all the excitement, I almost forgot to give you this.’ He handed a thick envelope to Greer. The flap was open, revealing pound notes.
‘What is this for?’ Greer stared at the money. It would keep him for quite a while in his drab rented room. Perhaps he could even send some home. His father had mentioned the roof needed fixing on the home farm. Stop, he cautioned himself. This wasn’t his money. Not yet.
Lockhart’s smile broadened. He looked like someone who has taken great pleasure in pleasing another with a most-needed gift. ‘It’s yours, from last night’s winnings.’
Greer shook his head and put the envelope down on the table. ‘I didn’t wager anything.’
‘No, but I did. I bet on you and you worked for me last night. This is your cut for that work, your salary, if you prefer to think of it that way.’
It was so very tempting when Lockhart put it that way. ‘I can’t take it. You wouldn’t have billed me if I’d lost.’
Lockhart nodded in assent. ‘I understand. I respect an honest man.’ He scooped up the envelope and tossed it to Mercedes who caught it deftly. ‘See if you can’t find a good use for that, my dear.’
‘What shall it be?’ Mercedes gathered up the ivory balls from their pockets around the table. ‘The losing game? The winning game? Colours? Name your preference.’ She’d brought the Captain to the billiards room after her father had left. Another look at Thurston’s table wouldn’t be amiss. Nothing persuaded like excellence.
‘You play?’ She could hear Barrington’s chalk cube stop its rubbing, a sure indicator she’d stunned him into silence.
Mercedes set the balls on the table and fixed him with a cold smile designed to intimidate. ‘Yes, I play. Why? Does that surprise you? It shouldn’t. I’m Allen Lockhart’s daughter. I’ve grown up around billiards my whole life.’ Mercedes selected a cue from the wall rack, watching the Captain’s reaction out of the corner of her eye. To his credit, he didn’t follow up his surprise by stammering the usual next line, ‘B-b-but you’re a woman.’
Captain Barrington merely grinned, blew the excess chalk off his cue and said, ‘Well then, let’s play.’
They played the ‘winning game’, potting each other’s balls into various ‘hazards’ for points. Mercedes played carefully, a mix of competence and near-competence designed to draw Barrington out, expose his responses. Would he play hard against a woman? She potted the last ball into the hazard with a hard crack. ‘I win.’
She gave him a stern look, suspecting he’d purposely let up towards the end of the second game. ‘I shouldn’t have. You gave up a point when you missed your third shot.’ It had been a skilful miss. An amateur would have noticed nothing. Near-misses happened; tables were full of imperfections that could lead to a miscalculation. But she’d noticed. ‘Are you afraid to beat a woman?’
He laughed at that—a deep, sincere chuckle. ‘I’ve already beaten you once tonight. I won the first game, if you recall?’
‘I do recall, and I suspect you were too much of a gentleman to win the second.’ Mercedes was all seriousness.
This was the type of thing her father wanted her to ferret out and destroy. Chivalry was anathema on the road. She supposed his idea of chivalry didn’t stop at women, but extended to poor farmers who’d come to town on market day and stopped in to play a game, or to men seemingly down on their luck, or to men, unlike him, who wagered with what they couldn’t afford to lose. Such chivalry stemmed from the code of noblesse oblige that gentlemen were raised with and it would definitely have to go.
‘Such fine sentiments will beggar you, Captain.’ Mercedes flirted a bit with her smile, gathering up the balls for another game.
Barrington shrugged, unconcerned. ‘Manners beggar me very little when there’s no money on the line. We were just playing.’
‘Is that so?’ Mercedes straightened. Just playing? Her father would blanch at the idea of ‘just playing’. There was no such thing in his world. She reached for the envelope where she’d laid it on a small table. She tossed it on to the billiards table. ‘I want your best game, Captain. Will this buy it?’ She’d known precisely what use her father meant for the envelope. She was to buy the Captain with it.
‘Are you serious?’ His eyes, when they met hers, were hard and contemplative, not the laughing orbs that had not cared she’d accused him of going easy on her.
‘I am always serious about money, Captain.’
‘So am I.’
She knew it was the truth—the calculation in his eyes confirmed it. This was a chance to rightfully win what her father had offered earlier. He’d desperately wanted that money; she’d seen the delight that had flared in his eyes ever so briefly. Only his honour had prevented him from taking it. ‘You’re on, Captain. Best two out of three.’
She won the first game by one point, earned when he barely missed making contact with his ball, legitimately this time.
He took his coat off for the second game and rolled up his sleeves. Was he doing it on purpose to distract her? If so, it wasn’t a bad strategy. Without his coat, she could see the bend and flex of him clearly outlined by his dark-fawn trousers, and there was something undeniably attractive about a man only in waistcoat and shirt, especially if the man in question was as well proportioned as the Captain.
He was handsomely turned out tonight in a crisp white shirt and fashionable, shawl-collar waistcoat of burgundy silk, showing off those broad shoulders. His blond hair had fallen forwards, the intensity of their play defeating the parting he wore to one side. Now, all that golden perfection fell forwards, hiding his eyes from her as he concentrated on his next shot.
It was a sexy look, an intense look—a crowd would love it, a woman would love it, looking up into that face, that hair, as he moved over her, naked and strong. Mercedes pushed such earthy thoughts away. She had a game to lose. This was no time to be imagining the Captain naked and in the throes of love-making.
Barrington won the second game, just as she’d planned. His honour ensured it. He’d promised her his best game and he could be counted on to keep his word, his honour making him blind to any dishonour in another. It would prevent him from seeing her game as anything other than straightforward and perhaps his bias would, too. No matter what a man said, a man never believed a woman was a real threat until it was too late. She didn’t think the Captain was any different in that regard. It was the nature of men, after all, to believe in their infallible superiority.
‘This is it. Winner takes all.’ Mercedes set her mouth in a grim line of determination. Whether anyone knew it or not, there was just as much pressure to lose well as there was to win. But Barrington was nearly untouchable in the third game, potting balls without also hazarding his cue ball, and it made her job easier. He was starting to smile, some of the intensity from the second game melting away, overcome by his natural assurance and confidence.
‘Look at that,’ he crowed good-naturedly after making a particularly difficult shot, ‘just like butter on bread.’
Mercedes laughed too. She couldn’t help it. His humour was infectious. This must be why people like to play him, she thought. Even if you were losing to him, you wanted him to win. His personality drew you in, charmed you. That would have to be saved. She added it to the mental list in her head: chivalry, no, personality, yes. She wondered if she could change the one without altering the other? Without altering him? Because Greer Barrington was eminently likeable just the way he was. She had not bargained on that. She lined up her last shot and took it with a little extra force to ensure the slip. She would make her shot—he would be suspicious if she didn’t—but her cue ball would hazard and that would decide the game in his favour.
Mercedes thumped the butt of her cue on the floor with disgust. ‘Devil take it,’ she muttered on her breath for good, compelling measure, her face a study of disappointment. ‘I had that shot.’
Barrington laughed. ‘You’re a bad loser.’ He said it with a certain amount of shock as if he’d made a surprising discovery. He shifted his position so that he half sat on the edge of the table, his eyes alight with confidence and mischief. But Mercedes already knew what was coming. Part of her wanted him to take the money and be done with it. If he was smart, he’d pocket that envelope, walk out of here and forget all about the Lockharts. His blasted chivalry was about to work against him.
‘I’ll give you a chance to win it back. One game takes all, I’ll wager my envelope against—’
She interrupted. ‘The road. Your envelope against the road. I win, you take my father’s offer.’ Don’t do it. The wager is too much and you should know it.
Barrington studied her for a moment. ‘I was going to say a kiss.’
‘All right, and a kiss,’ Mercedes replied coolly. But she wasn’t nearly as cool as she let on. This wouldn’t be like the previous set of games where she’d been entirely in charge of the outcome. She’d decided who’d won and it had been easy to control things simply by losing. She wouldn’t have that control here. Her only option this time lay in complete victory.
She chalked her cue and watched Barrington break one of his shattering breaks in the new style becoming popular in the higher-class subscription rooms. She studied the lay of the table and took her shot. On her next shot, Mercedes carefully leaned over the table, displaying her cleavage to advantage where it spilled from the square neckline of her gown. If he could take off his coat, she could make use of her assets, too. She looked up in time to catch Barrington hastily avert his gaze, but not until he’d got an eyeful. She smiled and went back to her shot. ‘Like butter on bread,’ she said after it fell into a pocket with a quiet plop.
Barrington shot again. ‘Like jam on toast.’ He raised a challenging eyebrow in her direction. His shot had been an easy one and he had the better lay of the table. None of his remaining shots would require any particular skill or luck. If she didn’t do something now, he’d outpace her and win. The shot she was looking for was risky. If she missed, it would assure Barrington’s victory and she’d have some explaining to do to her father. But if she didn’t try she would likely end up losing anyway.
She bent, eyeing the table. Unhappy with the angle, she moved, bent, sighted the ball and moved again. Finally pleased, she aimed her cue. ‘I find jam a bit sticky.’ She shot, the cue ball splitting the pair she’d sighted perfectly, each one rolling smoothly to their respective pockets.
The Captain favoured her with a sharp look. ‘Impressive. I think you may have been holding out on me.’
Mercedes lifted a shoulder in a shrug. ‘A lady must have her secrets, after all.’
Two shots later she claimed victory. Her risky shot had paid off.
Barrington settled his cue on the table, a not entirely happy look on his face. ‘You win. The road it is.’
Mercedes came around the table and stood beside him, guilt threatening to swamp her. She’d goaded him into this. She’d directed the evening towards this very outcome. Perhaps it hadn’t been fair. ‘You’ll like it. You can play billiards all day, all night, and my father will introduce you to a lot of people. You’ll have opportunities.’ She pressed the envelope into his hands. ‘And you’ll have your money. You won’t have to take up the home farm for a while.’ She tried for a laugh, but it fell flat.
‘I lost.’
‘I don’t recall asking for the envelope if I won.’ Mercedes smiled up into his face. She hoped he saw that smile as one of friendship. She’d been hard on him tonight, whether he knew it or not. But they were in this together now. He was her chance. His successes would be her successes, at least for a while, at least until she decided he’d served his purpose as he had tonight.
She boldly took the envelope from his hands and put it inside his waistcoat. His body was warm through his shirt where her hand made contact with his chest. She tucked the envelope securely into an inside pocket.
‘You don’t mind the road all that much, do you? I was fairly sure last night you didn’t have any plans.’ Mercedes was gripped by another bout of conscience. She hoped she hadn’t ruined anything for him.
‘No. I’m looking forward to it, actually.’ Barrington gave a fleeting smile, perhaps designed to appease her guilt. ‘I was merely wondering what my father would make of all this.’ Ah, the sainted Viscount with his empty coffers.
‘Sometimes fathers don’t always know best,’ Mercedes answered softly. ‘Especially if what they want for us is holding us back. Our paths can’t always be theirs.’
He gave her a look that held her eyes and searched her soul. Before he could ask some difficult, probing and personal question, she stretched up on her tiptoes, put her arms about his neck and kissed him hard on the mouth.
He answered it; the evening had been too intense not to use the outlet the kiss offered, a place to spend the energy. His tongue found hers, duelled with it as their eyes had duelled over dinner, sending a trail of goosebumps down her arms. He unnerved her, excited her. It wasn’t that she’d never been kissed, never been physically courted by a man before. She was not one of the ton’s innocent débutantes. It was the sheer strength of him.
He pulled her close, that strength apparent where his hand rested at her waist, a reminder that this man exuded strength everywhere—physical strength, mental strength. He was a veritable font of it: strength, honour, and selfcontrol. A lesser man would have devoured her mouth by now, swept away with his own base lust. Not Captain Barrington.
He released her, unwilling to make her a party to his baser urges right there on John Thurston’s billiards table. Not because he didn’t have them, but because it was what a gentleman did. That was a bit disappointing. Captain Barrington unleashed would be a sight to behold. ‘What was that for?’ It was not said unkindly.
Mercedes stepped back, smoothing her skirts, in charge of her emotions once more. ‘It’s your consolation prize. Go home and pack your things, Captain. We leave Thursday.’
Chapter Five (#u905d9541-109c-5c0e-b782-f813e2a4252c)
Thursday morning found Greer sitting opposite Mercedes in an elegant black travelling coach complete with all the modern conveniences: squabs of Italian leather, under-the-seat storage for hampers and valises, a pistol compartment, large glass-paned windows with curtains for privacy when passengers tired of the scenery outside. Even his proud father would feel some envy at the sparkling new coach.
That didn’t mean his father would approve. Coveting did not equate with approval where his father was concerned. A gentleman might quietly desire his neighbour’s fine coach, but a gentleman would never lower himself to acquire it by working for it. A gentleman had standards, after all. Standards, Greer was acutely aware, he had violated to the extreme on several occasions in the last week.
‘Your father certainly knows how to travel in style,’ Greer commented appreciatively, trying to make conversation, anything to push speculations of his father’s reaction to his latest undertaking out of mind.
Mercedes shrugged, unconcerned with the wealth and luxury surrounding her, or perhaps just less impressed. ‘He likes the best.’ That was all she said for a long while. Mercedes proceeded to pull out a book and bury herself in it, leaving him to the very thoughts he was trying to avoid.
It was just the two of them at the moment. Lockhart had chosen to ride outside along with the groom overseeing Greer’s own mount, another circumstance with which his father would take umbrage—an unmarried woman alone in a carriage with a man. Or, in this case, an eligible bachelor alone in a carriage with entirely the wrong sort of woman, the sort who might take advantage of said bachelor in the hopes of marrying up.
Very dangerous indeed! Greer fought back a wry smile. It was laughable, really. He was an officer in his Majesty’s army. He could handle one enticing female. If Lockhart had intended anything to happen, such a ploy was obvious in the extreme.
Greer gave in to the smile, imagining all nature of wild scenarios. If Mercedes was to compromise him, how would she do it? Would she leap across the seat, provoked by the slightest rut in the road, and tear his shirt off? Would she be more subtle? Maybe she’d stretch, raise those arms over her head in a way that thrust those breasts forwards and exclaim over how hot she was.
His thoughts went on this way for a good two miles. It was a stimulating exercise to say the least. He had her halfway undressed and fanning herself before he had to stop. A gentleman had to draw the line somewhere. If Mercedes knew what he was envisioning, she might have chosen to engage him in conversation instead.
But since she didn’t and since he’d taken his thoughts as far as he ought in one direction, Greer spent the better part of the morning taking them in the other, most of which involved contemplating how it was that he’d packed up his trunk and his horse, the only two items of any worldly worth in his possession, and left town all for the sake of a beautiful woman.
It was definitely one of the more rash things he’d done in a long while. The military was not a place where unwarranted gambles were rewarded. An officer must always balance risk against caution and he was no stranger to the charms of beautiful women: the lovely señora in Spain, the mysterious widow in Crete. But looking at Mercedes Lockhart engrossed in her book, their loveliness paled for the simple reason that Mercedes’s beauty was not found in the sum of her features: her exotic eyes with their slight uptilt, the high cheekbones and the full sensuous lips that seduced every time she smiled. Nor was it that she knew how to enhance those physical qualities with the styling of her hair and expensive gowns.
No, the core of Mercedes’s beauty lay in something more—in her very being, the way she carried herself, all confidence and seduction. She wasn’t afraid of her power or her ability to wield it. Mercedes Lockhart was no blushing, tonnish virgin or even a woman who affected false modesty in the hopes of appearing virtuous. His father would not approve of Mercedes Lockhart any more than he’d approve of the reasons Greer was in the coach. Both were scandalous adventures for a man of Greer’s birth and station.
However, his father would be wrong, Greer thought, if all he saw in Mercedes was a woman of loose scruples. Woe to the man who mistook her for no more than that. What she was was potent and alluring and quite possibly deadly to the man who fell for her. The French had a term for women like Mercedes. Femme fatale.
Well, he’d faced worse in battle than one beautiful woman. Greer settled deep into his seat and smiled, deciding to play another secret little game with himself, one that left her better clothed than the previous. How long could he stare at her before she looked up at him? Thirty seconds? One minute? Longer?
At thirty seconds she started to fidget ever so slightly, trying desperately to ignore him.
At forty-five seconds, she was taking an inordinately long time to finish reading the page.
At one minute she gave up and fixed him with a stare. Greer grinned. His femme fatale was human, after all.
‘What are you looking at?’ Mercedes set aside her book.
‘You,’ Greer replied. ‘We’re to be together for an indefinite period of time and it has occurred to me as I sit here in silence, watching the morning speed by …’
‘Watching me,’ Mercedes corrected.
‘All right, watching you,’ Greer conceded. ‘As I was saying, it has occurred to me that I’ve set out on a journey with two strangers I hardly know even though my immediate future is now tied to theirs.’
Mercedes favoured him with one of her knowing smiles. ‘Perhaps you’re more of a gambler than you thought, Captain.’
Greer considered this for a moment. ‘I suppose I am. Although we don’t have to remain strangers.’
‘What do you propose?’
‘A little Q and A, as we call it in the military.’ Greer stretched his legs, settling in to enjoy himself. ‘Question and answer.’
‘Or a consequence,’ Mercedes supplied with a smug little smile. ‘I know this game, Captain. You’re not so terribly original.’
‘No. No consequence,’ he explained, watching Mercedes’s smug smile fade. ‘There is no choice to not answer. Question asked, answer given. There is no option to refuse.’ Greer folded his hands behind his head. ‘Ladies first. Ask me anything you’d like.’
‘All right then.’ Mercedes thought for a moment. ‘Have you always wanted to be a soldier?’
‘I was raised to it, ever since I can remember,’ Greer replied honestly, although he was cognisant of the omissions that answer contained. ‘How about you? Were you always good at billiards? Born with a cue in your hand?’
The beauty of the game was that it allowed the participants to ask directly what they’d never dare give voice to in polite conversation over dinners and tea trays. They traded questions and answers over the dwindling hours of the morning, his knowledge growing with each answer.
Greer learned she’d travelled with her father until she was eleven and he’d sent her off to boarding school. After that she’d come home on holidays and wandered the subscription room, watching and studying the game around which their lives were centred.
He learned her mother had died from birthing complications, that her name was Spanish for mercies—although in Latin it meant pity—quite apropos for a baby girl left to the tender sympathies of a single father, a gambler by trade, who could have just as easily have abandoned her to distant relatives and never looked back. But Lockhart hadn’t. He’d taken her, cradle and all, on the road and continued to build his fame and his empire until his baby girl was surrounded by all the luxuries his ill-gotten gains could buy.
Those were the facts and when Greer had accumulated enough of them, he did the thing that made him so valuable to the military: he took those singular facts and coalesced them into a larger whole. In doing so, he saw quite well all the fires that had forged Mercedes Lockhart, that were still forging her—this incredible woman of refinement and education and emotional steel.
Was she doing the same to him? Her questions, too, had dealt only in basic, general curiosities—did he have a large family? What were his parents like? What did he like to read? To do in his spare time? Was she taking all those pieces and digging to the core of him? It was an unnerving prospect to think she might see more than he wanted to reveal. But that was the risk of the game—how much of oneself would one end up exposing?
As the game deepened, the questions moved subtly away from generally curious enquiries about each other’s family and history and towards the private and personal. ‘Who is the first girl you ever kissed?’ Mercedes flashed him a mischievous smile as she added, ‘And how old were you?’
‘Oh, it’s multiple questions in a single shot now, is it?’ Greer quipped good-naturedly. He didn’t mind. The question was harmless enough.
‘A first kiss is only a good question if age is attached. It adds perspective,’ Mercedes replied, willing to defend her ground in good fun.
‘Well, it was Catherine Dennington,’ Greer recalled with a fond smile. ‘I was fourteen and she was fifteen. Her father was the village baker and she was plump in all the right places.’ He feigned a sigh. ‘Alas, she’s married now to the butcher’s son and has two children.’ Greer winked at Mercedes. ‘How’s that for perspective?’ He studied her with the exaggerated air of an Oxford professor. ‘Speaking of perspective, Miss Lockhart,’ he said in his best mock-academic voice, ‘It’s only fair, if you want to talk about kisses, that you tell me about your first intimate encounter.’
He’d asked mostly out of spirited mischief. She couldn’t stoke the fire and then run away. Even with the intended and obvious humour behind the question, Greer had half expected her to scold him for such impertinence and he’d let her wiggle out of her obligation to answer. He’d not expected her to answer it.
She narrowed her catlike eyes and returned his studied stare, making sure she had the whole of his attention. ‘Dismal. It was a wet, messy foray into adolescent curiosity. He was in and out and done before it really began for me. And yours, Captain? Better or worse?’
The fun disappeared, replaced by something far more serious. They weren’t talking about kisses any more. But Greer matched her with a succinct answer of his own. ‘Better, much better.’ But it was more than an answer. It was an invitation, one no sensible gentleman would have issued and they both knew it.
‘Well played, Captain.’ Mercedes leaned back against her seat, impressed. He hadn’t been frightened off. Instead of being embarrassed for her, he’d gone on the offensive with a self-assured disclosure of his own. She could choose to take him down a notch with a sharp comment about the natural arrogance of men when it came to estimating their sexual prowess. But such a rejoinder merely led down a tired road of well-worn repartee.
‘Now we know each other’s secrets,’ Greer said quietly in a manner that fit their newfound solemnity, ‘what’s next?’
Mercedes peered out the window, buying some time to put together an appropriate answer. The coach began to slow and she couldn’t resist a smile. Perfect. ‘Lunch. That’s what’s next.’ She couldn’t have timed it better herself. The stop would bring their game to a close and with it an end to any awkward probes into her past. The things in her past were best left there. She’d made mistakes, trusted too freely. She didn’t want to create the impression such a thing would happen again. It wouldn’t do to have Captain Barrington entertaining any untoward notions.
She knew what those notions would be: to get her into bed, have a dalliance and leave her when the differences in their stations became too obvious to go unremarked. Sons of viscounts could offer her no more than a bit a fun. It was not that she’d mind an affair with the Captain. He’d already demonstrated a promising propensity for bedsport and he was certainly built for it. But such a venture would have to be on her terms from beginning to end. Mercedes fanned herself with her hand. Was it just her or was it getting hot in here?
It felt good to get out of the carriage and stretch her legs. The morning mist had cleared, giving way to a rare, sunny April day. The spot her father had found was delightful: a place not far off the road, and populated by wildflowers and a towering oak with a stream nearby for watering the horses.
Mercedes took herself off for a few moments of privacy, letting the coachman and the groom have time to take care of the horses before she began setting out the food. But when she came back, she saw she was too late. Someone had taken charge and set up ‘camp’ without her. A blanket was spread beneath the oak tree. The hamper was unpacked and the man most likely responsible for all this activity stood to one side of the blanket, his blond hair falling forwards in his face as he worked the cork free on a bottle of wine with a gentleman’s dexterity, a skill acquired only from long practice.
It was yet another reminder of the differences in their stations. Her father had never quite mastered the art of uncorking champagne on his own. He always laughed, saying, ‘Why bother when I have footmen paid to do it?’ Her father had come late to the luxuries of a lifestyle where champagne was considered a commonplace experience. Not so with Greer. He could talk all he wanted about the hardships of the military and the lack of wealth in his family. The indelible mark of a gentleman was still there in the opportunities that surrounded him. Boot boys from Bath hadn’t the same experiences.
Greer looked up and smiled when he saw her, the cork coming out with a soft pop. He poured her a glass and handed it to her. ‘It’s still chilled.’
The wine, with its light, fruity tang, was deliciously cold sliding down her dry throat. At the moment, Mercedes couldn’t recall anything tasting better. It wasn’t until Greer had poured his own glass and had gestured for her to sit down that she realised they were completely alone—the servants off at a discreet distance, her father peculiarly absent. ‘Where’s my father?’
‘He decided to ride on ahead. Apparently there’s a spring fair in the village an hour or so up the road.’ Greer began fixing a plate from the bread, cold meats and cheese spread out on the blanket. ‘He wants to make sure we have rooms at the inn.’
Likely, he wanted more than that. He wanted to see the billiards situation, what kind of people were in town, which inn had a table, who was the big player in the area. He’d have the lay of the land and a new ‘best friend’ by the time they arrived.
Mercedes glanced overhead at the sky. It was noon. They’d be in the village by two o’clock at the latest. There would still be plenty of time to stroll around the fair and enjoy the treat. They could have all gone together. An hour wouldn’t have cost her father anything. But he’d wanted to go alone. There was a reason for that. She’d have to be cautious and not acknowledge him unless he wanted her to. Perhaps he wanted them to appear to be strangers. He and Kendall had done that sort of the thing in the old days.
‘Mercedes, your plate.’ Greer had finished assembling the food and, to her surprise, the plate he’d been concocting had been for her. Of course it was. It was what a gentleman did and Greer did those things as effortlessly as he uncorked wine. She wondered how he would respond to the kinds of confidence games her father liked to play? The kind of games where the limits of honesty were grey areas?
‘Thank you.’ She settled the plate on her lap and watched him put together his own plate, long, tapered fingers selecting meats and cheese with purpose.
‘I was thinking you might like to ride this afternoon since the weather turned out to be nice,’ Greer offered. ‘I noticed both you and your father brought horses.’
It would be perfect. The afternoon was far too fair to be cooped up in the carriage. It was the ideal conversational offering as well.
They spent lunch talking about riding and horses, something she didn’t know half as well as she knew billiards. She liked listening to Greer talk about his stallion, Rufus, and other horses he’d owned. He had a face that came alive when he spoke, and an easy manner that was fully engaged now. She’d caught glimpses of it before; when they’d played billiards and this morning in the carriage, but always somewhat tempered by the side of him that never forgot he was an officer and a viscount’s son.
This afternoon, sitting under the oak, he was quite simply himself. And she had been quite simply herself, not Allen Lockhart’s daughter, not always planning the next calculated move. It was nice to forget and she did forget right up until the flags of the fair came into view and it was time to remember what they were there for.
‘Should we find your father?’ Greer asked, looking for a place to leave the horses until the carriage and servants caught up to them.
Mercedes smiled and dismounted. ‘I think we’ll let him find us. Meanwhile, you and I shall enjoy the fair.’
Chapter Six (#u905d9541-109c-5c0e-b782-f813e2a4252c)
This was pure recklessness, Mercedes privately acknowledged as they tethered the horses on the outskirts of the fairground. She was inviting all sorts of trouble being alone with the Captain. Not the usual kind of trouble. She was too old to need a chaperon and the Captain wasn’t likely to take advantage of her. Her danger lay in mixing business with pleasure. She was on this trip to groom him, introduce him to the world of professional billiards. She was not here to picnic under trees, or walk fairgrounds, or to play parlour games in coaches with him.
Those all led to perilous places where business became confused with emotions. But she was not ready to let go of the afternoon. That would happen soon enough. Her father would have plans for the evening that would demand it. But not yet. For now, the afternoon was still hers.
They browsed at the booths, smelling milled soaps from France and laughing when a few of the little cakes were reminiscent of cloying old ladies. They admired the bolts of fabric at the cloth merchant’s, the vendor mistaking her for Greer’s wife as he tried to convince her to buy some chintz for recovering seat cushions in her sitting room.
She had blushed furiously over the mistake, but seen no way to rectify it. Greer had politely steered them on to the next booth, taking the remark in his stride. The booth contained various blades and he soon became engrossed with the owner in a discussion of blades and hilts. Mercedes moved on to a display of ribbons. She’d been debating the merits of the green or the blue ribbon with the vendor, a woman of middle years, when Greer stepped up behind her. ‘She’ll take them both,’ he said with a laugh, passing over the shillings. ‘They’re too pretty to choose just one.’
‘You have a good husband, ma’am.’ The woman smiled, pocketing Greer’s coins with a wink in his direction. ‘Knows how to spoil his wife properly. You’ll have a long marriage, I think.’
‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ Mercedes hissed once they’d moved away from the booth.
‘Why not?’ Greer teased. ‘Don’t you like people thinking we’re together? Am I too ugly for you?’
She shook her head with a laugh. It was impossible to stay angry with him. ‘You know you’re not. That woman was rather disappointed you were so devoted to your “wife.”’
‘Aye, she was likely hoping I might be devoted to her later this evening. But alas, my heart is claimed elsewhere.’
‘Stop it,’ Mercedes insisted with little vigour. ‘You’re being ridiculous.’ But she was laughing too.
They’d reached the perimeter of the fairground. Their horses weren’t far off and the crowd had thinned, leaving them alone. Greer took out the blue ribbon from his coat pocket. ‘Will you permit me?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. He moved behind her, but instead of putting the ribbon in her hair, he slid it about her neck and when she looked down, a tiny silver charm in the shape of a star dangled from the ribbon. She recognised it immediately. She’d stared at it overlong at the jeweller’s booth. It had been of surprisingly good worksmanship and Greer had noticed. It had not been cheap either.
‘You shouldn’t have,’ Mercedes began quietly, settling her hair.
‘Shouldn’t have what? Shouldn’t have commemorated this glorious day?’ Greer argued in equally soft tones. He turned her to face him. ‘I haven’t had many nice days like this for a while. As you can imagine, there aren’t picnics and fairs in the military. And for once, I don’t have anything pressing to worry about. There’s no one shooting at me, there are no worms in my food. Life has definitely improved since I’ve met you.’
She felt guilty. She wanted to tell him she wasn’t worth it, that she’d been brought along to tame him, to turn him into something that could make her father money. But she let him have the moment. He’d been a soldier, he’d faced death and delivered it too. He worried for his family and over their finances, and finally he’d had a day where there was fair weather overhead, money in his pocket that bills couldn’t claim, and a pretty woman by his side. She could not bring herself to steal that from him. Taking that from him meant taking that from her, too, and she couldn’t do it.
Mercedes gave up the fight and said simply, ‘Thank you, Greer.’ Her hand closed over the charm where it rested against her skin. She would treasure it always, as a reminder of the day a gentleman had treated her like a lady. She stepped closer, her head tilted up in encouragement. Perhaps he’d like to seal the day with a kiss. And he might have if he’d got the chance.
‘There you two are!’
Her father approached, his spirits high. Mercedes stepped back, putting more space between herself and Greer. If her father was in a good mood, things must have gone well in town. ‘We thought you’d find us when you were ready.’ Mercedes offered as an explanation for their truancy.
‘You thought right, my smart girl.’ He chucked her under the chin playfully. ‘I’ve got rooms at the Millstream Inn, but the billiards table is at the Golden Rooster.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Two inns! Not bad for a sleepy little place. We’ll have some fun tonight. Everyone hereabouts is in town with money to spend after a long winter. Are you ready to play, Captain?’
Her father inserted himself between the two of them as they walked back towards town, horses in tow. Behind her father’s back, Greer caught her eye and gave her a grin. Mercedes smiled, swallowing her disappointment. The afternoon was officially over.
Bosham was a pretty fishing village at the east end of Chichester Harbour. A Saxon stone church sat neatly on the High Street not far from their rooms at the Millstream Inn, and Greer would have liked time to tour the town with Mercedes. She’d been a game sightseer at the fair and he would have enjoyed exploring the town’s countless legends about King Harold and Canute with her.
There would be no time for such an indulgence. Lockhart had not only found them rooms at the comfortable inn, he had already bespoke a private parlour for dinner and was eager to get down to the business of playing billiards.
‘We’ll go over to the Golden Rooster,’ Lockhart said between bites of an excellent seafood stew. ‘I want to see what you can do, what your natural inclinations are, how badly you want to win.’ Lockhart winked and handed him some funds. ‘That should get you started.’ Lockhart rubbed his hands together, the gleam of excitement in his eye. ‘There’s money to be had in this little town tonight. People are happy, they’ve made money today, they’ve been drinking and thinking they’ve got a bit extra in their pockets.’
Greer cringed inwardly at Lockhart’s implication. A single walk through the streets had shown him these were simple people: merchants, farmers and fishermen, some of whom depended on seasonal fairs to last them through the year. The thought of taking their money sat poorly with him, souring the rich stew in his stomach.
Mercedes was watching him. He must have reflected his distaste for the venture in some small way. Quickly, Greer tore off a chunk of bread and dipped it into his bowl, looking busy with eating to mask any other telltale signs of reluctance. Her eyes slid away towards her father.
‘I’ll be there too.’
‘No, I think you should stay here,’ Lockhart corrected. ‘Relax, spend the night by the fire, enjoy some needlepoint.’ He smiled kindly at his daughter, but Greer didn’t think Mercedes would fall for the expansive gesture.
She saw right through it. ‘I’ll come,’ she said with the same brand of feigned politeness her father had used. ‘I’m not tired. It will take only a moment to change. Shall I wear the maroon gown?’ Greer’s lips twitched, suppressing a smile as he watched the two of them play with one another. Would Lockhart be so easily managed?
Lockhart rose and held Mercedes’s arm. His voice was low and firm, more fatherly when he spoke this time. Greer recognised it as the tone his own father took when he was younger and he and his brother had pushed the limits of their father’s patience with a jest or prank. ‘I prefer you remain here. The Golden Rooster is no gentleman’s club. With the fair in town, who knows what kind of element will find its way out tonight?’
Mercedes’s eyes narrowed. ‘I cannot help him if I cannot watch him. By the time we get to the big towns it will be too late to coach him. If he has a flaw, we need to fix it while we’re in the villages.’
Greer raised his eyebrows. ‘I am still here.’ He didn’t like being talked about as if he were a thing to be studied and fixed. Mercedes spared him the briefest of glances before turning back to her father.
Lockhart shook his head, his tone softening. ‘Please, Mercedes, a tavern is no place for you. When there are subscription rooms or private billiards parlours, you’ll be able to join us then. Please, besides, your clothes will give us away. Your gowns are much too fine for the Golden Rooster.’ He swallowed and dropped his gaze, arguing softly, ‘I would not have you treated less than you deserve, my dear. You know what the men there will think.’
That was the end of it. The last argument seemed to carry some weight. Mercedes acquiesced to her father’s better sense with moderately good grace and what could pass as a warning. ‘Just for tonight. But don’t think I’ll sit idly by again. We’ll have to find a way to make my presence acceptable long before we get to Bath.’
‘Fair enough.’ Lockhart kissed his daughter’s cheek and turned to Greer. ‘Are you ready, then?’
The Golden Rooster was at the other end of town, closer to the fairground than the quay like the Millstream Inn, and the fair crowd had definitely gathered there. At the back of the room was the billiards table. Greer and Lockhart parted ways, Lockhart heading for the bar and Greer for the table with Lockhart’s advice in his ear: watch first, then play slow and easy, nothing fancy.
Watching helped settle his nerves and misgivings. These were regular men, not all that different from those he played in the army. They seemed cognisant of what they were doing and the attenuate risks. For a while, players came and went, the winner of a match earning the right to stay at the table and play the next challenger and the atmosphere was congenial. Then, a cocky braggart of a man stepped up and won a few games. He was not a kind winner and Greer felt his blood starting to rise. He wanted to beat this man. When the chance came to play, he took it, hefting the ash cue in his hand with grim determination.
He didn’t stay grim for long. It felt good to play and in spite of the worn condition of the table, the balls rolled predictably. He played the braggart again and again, defeat egging the man on until he had to withdraw, his ego and coins spent. The crowd around Greer had grown with a rising raucousness, spurred on by Greer’s victories against a disliked opponent. He caught a glimpse of Lockhart shouldering his way into the crowd.
‘Who else will play?’ Greer called out in friendly tones. Now that the braggart had been routed, they could get back to the business of fun. The crowd parted and a young man, younger than he, emerged. He was tall and sturdily built. His face was tanned, his eyes merry, shoulders broad and thick from hauling nets. A fisherman, a local. A few men clapped the young man on the shoulder and Greer surmised from the comments that the young man was something of a town favourite, newly married with a baby on the way. His name was Leander and he blushed ever so slightly and proudly when the men teased him about Ellie. ‘Finally let you out of the house, has she?’ they joked.
Leander brushed off the comments. ‘Never mind them,’ he said good-naturedly to Greer. ‘They’re just jealous I’m married to the prettiest girl in town.’ Most definitely a town favourite, Greer thought as the men laughed.
And a decent player too, Greer amended a few games later. They’d played four games, each winning two and money exchanging hands on an equal basis. Lockhart was frowning in the crowd. Greer would have to step up his game. It would be too much for Leander. If Leander was smart, he’d recognise the superior skill and walk away. At this point, Leander wasn’t out any serious money and he could stop whenever he wanted.
Conscience subdued momentarily, Greer took the next three games. Leander was getting frustrated. Greer hoped the young man would stop and call it a night. Instead Leander said, ‘Double or nothing on the next game.’ There were a few cautious murmurings from the men beside him, warning him to reconsider.
‘You played well, Leander, let it be,’ one man suggested with an arm about his shoulders, hoping to lead him away. But Leander was young and typically hotheaded where his pride was concerned.
‘Think about Ellie and the baby,’ another said. ‘You’ll need that money for the doctor later.’
If it had been up to him, Greer would have put down the cue and walked away, claiming tiredness, but it wasn’t up to him. Lockhart was standing there, wanting him to go on and Leander would not back down. Between them, they’d taken away one choice, leaving Greer with only one other avenue of recourse. Three shots in, he scratched, potting the cue ball along with his own and forfeited the game, followed by what he hoped was a sincere show of disbelief.
Greer put down the cue and handed the money over to a beaming Leander. ‘Go home to your wife,’ he said in low tones, and he was sure the men present would make that happen. Some of them clapped him on the back, as he made his way to the front. Others offered to buy him a drink, but he refused. Lockhart had gone on ahead and would be waiting outside. He wouldn’t be pleased and Greer needed to face him.
‘You had him,’ Lockhart began as they walked back to the Millstream. ‘You were doing brilliantly. You ousted the braggart, showed yourself worthy of playing the local best, got the local favourite to come out and play, worked him up to where he offered double or nothing and then you let him go. What were you thinking?’
‘I was thinking he didn’t have the money to lose.’ Greer didn’t back down from his choice. ‘He’s a fisherman with a pregnant wife at home.’
‘Maybe.’ Lockhart shrugged in the darkness. ‘Perhaps they’re all in it together and that’s the story they tell outsiders.’
Greer grimaced. He hadn’t thought of that, probably because it seemed a bit ludicrous. ‘I doubt it.’
‘Still, no one put a gun to his head,’ Lockhart argued.
Greer passed him the original sum Lockhart had given him earlier that night. ‘What do you care? Your stake is intact and a little more. You didn’t lose anything tonight. My choice cost you nothing.’
‘Not yet.’ Lockhart sent him a dubious sidelong glance. ‘Lord save me from do-gooders.’ He took the money and tossed Greer a half-sovereign when they reached the entrance to the Millstream. ‘There’s your take of the winnings tonight: ten whole shillings, barely the price of a bottle of Holland’s Geneva.’ Lockhart gave a derisive chuckle. Greer understood the insult. Holland’s Geneva was a popular, but not high-quality, drink, definitely not the drink of a gentleman used to a superior claret or brandy.
‘Certainly not enough to keep a woman like Mercedes in trinkets and silks,’ Lockhart added astutely as they stepped inside.
‘I’m not looking to keep a woman like Mercedes or any other. I believe I’ve mentioned as much before,’ Greer growled.
‘Really? You could have fooled me today.’ Lockhart chuckled. ‘Well, no matter. She’s in the parlour, remaking a dress if I am any judge of character.’ Lockhart nodded towards the private room they’d used for dinner where a light still burned. ‘I’m for bed. We’ll head out in the morning and try again tomorrow.’
Chapter Seven (#u905d9541-109c-5c0e-b782-f813e2a4252c)
Gentlemen were the very devil with their principles and codes! Lockhart stretched out on his bed, hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling, his mind assessing the events of the day. The Captain had lived up to his suspicions, or down to them depending on how one looked at it. Barrington had gone soft at the critical moment.
It wasn’t the money he minded losing. These stakes had been small. But what if they hadn’t been? What if Barrington chose his conscience over him when real money was on the line? Mercedes would have to be the one to fix that particular flaw. Barrington had not been receptive to his own words of wisdom on that point tonight. Perhaps Mercedes would have more luck.
There was no ‘perhaps’ about it. He’d seen the way the Captain had looked at Mercedes from the start. Mercedes would be his insurance on this. What the Captain wouldn’t do for him, the man would do for Mercedes. When it came to charms, he simply couldn’t compete with his daughter where the Captain was concerned. That was one area Mercedes had an advantage on him.
He did wonder how reciprocal those charms were. To what degree did Mercedes return the Captain’s attentions? He’d seen the two of them at the fair, strolling the booths arm in arm and that telling moment by the horses at the end. If he’d interrupted a little later there would have actually been something to interrupt. And that bauble. Sheer genius on the Captain’s part.
Oh, that had been nicely played, although in all probability the Captain had likely meant whatever sentiments went with it. Men like him usually did. Lockhart chuckled in the dark. A gentleman’s principles might be sticky wickets when it came to billiards, but they could be useful things indeed when it came to a lady’s honour. There were worse people who could court his daughter. He’d seen them and not one of them was good enough for Mercedes with her hot temper and passions.
Mercedes would have to be careful. It would be too easy to fall for a man like the Captain, all handsome manners and good breeding, the very best of English manhood. But she would never fit into Barrington’s world and he would make her unhappy in the end. In the interim, it wouldn’t do to have Mercedes pick the Captain over him. There could be no running off with the Captain on the grounds of false promises the Captain had no intention of keeping. Of course, she could marry the Captain. He wouldn’t stand in the way of that, but he would tolerate nothing less.
Mercedes could be managed. He’d saved her from the consequences of her impetuous nature once before and that deserved her loyalty. He would remind her of that if need be. Still, he wasn’t worried. Mercedes had been down that road before. She’d be wary about trusting the Captain outright.
Lockhart laughed out loud. If he and Mercedes played their cards right, he’d come out of this with a protégé and a son-in-law. He’d give anything to be a fly on the wall in that parlour right now. If Mercedes was smart, she’d give the Captain a piece of her mind and then a piece of her heart.
Mercedes knew something had gone wrong the moment Greer stepped into the parlour. ‘What happened?’ She could guess what it was, though. Her father’s competitive streak had run into Greer’s principles. Nonetheless, she tucked her needle into the fabric and stilled her hands, giving Greer all her attention.
‘This is not what I signed on for—fleecing locals.’ Greer fairly spat the words at her in his frustration.
‘You were warned,’ she said evenly. ‘The night we played for the road, you said you were always serious about money. I thought you understood what that meant.’ In moments like this, she was convinced men were just overgrown boys, squabbling over principles instead of toy boats. A woman was a far more practical creature. A woman had to be.
Greer pushed a hand through his hair. ‘Since when has “come bash around England and generate interest in the billiards tournament” been synonymous with taking money off unsuspecting local players who don’t have any idea who they’re up against?’
Mercedes set down her sewing and rose. ‘Listen to me. If you’d come down off your moral high horse, you’d see the wisdom of it. You need to practise. You can’t simply walk into an elite subscription room in Bath, or a gentleman’s private home, and expect to be perfect without practice. A real player knows “practice” means more than shooting balls around the baize. It means knowing how to work the room to maximum advantage. Places like Bosham are where we practise that skill before we try it out for real in places that count, places that don’t give you a second chance.’
Greer glared at her. ‘What an absolute delight you are. You really know how to cut a man down.’
‘Because you came looking for sympathy and I gave you truth?’ Mercedes stood her ground. His words hurt, especially after the fun of the afternoon and the flirting in the carriage that morning. But she had a job to do, for her father and for herself. Neither job involved making friends with Greer Barrington, no matter how enticing that option appeared on occasion.
‘Lesson one, Captain, is to separate your feelings from your pocket. A good gambler is not emotional about money.’
‘I’m not,’ he snapped. ‘You know very well I don’t wager what I cannot afford.’
‘Your money or theirs,’ Mercedes amended. ‘Emotions go both ways. Your problem is that you get emotional about their money.’ She paused, letting the words sink in. ‘And maybe you should,’ she added.
‘Maybe I should what?’ Greer challenged.
‘Maybe you should play with what you can’t afford to lose. You might try harder to win.’ Mercedes held his gaze, refusing to back down. He had to learn this most primary of lessons before they could move on. A player who could not set himself apart from the money would never reach his potential. She’d seen it happen too many times.
Greer blew out a breath and she had the sense she’d pushed him too far. ‘I can’t believe you’re siding with him.’
The words sliced her as surely as any blade. If he only knew! She wasn’t on her father’s side. She wasn’t on Greer’s side. She was simply on her side, trying to make a place in a world that insisted there wasn’t one for a female. Her own anger began to spill. ‘I’m not siding with him. I’m trying to save you from yourself. Or maybe you don’t care. Not all of us have the home farm waiting for us if this doesn’t work out.’
Damn him and his high-road principles. She didn’t want to need him, but the reality behind all her bravado about emotional detachment was stark and simple. He was her chance. Her success was tied to his although she dare not tell him that.
‘I must apologise.’ Greer clicked his heels together and executed a stiff bow, his tone just as rigid. ‘I’ve taken my frustration out on you. You are merely the messenger of unpleasant news.’ He reached out and covered the star charm where it lay against her neck. His hand was warm on her skin, the gesture intimate, his fingers achingly near her breast. He smiled. ‘We’re in this together.’
Until it’s time not to be. Mercedes masked the self-serving thought with a smile. She needed to exit the room. The atmosphere between them was charged with a new emotion more reminiscent of their unfinished business from the fairground.
‘We’re not meant to be at each other’s throats,’ she offered by way of acknowledging his apology. If she didn’t leave soon, this conversation would veer into territory best left unexplored for the moment until she could make her mind up about the handsome officer—was he to be more than a protégé to her? But her feet stayed rooted to the ground.
‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’ He raised a hand to the back of her head, trapping her, drawing her closer, a secret smile on his lips. ‘Being at each other’s throats isn’t all bad.’ He took her mouth in a hard kiss, letting his lips wander along her jaw and down the length of her throat, teasing her with a flick of his tongue here, a nip of his teeth there, until he captured her mouth again, challenging her to a heated duel of tongues.
‘Or being in them,’ she managed between kisses. This was new territory indeed! Usually she was the aggressor. It was what she preferred. It reduced the opportunity to be taken by surprise. More importantly, it let her drive the encounter. But it was very apparent that Greer was driving this one.
Her hands anchored roughly in the thick depths of his hair. This was not a gentle exchange and she roused to it, revelling in the feel of his hands at her hips, hard and strong as they held her, the thrill of his lips pressed to her neck, to her mouth.
She sucked at his ear, her teeth taking sensual bites of his lobe until Greer gave a fierce growl of pleasure, but she couldn’t completely shake the thought that had taken up residence in the back of her mind. She’d use Greer, use this chemistry between them until he and it had served their purpose. Then she’d cut him free. She’d have to.
Such an assumption had always been an underlying tenet of her plan. She was turning out too much like her father. She’d not meant to be. It was a rather sobering revelation and one she was definitely not proud of.
Chapter Eight (#u905d9541-109c-5c0e-b782-f813e2a4252c)
‘What are the rules to a good hustle?’ Mercedes all but barked across the table in yet another small inn in yet another middling, nameless town. Good Lord, the woman was driving him crazy on all levels.
Greer gave her a steely look across the billiards table. If she asked him how to hustle one more time he was going to walk out of this room. Every morning in the carriage it was the same drill: ‘Tell me the best place to aim a slice, the proper way to split a pair, what are the best defensive shots.’ Every afternoon, it was practice, practice, practice until he could execute the strategies in his sleep. At least he could when he wasn’t dreaming of her.
Since Bosham she’d managed to torture him by day as well as night; the temptress that had sucked his ear lobe to near climax in the Millstream parlour had taken up residence in his dreams, leaving him waking aching and hard. But that temptress became a termagant in the morning.
‘Well? What are the rules to a good hustle?’ Mercedes prompted when he met her questions with silence. ‘Aren’t you going to answer?’
Greer put down the cue stick and folded his arms across his chest. ‘No, as a matter of fact, I am not.’ Then he did as he’d promised himself. He walked past Mercedes and out the front door of the inn into the glorious spring afternoon.
‘Greer Barrington, come back here. I have asked you a question.’
Oh, that did it. He was not going to acquiesce, not before he gave her a piece of his mind. He didn’t stop until he’d reached the town green though he was aware of her behind him every step of the way, her anger palpable as it chased him across the street. Greer turned and faced her, fixing her with a hard stare. ‘Can you leave me the hell alone for once? What is it you want? “How do you shoot a slice, how do you split a pair, how do you compensate for angles?” It never stops!’
His voice was too loud, but he didn’t care. It felt good to let out the frustrations, sexual and otherwise, that he’d carried for days.
Mercedes answered him evenly, unfazed by his harsh words. ‘I like the best, Captain. That’s what I want. And if you want what I want, you’d better be the best because I don’t have time for anything less.’ Nothing got to her. Just once he’d like to see something get under her skin.
‘You did in Bosham. You had time for a picnic, time to stroll around the fair.’ Greer made a wide gesture to indicate the park around them. ‘Spring is passing you by while you’re penned up in a dark inn shooting slices and teaching hustles.’
Something shifted in her grey eyes and her gaze lost its hardness. Her anger was fading. For a fleeting moment he thought he saw something akin to sadness in them, then it was gone, replaced by something more stoic, more like the Mercedes he’d come to know. ‘If I am, it will be worth it. I can enjoy next spring. Chances don’t come my way very often, Captain. I have to take them when they do, spring notwithstanding.’
‘Greer, please. No more “Captain.” You only call me “Captain” when you’re angry.’ Greer gave up the last of his anger, intrigue overriding his frustration. ‘What opportunity is that, Mercedes?’
‘To be on the road with my father,’ she said simply but tersely, and Greer sensed this was not a direction she’d willingly take the conversation. Her relationship with Lockhart was a touchy subject and, quite frankly, the relationship seemed a bit odd to him. It was nothing like the relationship his sisters had with his father. Mercedes and Lockhart were more like partners than a father and daughter.
It was strange, too, to think the indomitable Mercedes would yearn for time with her parent like any other child. He’d spent his childhood lapping up any crumb of attention from his father’s table, treasuring those rare moments when his father came out of his office to take him riding. Even now, he knew he still craved his father’s approval. He’d wanted to make his father proud of his military career.
Greer gave Mercedes a considering glance as they walked; she was so beautiful and proud it was hard to imagine she harboured the same wants as the rest of them. But she’d no more admit to it than he would, if asked. The conversational angle was played out. She would let him go no further with it. All he could do was tuck her arm through his and change the topic.
‘Have I ever mentioned how much you remind me of my superior officer, Colonel Donald Franklin? We had a secret nickname for him.’
Mercedes favoured him with a tolerant smile, the kind reserved for belligerent six-year-olds. ‘And what was that name? I’m sure you’re going to tell me whether I want you to or not.’
‘Drill book Donny or sometimes Old Prissy Pants.’
‘I’m sure you want to tell me what he’d done to earn such lovely monikers.’
‘He never relented. Buttons, boots, hilts—he’d have as big a fit over them not being polished to perfection as he would over something important like messing up manoeuvres.’
‘Little things matter,’ Mercedes said defiantly, taking the Colonel’s part. He’d known she would even if it was just to be stubborn. He understood that. It was better to be stubborn than vulnerable. ‘Besides, he brought you back alive didn’t he? His lessons couldn’t have been that useless.’
He didn’t miss the subtle analogy. She could bring him back to life, give him the spark his life was missing if he’d just listen to her. Still, for the sake of argument, he had to respond. ‘Buttons and boots can’t get you killed.’
‘I disagree. Buttons, boots, manoeuvres—they’re all part of acquiring discipline. In fact, it was one of the first things I noticed about you: your well kept uniform. It spoke volumes about the kind of man you were.’
‘What kind of man is that?’ He was enjoying this now. They were good together this way—walking and talking, sharing insights the polite people of the ton would consider too bold between a man and a woman.
‘A man who can be relied on to follow the rules.’ She tossed him a coy smile. ‘There was no Colonel Franklin to insist on polished buttons that night in Brighton and yet they were. No matter how much you may rail against his rules, you will follow them.’
Greer gave a growl of dissatisfaction. He wasn’t sure the analysis was all that complimentary. ‘You make me sound like a milksop, as if I can’t think for myself.’
‘Not at all. I’ve never once thought you were weak. Following rules makes you a man of discipline. It makes you reliable. I find that a very attractive quality.’ She smiled again, a smile made for bedrooms and the dark, not public parks in the brightness of the afternoon.
She was flirting overtly with him now, the first time since Bosham. Greer felt himself go hard. Did she have any idea what sort of fuse she was lighting? She was by far the most intriguing woman he’d ever encountered. She called to him body and mind. The very physicality of her sensuality beckoned in wicked invitation while her mind fascinated him with its insights on human nature. To truly know her would be a heady prize, one he doubted any man had yet to capture. But one, he was sure, many men had failed in the attempting.
‘Circe,’ he said softly, letting the air charge between them and the afternoon be damned. If she wanted to play this game, who was he to deny her? He was confident enough in his abilities. Perhaps he’d be the one to claim the prize.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You,’ Greer drawled. ‘You’re Circe, the siren from Homer’s Odyssey.’
She tossed her head, tiny diamond studs in her ears catching the light, an entirely seductive movement that drew the eye to her face. ‘Tell me, did Circe play billiards?’
Greer laughed. ‘No, she was, and I quote directly from Homer, “the loveliest of all immortals.” She enticed men, but when they failed to win her, she turned them into animals.’
Mercedes cocked her head to one side, giving him a smouldering stare of consideration. ‘Do you think I’m in the habit of reducing men to their baser natures? I think men do that quite well on their own without any help from me.’
‘I think, Mercedes, you know exactly how you affect a man.’ They’d come to an old, wide oak that hid them from the view of others in the park. It would be the most privacy they’d have. The game was getting dangerous now. How far did he dare take it? How far would Mercedes allow him to take it?
‘And Circe? Did she know or was it the type of curse where she was doomed to attract men? I must confess, I wasn’t all that good with the classics at school.’
He could imagine that. Mercedes was the practical sort; the classics wouldn’t hold any appeal for her unless they held the secrets to turning metal into gold. ‘What were you good at?’
Mischief flickered in her eyes. ‘Palm reading. Would you like me to read yours?’ She took his hand and turned it palm up between them.
‘They taught palmistry at your school?’ This must have been an interesting school indeed.
‘No,’ Mercedes said without looking up, all her attention riveted on his palm. ‘The gypsies did and they camped near the school every spring.’
‘And you ran off to visit them?’ At least he hoped her gaze didn’t drop any lower. There was an impressive show going on in his ever-tightening trousers. He’d have to get it under control before they started walking again.
‘Of course.’ She did look up briefly, then, her eyes dancing. ‘And no, my father doesn’t know.’
He should have known. Greer chuckled. ‘Well, go on, tell me what you see.’ Besides a full-blown erection just inches from your skirts. He was going to have to start wearing his darker trousers. A man couldn’t hide anything in fawn. Inexpressibles. Hardly. They were more like expressibles.
‘For starters, you have an air hand. That means you have long fingers and a squarish palm.’ She traced the outline of his hand with a slow finger. ‘I noticed your long fingers right away that first night.’
‘An air hand? Is that good or bad?’ He didn’t really care, he just liked the feel of her fingers tracing the lines of his palms.
‘Neither. It simply describes characteristics. You like intellectual challenges. You are easily bored. That would explain your enjoyment of the military and your eagerness to avoid the home farm, don’t you think?’
Once more they skirted a truly personal issue. This time it was he who shied away from it. He caught her looking up at him from beneath her dark lashes. He chose to play the cynic. ‘It would if I hadn’t already told you that. How do I know you’re not just putting pieces of fact together and making this up to suit?’
‘You have to trust me.’ She spread his fingers and studied them each in turn. ‘Look at that.’ Mercedes licked her lips, looking entirely wanton and very much like a gypsy. He was positively rigid now. Her next words just about did him in. She caressed the flat of his palm. ‘You are a sexual creature who excels in the intimate arts.’
‘Be careful, Mercedes,’ Greer warned in low tones. He was about to ‘excel’ right there.
‘Or what? I’ll find my skirts up and my legs wrapped around your waist? Is that a promise?’ Mercedes gave a throaty laugh. The image she painted was a potent one but this was not the time or place for such a demonstration.
Greer grabbed her wrist none too gently. ‘That’s enough.’ She needed to be taught a lesson about toying with a gentleman’s sensibilities. ‘I will not play the animal to your Circe in the middle of a public park.’
She shot him a hard look and yanked her wrist away from the shackle of his grip. ‘Of course you won’t. In the end, you’ll always abide by the rules.’
It was said mockingly. She was daring him and he was almost tempted to prove her wrong, that he would break those rules and take her right there. Goodness knew it was what his body wanted.
‘Is that what you want?’ Greer asked tersely. ‘Do you want me to take you here in this most uncouth fashion?’ He could feel the closeness between them evaporating.
‘What I want is for you to concentrate on tonight,’ Mercedes snapped. Just like that the termagant was back. For a few moments they’d been something more than travelling partners. The lines that defined their association had blurred ever so briefly. He was coming to recognise Mercedes was very good at such blurring, especially when it helped her get something she wanted.
Damn her.
It all became crystal clear: the best target is someone whose ego is greater than their skill. Give up a bit early, let them think they’ve got the upper hand, then raise the stakes and win the game. Always quit while you’re ahead. Greer blew out a breath and had the good grace to laugh. ‘Are you hustling me, Mercedes?’
She smiled, wicked and knowing, a finger trailing lightly down his shirt front. ‘I don’t know, Greer. Tell me again, what are the rules to a good hustle?’
Chapter Nine (#u905d9541-109c-5c0e-b782-f813e2a4252c)
‘There he is. That’s your mark,’ Mercedes whispered at his ear a few hours later. The quiet inn had been transformed into a noisy crowd of people. It was a Friday and wages had been paid out. Men jostled at the bar for tankards of ale and the activity was brisk around the billiards table. Even a few women were present, although none were as stunning as Mercedes.
Tonight she wore a tight-fitted gown of deep-blue satin, trimmed in black lace and cut shockingly low, shoulders bared, the star pendant hanging from a black satin ribbon at her neck. Looking as she did, Greer was almost ready to forgive her for hustling him that afternoon. Almost.
He kept a hand at her back, ushering her through the crowd to an empty space near the billiards table where they could watch the games. ‘Him?’ Greer nodded towards a tall man in his early thirties playing at the table. The man in question had been winning.
Mercedes nodded, but he noticed her gaze kept moving about the room, always landing on one man in particular, a handsome auburn-haired fellow who boldly returned her attention. ‘Greer, why don’t you get me a glass of wine, if they have any?’ she said absently.
Greer questioned the wisdom of leaving her. Every man in the room had noticed her by now, Mr Auburn-haired included. When he hesitated, she laughed up at him and he had no choice but to go in search of wine. ‘I’ll be fine. But it is sweet of you to worry.’ He was going to end up fighting someone over her tonight, he just knew it.
By the time he had returned, hard-won glass of wine in hand, he could see his suspicions weren’t far off. The auburn-haired man had moved to her side in his absence and men hovered around Mercedes. Worst of all, that little minx was encouraging it.
‘Your wine, my dear.’ Greer elbowed Auburn Hair at her side with a little more force than necessary.
She took the glass from him with a smile and a laugh. ‘There you are, I thought you’d got lost.’ Then she addressed the group around them. ‘This is Captain Barrington. He’s a fair billiards player, too, like your Jonas Bride there.’ Impressive, Greer thought. She had the name of the mark already.
She batted her eyelashes at Auburn Hair. ‘Do you think my Captain can take him, Mr Reed?’ Her hand idly fiddled with the star charm where it lay against her bare neckline. Every man’s eyes were riveted on that bare expanse of skin, especially Mr Reed’s. Mr Reed’s eye might be a bit darker for it too.
Mr Reed shot him a cocky glance men everywhere have understood for centuries. I can take her from you. To Mercedes he said, ‘Shall we see?’
Mercedes reached into her cleavage and pulled out pound notes with a graceful gesture while half the room sucked in their breath. Good Lord, she was putting on a show. Even knowing that, Greer couldn’t help but feel the first stirrings of desire. Then Greer understood. The mark wasn’t Jonas Bride, not really, not unless he chose to make the man his personal mark. The real mark was Mr Reed and she’d been drawing him to her since she’d walked in the room. Find someone who likes to bet beyond their ego.
Reed called over to Jonas Bride and a game was quickly established. Mercedes blew him a kiss, the signal to lose. Give up a bit, build the opponent’s confidence. This would be for both of them should he choose to engage Jonas Bride. It was what Mercedes was waiting for, his test for the evening. Would he personally engage in a hustle? Would he be able to win when he needed to, unlike in Bosham?
‘Bride, care for a wager between us?’ Greer offered, the affront to his own pride goading him into it. He’d show Mercedes he could play this as well as she could.
Greer lost the first game good-naturedly. Mercedes passed her pound notes to Reed and tossed her dark head. ‘Shall we go again?’ she said coyly, drawing more money from her bosom. Reed practically salivated. She blew him another kiss. And another.
Reed was standing too close to her, staring too much by the time she gave the signal to win. Greer doubled his own wager with Mr Bride, who gladly took it, seeing it as a chance for easy money. He’d just won three straight games.
Greer broke and won, careful to win just barely. There was no sense in making Bride look foolish. Reed bent over Mercedes’s hand and kissed it lavishly before he surrendered the funds, his eyes lingering on her breasts.
It’s just a game, Greer reminded himself, watching money pass back and forth between them. She’s playing with Mr Reed, working him out of his money. It’s you she likes. It’s you whose ear she sucked into oblivion; it’s you who she kissed in the parlour at Bosham, really kissed. You kissed her first and she kissed you back.
But it was hard to remember that when Reed had his hands on her, his mouth possessively close to her ear as if he had any right to Mercedes. And that cocky stare of his! He positively gloated every time he caught Greer looking at them.
Looking at them was proving costly. Reed slid a hand along Mercedes’s leg and Greer shot a poorly aimed slice that nearly caused him to scratch. Mercedes laughed and slid a hand inside Reed’s waistcoat. Greer clenched his jaw and tried to focus on the game. He should split the pair and make the table difficult for Bride. It was what Mercedes would recommend.
‘Don’t miss, Captain,’ Reed called out. ‘I’d hate to have to console your lady if you lost again.’
Greer looked up. Lucifer’s balls, Mercedes was in his lap, her mouth at Reed’s ear. That was it. No defence, no strategy. He was going to clear this table, take his winnings and his woman and get the hell out.
Greer aimed and aimed again, the shots coming in rapid fire. He saw only the table, only the balls until he’d potted them all.
‘I think that might have been the fastest game ever played,’ a man breathed somewhere in the crowd. Greer didn’t care.
‘I’ll take my money, Bride.’
‘And give me no chance to win it back?’ Bride was disappointed.
‘No,’ Greer said tersely although he could see the answer was not popular with the crowd. Bride had lost a considerable sum. Greer stuffed the money in his pocket. ‘Mercedes, we’re leaving.’
Mercedes shot him a disapproving look, but he was done. He wasn’t going to stand by and watch her flirt with another, especially when he didn’t know exactly where he stood with her. It was time to stake that claim.
‘Maybe she doesn’t want to go, Captain,’ Reed sneered, deep in his cups by now.
‘The lady is with me.’ Greer planted his feet shoulder width apart and flexed his hand.
‘Is she?’ Reed drew Mercedes to him, but she was too quick. A small blade flashed in her hand, coming up against Reed’s neck.
‘I am.’ Mercedes’s eyes glinted with the thrill of the hunt.
Reed released her. She moved backwards to his side and Greer felt a profuse sense of relief to have her with him. Ale had made Reed slow, but his sluggish brain was starting to work it all out. ‘Hey, that’s not fair. You made me believe—’
He couldn’t complete the thought before Mercedes interrupted. ‘You’re right. I made you believe and you fell for it.’ She slipped the blade into the hidden sheath in her bodice and gave Reed a wink. ‘The last rule of a hustle is to quit while you’re ahead. Adieu.’
Greer grimaced. He wished she hadn’t said that. Reed wasn’t drunk enough to ignore the slight, but he was drunk enough to fight. It didn’t take a genius to know who he’d be swinging at. It wasn’t going to be Mercedes.
Reed lunged. Greer was ready for him. His arm came up, blocking the punch while his other fist found Reed’s jaw, laying him out in one staggering blow. Cries of injustice were rising. This was going to get ugly. He and Mercedes were woefully outnumbered. It was past time to get out.
Greer shoved a bench or two in the way to slow down pursuers and pushed Mercedes ahead of him with one word of advice. ‘Run!’
But the patrons were unfortunately bored or game or both. And they were happy to give chase. At the door he needed his fists to secure an exit and still they followed them into the streets. He had Mercedes by the hand as they ran through dark streets, winding through alleys until the mob gave up the pursuit.
‘Alone at last!’ Mercedes gasped, half panting, half laughing as she bent over to catch her breath. Her hair had come down and her face was flushed. Greer thought he’d never seen anything lovelier. Until he remembered. He was supposed to be angry with her.
‘You almost got us killed back there!’ he panted.
‘Beaten up, maybe.’ Mercedes laughed, dismissing his concern.
‘Easy for you to say. You weren’t the one they were going to punch.’ Greer felt his anger slipping away. It was deuced hard to stay mad at her. But he could stay mad at Reed.
Mercedes leaned against the brick wall of a building, her breathing slowing. ‘You’re looking at me strangely.’ She raised a hand to her face. ‘Do I have dirt on my cheek? What is it?’
‘This.’ Greer braced his arm over her and bent his mouth to hers, adrenaline surging through them both, the kiss hard and bruising, its unspoken message was clear. ‘You are mine.’
This was a dangerous kiss. All of his kisses were. But that didn’t help her resist. Mercedes fell into the kiss, the thrill of the chase finding a new outlet in this physical release. They had kissed before, just as hard and just as furiously. Tonight, it wasn’t enough. In the moments of escape, she wanted more and so did Greer. Desire and adrenaline fairly rolled off his body. His hips pressed into her and she could feel the extent of his want, pulsing and hard as his mouth devoured her. Why shouldn’t they have more? Why shouldn’t they celebrate this moment? Why did it have to mean anything beyond now?
Mercedes reached for him, finding his hard length through the fabric of his trousers. She stroked it, firm and insistent, moulding the cloth about its rigid form until she felt the tiniest bit of dampness seep through. Greer groaned, sinking his teeth into her throat, his bite an intense mix of pain and pleasure against her skin. His hand too, was not idle. He cupped her breast, thumbing her nipple into erectness beneath the satin of her gown, creating an exquisite friction against her skin. A moan escaped her, swallowed up by his mouth. He was branding her with his kisses, with his touch. She ought not to let him. She belonged to no man. And there could be no future in belonging to this one, only disappointment. But, her body chimed in, not until after great pleasure. Greer would be a matchless lover, their passion unequalled.
Her skirts were up, the evening air cool on the heated skin of her body, her leg hitched around the lean curve of his hip, the decadence of their position fuelling their ardour. They were in a public place. Technically, anyone could come along at any time. It was a naughtily delicious thought to imagine being caught with this man. Even she had not dared so much in such a place before. Greer’s hand slipped inside her undergarments and found her cleft, stroking, teasing her into unquenchable flames, his own breathing coming ragged and fast.
Mercedes fumbled in haste with the fastenings of his trousers. ‘Come on, get that out here to play.’ Her own voice was hoarse with want as her fingers groped for access to that most male part of him. Almost! She almost had it. That was when she heard it: the sound of horse harness and carriage wheels. They were about to be discovered by, ‘My father!’
Mercedes tugged at her skirts, giving Greer a shove into action and pushing him away from her just as the Lockhart coach stopped in front of the alley entrance, travelling lanterns lit. A dark figure jumped nimbly down from the coach box. ‘I heard there was a little commotion at the inn and thought you might be looking for a ride.’ Her father strode forwards looking at ease.
They did need a ride, but damn the man, he was showing up at the worst times. First at the fair, now this. How in the world was she ever going to get Greer into bed at this rate? After tonight, that was precisely where she wanted him and the consequences be hanged.
She could feel Greer at her side, his hand warm at her back, his body emanating unsatisfied heat. ‘This is not over,’ he growled for her ears alone.
‘It certainly isn’t,’ Mercedes replied sotto voce. No one passed up a lover of this calibre no matter what the circumstances.
‘Am I interrupting anything?’ Her father grinned. ‘Celebrations, perhaps? I heard someone cleaned out a particular Mr Reed tonight and a Mr Bride. I am assuming it was you two?’ He elbowed Mercedes good-naturedly. ‘Everyone is talking about the woman in the blue dress. Good job, my dear.’
Normally, she would have basked in his praise, but tonight her mind was too full of Greer to spend more than a passing moment on the acknowledgement. At the carriage, Greer handed her up and followed her in, her father choosing to ride up on the box with the coachman and take in the mild evening. But the damage had been done. There would be no resuming of the alleyway. The recklessness of the moment had passed, but it would come again.
She and Greer were headed towards consummation. It was only a matter of time. Still, a foregone conclusion was not without its own delicious torture. A waiting game had been invoked tonight. When would it come? Where and how? Would it be fast and hard and decadent like the alleyway? Would it be a dilettante’s pleasure—a slow fire building towards a raging inferno by degrees? He would be capable of both.
Mercedes studied Greer in the lantern light, the blue eyes and the strong set of his jaw. He’d fought for her tonight, kissed the living daylights out of her in an alley. Of course they were headed to bed.
But what then? How long could she keep such a hero? Well, she wouldn’t think about that tonight. There were other more pleasant things to ponder, such as how Greer might take her. And less pleasant things, too, such as how she was going to convince her father to let her play. They were nearing Bath where her father wanted to make a considerable stand and she was no closer to earning his public approval than she had been before they left Brighton.
Greer reached below the seat and pulled out the blankets kept there. He handed her one with a smile. ‘Go to sleep, Lady in Blue.’
She took the blanket. ‘You were jealous tonight.’
Greer nodded, not shying away from the truth. ‘I was. I didn’t like seeing Reed’s hands all over you.’
Mercedes smiled softly as she spread out her blanket. ‘Well, try not to punch anyone else. I’d hate for you to ruin your hands before the tournament. It is just a game, Greer.’ She settled her head against the cushioned walls of the carriage.
‘My shoulder might be more comfortable,’ came Greer’s low tones. He didn’t wait for a response. Perhaps he sensed forcing a direct answer from her would be too much of a commitment.
Greer slid over to her seat and wrapped an arm about her, drawing her close. She could smell the sandalwood of his soap mingled with the sweat of the evening and clean linen, a comforting, masculine smell of a man who knew how to take care of himself and of others. She was used to hard kisses and fast-spent passions in her associations with men. She was not used to this: the sense of being protected and cherished. She’d not been prepared for the Captain to turn out to be a man who was strong and passionate with a capacity for tenderness. Before she drifted off to sleep she thought she heard the whispered words, ‘You’re not a game, Mercedes, not to me.’ Her heart cried out one last futile warning. Here was a man who could ruin her.
Here was a woman who could ruin him. Greer stayed awake long after Mercedes had fallen asleep against him. In the moonlight and lanterns she looked harmless enough, a peaceful sleeping beauty to the unsuspecting connoisseur. But he knew better, far better than she knew. He was living on borrowed time and every mile they drew closer to Bath, more sand drained from the hour glass.
Bath would be full of people, his kind of people—barons and viscounts who were there before moving on to London or back to their estates for summer. It was unlikely he’d escape detection. There’d be someone there who would know his brother or his father and word would get home. When that happened, there’d be hell to pay.
It wasn’t just his father’s disapproval he was risking—he’d risked that often enough in the past. His father’s disapproval was a private matter kept in the family. There would be no hiding this. Society would know what he’d done and that would bring shame to the entire family. He, a captain in the military, second son of a viscount, had taken up with a billiards hustler and his daughter. Never mind that Lockhart was a celebrity. Playing billiards for a living was patently unacceptable. Flaunting Mercedes in the face of decent society was a direct slap in the face to all the eligible young girls looking for husbands. Mercedes could be his mistress and be kept discreetly out of sight, but nothing more. To be seen with her publicly at the gatherings of ‘decent folk’ was inappropriate.
It would send his mother swooning and his father might actually disown him this time for good. Mercedes was wrong when she’d accused him of having nothing to risk in this venture. He had everything to risk. What would happen if he lost the security of knowing the home farm waited for him? It was not a destiny he wanted, but it was there like a safe harbour should all else fail.
He’d joined the military to make his own way in the world. But that choice hadn’t come at the cost of his family. Never before had ‘making his own way’ come with a price. His family had issues, but they were his family, the only one he’d ever get. If it came down to his own independence or them, would he give them up? He would need to decide soon. Even if he escaped Bath unscathed by recognition, it would be good to know where he stood. He couldn’t plan a future without knowing.
Sleep started to settle on him. Mercedes shifted against him and he tightened his grip about her. Maybe she wasn’t the only reason he’d got in the carriage in Brighton. Maybe he’d known this choice would push him to make the decision he’d put off for so long. It was time to face his future head on: home-farm manager, professional billiards player, half-pay officer waiting for a post, or something else altogether. Greer sighed. He wondered if there was a choice that could include Mercedes. That was the problem with options. They made one have to choose.
Chapter Ten (#u905d9541-109c-5c0e-b782-f813e2a4252c)
‘It’s time to work on your defence.’ Mercedes tossed Greer an ash cue. They’d picked up the London-Bath Road and were in Beckhampton at an inn on the turnpike where her father knew the owner. At this pace, they’d be in Bath the day after tomorrow at the latest and the true work would begin—real games, real promotion of the tournament in Brighton. These early stops had been meant to be the warm-up for the real campaign; time to turn Greer’s instinctive talent for the game into a more sharply honed skill, a calculated tool of intention without drawing attention to him until they were ready.
Mercedes arranged the balls in strategic clusters around the baize. ‘We’ll start with the group to the right.’
Greer grinned disarmingly. ‘That’s hardly fair. There’s no direct line between my ball and the shot.’
Mercedes smiled back with feigned sweetness. ‘That’s why we have to work on your defence. So far we’ve been playing opponents who play like you do. They make great offensive shots. But what happens when someone doesn’t play the table straight on you? Those men are waiting for you in Bath. You’ll need to do more than pot balls; you’ll have to know how to set up the table as well as setting up your shots if you want to impress them.’
Greer had a natural aptitude for the strategies. But she knew the real challenge would be whether or not he could pull each strategy out of his repertoire and use it at relevant points in a game.
They ran drills for an hour before her father came over to watch their progress, the perfect opportunity if she chose to seize it. If she didn’t do something today, it would be too late. She didn’t want to make Greer her whipping boy, but time was running out and so were her choices. She could only hope he’d understand.
Across the table, Greer raised an eyebrow, questioning her hesitation. ‘Are you going to rack them?’
She answered with a non-committal shrug. If she did this, Greer was going to hate her for it. A small part of her was going to hate herself too. She drew a deep breath. ‘All right, if you think you’re ready, Greer, let’s play.’ It was now or never.
That should have been his first clue something was amiss. Mercedes had opted out of lessons and drills far earlier than usual. His second should have been the way she’d chalked her cue. She held his gaze while she blew the excess chalk off the tip, a most seductive look that made a man think with a whole different set of balls than the ones of the table. ‘I’ll break.’
‘Fine.’ Greer was pretty sure most men would agree to anything with those eyes looking over a cue at them and those lips suggesting chalk wasn’t the only thing they’d be good for bl—that was not worthy of him. But he was also pretty sure Mercedes knew exactly what she was doing. She’d done it with Mr Reed. Now she was doing it with him. Why?
Something sensual and wicked flaring between them was not new. Innuendo always lay just slightly below the surface with them. Why would she push this now when he needed to concentrate on the game on the table instead of the one in his head? His brain knew better; he just had to send that same message to his body and quell the early stirrings of his arousal.
Lockhart was watching intently and Greer knew Mercedes wasn’t going to go easy on him. There was no need to. He was up to any challenge Mercedes might present. Greer bent to survey the table at cue level. No straight shot presented itself, Mercedes would be happy about that. He would be forced to select a skill from their lesson right from the start. Greer aimed his cue to hit the ball slightly off centre, using a slicing shot to send it to the pocket while sending the cue ball on ahead to safety, away from the hazard.
‘No, wait.’ Mercedes interrupted his concentration. ‘You’re still aiming too low. A slice shot is to be off-centre, not high or low. The shot you want to take will put your cue ball in the pocket too.’
‘It’s fine,’ Greer said with a tight smile, not wanting to be taken to task in front of Lockhart. He was a man, for heaven’s sake, not a sixteen-year-old schoolboy. He knew what he was doing.
Mercedes shrugged and let him take the shot, raising her eyebrows in an ‘I told you so’ gesture when his ball followed the other into the pocket. He blew out his breath. She briskly gathered up the two balls and set them back on the table. ‘Try again. This time, let me show you.’
She stood close, wrapping her hands over his, positioning the cue. He was not unaware of her body pressed to his, the light floral scent of her soap or the womanly curve of her where her hips cradled his buttocks. The arousal that had sparked earlier was in danger of being fully achieved. This time the shot went in. She put the balls back into place one more time. ‘Now, try it again on your own.’ Greer lined the shot up carefully, thinking there might be something else he’d be trying alone if she kept this up. This time he sank the shot and the game was fully engaged.
By the second round, Greer was certain there was more than one game being played out. Mercedes was shooting out of her head. He’d never seen anyone make the shots she made, and he’d most definitely not seen her display this level of skill, which was saying something.
He’d thought her formidable before. Now, there wasn’t even a word in his vocabulary to adequately describe her talent. Phenomenal, stupendous—easy word choices, but inadequate. What did she think she was doing? But there was no time to contemplate hidden agendas. Greer played harder, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his jacket off. The intensity increased. He plied his skill tirelessly with slices, stop shots that careened on the lip of the pocket, bank shots that circumvented barriers to direct shots, but nothing would stop Mercedes.
Greer lost all three games, honourably and by mere inches to be sure, but in the end he’d simply been outplayed. When the last ball fell, Mercedes threw a triumphant smile in her father’s direction. Greer expected to see Lockhart grinning at his daughter’s success—perhaps he even expected a little scolding directed his way over having lost. But the scold that came was for Mercedes and it was not what Greer had expected at all.
Lockhart rose, fury on his face. He strode towards Mercedes and yanked the cue stick from her hand. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? Parading yourself like that? No man wants a woman who plays better than himself or even a woman who plays, for that matter, let alone one who has any skill at it. Act like a lady.’
Mercedes had a fury of her own. ‘Act like a lady? What happened to “you’ve always understood the game”? You were happy enough to have me act any way I pleased as long as you could use it.’
Greer felt like an interloper. This was private, family business being aired in the midst of an inn. His family would not have dared to display their conflicts so openly. Then again, his family preferred to keep those sorts of things tucked away and ignored, pretending they didn’t exist, like their financial deficiencies.
‘You are not playing in Bath. That’s final.’ Lockhart’s voice was terse, a tic jumping in his cheek.
‘I’m better than any man,’ Mercedes replied. ‘Why are you so afraid?’
‘It’s not seemly. You’ve been raised to be a lady in bearing, if not in name. Is this how you repay me? Is this what your fancy dresses and fine education are to come to?’
Mercedes would not back down. ‘You did that for yourself. You wanted that for me. You never once asked what I wanted. Why show me billiards at all if you never expected me to excel?’ Mercedes’s eyes glittered with wet, as of yet unspilled, emotion. Greer’s heart went out to her in that moment. How brave she was. He’d been taught a man bore the decisions of the world stoically and without complaint. Never mind that he’d thought many of the same things Mercedes gave voice to now.
‘That is enough, Mercedes.’ Lockhart had gone rigid. ‘If you don’t like my decision, you are welcome to go home and await our return there.’
Mercedes shot him a look full of blazing discontent and stormed out of the inn, the door slamming behind her. She was nothing if not magnificent in her anger. Lockhart turned to Greer, his hands held out in a gesture of reconciliation. ‘I am sorry, Barrington.’ He sighed. ‘She’s emotional in spite of her pretensions to the opposite.’ Lockhart gave a quiet chuckle. ‘She’s a woman, no? What can we expect? You have sisters. You know how it is.’
‘Yes, two of them,’ Greer said tightly. He didn’t want to be corralled into taking sides against Mercedes, but neither did he want to offend Lockhart. Lockhart could send him packing as easily as he could Mercedes, and the ride had really just begun with the first big test looming in Bath if he embraced it.
‘Two sisters—then you’re used to their high-strung tendencies.’ Lockhart made a shooing gesture with his hand. ‘Go and talk to her. I don’t like her on the streets alone, but I’m the last person she’ll want to see. Maybe she’ll listen to you.’ He gave a fatherly sigh of defeat. ‘The world is what it is; she can’t change that, no matter how much she rails against it.’
Greer was more than glad to go after Mercedes. He didn’t doubt she was safe, armed as she was with the knife in her bodice and her temper. No man with any intelligence would fail to read the signs of an angry woman. He could do with some air himself, some time to sort through what had just happened.
The more he thought about it, the more he couldn’t help feeling that Lockhart, the consummate showman, had turned even a personal quarrel with his daughter to his advantage. If he was willing to do that with an issue of a private nature, what else would he stoop to use or who? Was there any sacred line in the sand?
That didn’t make Mercedes the innocent party here by any stretch. It did occur to him as he walked down the street, replaying the quarrel in his mind, that she might have been using him to make her father angry, that he was a tool for flaunting her own independence in all ways. The realisation took the bubble off the wine. He didn’t want their kisses, their passion, to be part of some other game she played. He didn’t want to be another ‘Mr Reed’ to her, someone she used for other ends. It was time to confront her on that issue.
Mercedes saw Greer approaching out of the corner of her eye. She flipped open the little watch she carried. ‘Ten minutes. Very good. I win,’ she said without turning from the window.
‘I’m sorry, did we wager on something?’ Greer said coolly. He had his own issues to settle with her. She’d used him in there.
‘I wagered with myself that my father would send you after me within ten minutes. He wouldn’t dare come himself. He did send you, didn’t he?’
‘I was concerned for you.’ Greer’s answer was evasive. But it confirmed her suspicions.
‘If you’ve come to espouse his cause, forget it. Do yourself a favour and don’t play his messenger. I’d like to think you were a better man than that.’ She was being cruel on purpose, hoping to drive Greer away. She didn’t trust herself at present. If he touched her, if he said anything kind, she might just go to pieces and she didn’t want to. She wanted to be strong. Anger kept her strong.
‘All right,’ Greer said calmly, unbothered. ‘I’ll just stand here and admire the window with you.’ Greer joined her in staring at the goods on display. There wasn’t much to look at: a gaudy hat complete with bright purple ribbon and green feather and a few bolts of printed muslin. Beckhampton might be on a major road, but the town was still small.
‘Maybe I’ll just ask the questions. What was going on there? I don’t mean the fight, I mean all of it; the blowing on the chalk, the bedroom eyes over the cue, the “let me show you how to line the shot up”? It was quite a show. Was it for my benefit or his?’
‘Maybe it was for neither of you,’ Mercedes replied succinctly. ‘Maybe it was for me. Did you think of that? Or perhaps you’ve put too much construction on what it meant at all.’ She tossed him a sharp, short glance.
‘I could say the same about you. Did you roll up your sleeves and take off your coat as part of some grand flirtation?’
‘Of course not,’ Greer answered hastily. ‘That’s ridiculous. It’s easier to play without my coat.’
‘My point exactly.’
‘Be fair, Mercedes, it’s not the same thing. It’s not like you were taking your lips off because they confined your play.’
Mercedes had to work hard to stifle a laugh. But it wasn’t time to laugh yet. ‘I’m sorry you were distracted—perhaps you should work on that. It seemed to be a problem the other night as well.’ She turned to go, but Greer grabbed her arm, a frisson of warning and heat running through her body as she realised what she’d done. She could push the well-trained aristocrat in him only so far before she encountered the man in him too.
‘You used me back there. I won’t stand for that. Don’t play with me, Mercedes. I think we’ve done that enough on this trip. We’ve been playing games since that night in the garden and most of those games you’ve started.’
‘You haven’t minded,’ she shot back. ‘It was your tongue in my throat in Bosham as I recall, your hips against mine in the alley.’
‘You’re right, I haven’t minded.’ Greer held her gaze, letting his own drop briefly to her lips. She licked them. ‘I just want to know why. Are these kisses for business or pleasure?’
Mercedes gave a hard laugh. ‘If I was using you for sex, Captain, you’d have known it by now.’ But she thought her words might be a lie. There was no arguing he was in her blood.
Greer smiled dangerously. ‘Likewise. And if you’re going to stand there contemplating how best to seduce me, call me Greer.’
‘How do you know I’m thinking that?’
‘Because we have unfinished business. Seduction between us is inevitable—I think the alley affirmed that. Don’t you? It’s just a matter of who will seduce whom.’ He leaned close and whispered at her ear. ‘If you’re the betting sort, I’d put your money on me.’
Mercedes whispered back, ‘If men’s cocks were as big as their egos, I might take that bet, Greer.’ The look on his face was priceless, part shock and part admiration. Now it was time to laugh.
Chapter Eleven (#u905d9541-109c-5c0e-b782-f813e2a4252c)
It was a subdued group that pulled into Bath. He had no one to blame for that but himself, Lockhart mused. He shot a look at Barrington, who rode beside him. It was quite telling that the Captain had chosen to ride instead of his usual routine of sitting with Mercedes inside the carriage.
Clearly, words had been said between them when Barrington had gone after her. From the tension at dinner last night, Lockhart didn’t think the words had solely been about the billiards game. There’d been a certain spark between Mercedes and the Captain from the start. Travel and close proximity had encouraged it just as he’d hoped. For that matter, Mercedes had encouraged it to their benefit. The Captain’s ‘affections’ for Mercedes, whatever their basis, had indeed kept him loyal. If this was a mere flirtation for her, a means to an end, fine. But if she actually developed true feelings for Barrington, there would be trouble ahead should either of them choose to rebel.
Mercedes’s rebellion was of immediate concern. She’d been upset by his decision to not let her play in Bath. An upset Mercedes would need to be appeased before she did something reckless which could be disastrous for them all. Bath should go a great way in appeasing her once they got settled. He had a lovely house rented and he’d turn over the social calendar to her. She’d cultivate relationships for him that would be good for the tournament and she’d feel useful. She’d have gowns to wear and the handsome Captain at her side to act as an escort to balls and other entertainments. She’d forget she was angry.
As for Barrington, the Captain would be in his element, among people like him. And he was looking forward to making the most of Barrington’s entrée. Bath would be most lucrative for him riding in on the Captain’s coat-tails. He and the Captain would make a splendid duo in the clubs. He could feel the cue in his hand already. Between the two of them, they’d be unbeatable. Everything was working out splendidly and Mercedes would come around. He’d see to it with plenty of money and entertainments to keep her busy, and a few well-placed compliments.
Lockhart gave the coachman directions to the terraced house. This would not be an overnight stop. He planned for them to spend two, maybe three weeks in Bath, where the season was already under way.
The coach stopped in front of the Bath-stone town house with its neat wrought iron railings and large windows. Lockhart was pleased to note even the Captain was impressed with the lodgings and location—right on the Crescent and within walking distance of all the important places: subscription rooms, the assembly hall, the theatre and the almighty Pump Room, where the heart of Bath beat on a daily basis.
He dismounted and helped Mercedes down himself. She looked up at the house, a small smile on her face. Lockhart would take it as a good sign. ‘Can you get us settled? I shall see you at dinner.’ He drew her aside to let Barrington and the trunks head into the house.
‘You’ve done splendidly with him.’ Lockhart nodded to indicate the Captain as he passed. ‘He’s come a long way. His play has been refined. He has a sense of strategy now. Well done, Daughter.’ He beamed at her. ‘You should get some new dresses made up while we’re here.’
‘I may. I have plenty.’ Mercedes didn’t thaw any further.
‘Well, it’s up to you. A pretty dress might go a long way with the Captain. He wants to impress you. Make sure you keep him dangling. That can be a useful tool, a leash to keep him on.’
When Mercedes said nothing, he swung back up on his horse, calling down a promise, ‘I’ll see about tickets to the theatre while I’m about it.’ ‘It’, of course, was arranging entrance to the subscription rooms where men would play billiards all day long, serious gentlemen like himself.
‘How many should I expect for dinner tonight?’ Mercedes gave him a half-smile. She knew very well he was plotting already. Good for her.
‘None tonight, but the invitations will start rolling in by tomorrow.’ Lockhart winked at the Captain as he came down the steps. ‘Tonight will be the last night you’re saddled with only my company.’ Hopefully the Captain would take the hint. If there were any loose ends between him and Mercedes, Barrington had better tie them up quickly. In Bath the Captain might face competition for Mercedes. Not nearly so highbrow as London, Bath would be more tolerant of Mercedes’s antecedents and he needed Mercedes and the Captain together for now. If Mercedes froze him out, he’d have to manage her through the Captain.
Her father would not manage her as if she were a little girl. He was not forgiven. He could dazzle and compliment and offer new dresses and theatre tickets all he liked, but he was not forgiven, not this time.
Mercedes stepped into the terraced house, her mind already whirling. Her father wasn’t the only one with plans to set in motion. She’d had all morning alone in the carriage to adjust her strategy. Plan A had failed. Her father was not going to allow her to go public with her talent. The quarrel the previous day had shown her that very plainly and there was no longer any reason to hold out false hope things would change in that regard. But there was always Plan B.
She smiled to herself, surveying the luxuriously appointed drawing room, a place ladies would want to come and be entertained. This house was going to be perfect. With its location at the heart of Bath, it was well positioned to become a social centre to rival the Pump Room. She would see to it.
‘Does it meet with your approval?’ Greer had come up behind her, directing the grooms to take the trunks upstairs.
She turned to face him, hardly able to prevent her features from radiating her excitement. ‘Absolutely.’ To keep him from suspecting too much, she crossed the room with a brisk stride and pulled open the double doors, leading to the dining room. ‘Very elegant,’ she commented, running her hand down the length of the polished table. ‘We can seat fourteen for dinner. That will do nicely.’
‘Do you really plan on doing a lot of entertaining?’ Greer queried dubiously. ‘Do you know anyone in town?’
She tossed him a coy glance. ‘Not yet. But we will, you’ll see. We’ll have tickets to the theatre by tonight and invitations will fill the salver in the entryway by tomorrow. That was no idle boast my father made. He knows how to play this game.’ Mercedes smiled smugly. She knew how to play the game too and she could play it every bit as well her father could.
‘You didn’t go with him?’ Mercedes said as they made their way upstairs to see the private chambers. The downstairs had been perfect. Along with the drawing and dining room, there was a small office, a lady’s parlour and, best of all, a room with a billiards table. She suspected the room was normally used as an informal dining parlour or second sitting room. But the table was Thurston’s and fit the space admirably, and she would put that table to good use.
‘I could tell he wanted to be alone,’ Greer offered charitably. ‘This is his town, isn’t it? He grew up here?’
Mercedes nodded. That was something Greer would only have known from listening to bits and pieces of conversations, further testimony to the fact that he was a good listener, a keen observer. One had to be careful around people like that. ‘He and Kendall Carlisle were boot boys in the subscription rooms until a gentleman noticed their interest and took them under his wing. He showed them the game and the rest, as they say, is history.’
They came to a large room done in dark, masculine greens, clearly designated for the master of the house. ‘You can put my father’s things in here,’ Mercedes directed the grooms. She would have to get staff hired this afternoon. She mentally added the task to her list.
Down the hall were two other rooms across the hall from each other, one in pale blues and the other in a deep gold. She stepped inside the latter and surveyed it, taking in the large, heavy four-poster bed and the clothes press. The room was simply done, but not shabby.
‘Will it do for you, do you think?’ It would be interesting to have Greer so close to her. On the road, most inns hadn’t had three separate rooms available. He and her father had shared a room on those occasions. Having him alone and across the hall in a private home was far different. She wondered what he’d do if she were to slip into his room one night? She wondered if she would do it?
‘Mercedes?’ Greer was talking to her, had been talking to her.
‘Yes?’
He shook his head. ‘You haven’t heard a single word I’ve said. What’s going on in that head of yours? Your brain’s been running a mile a minute since you got out of the carriage.’
Mercedes smiled sweetly and sailed towards him, running a hand up his chest. ‘I was wondering what I’d find if I crossed the hall in the middle of the night.’
‘You’d find me.’
‘Yes, but which you?’ Mercedes murmured, head cocked to one side, eyes on him. She watched desire flicker in his eyes as it warred with his sense of decency. ‘Would I find the gentleman? The officer? The rogue? The gambler, even? I wonder what would happen to your wager then?’
‘You coming to my room doesn’t preclude my ability to seduce you first,’ Greer countered.
‘But it does make the waters murky,’ she parried. ‘One might argue I won because I opened the door. I started it.’
‘You start a lot of things, Mercedes.’ Greer’s hand covered hers where it lay against his chest, his eyes going quietly blank, all desire pushed back for the time being. ‘I thought we’d agreed yesterday it would be foolish to pursue this aspect of our relationship.’
‘I recall no such thing.’ Of course, it had been there in the subtext of their exchange. If I was using you for sex, Captain, you’d have known it by now. And his bold, ‘likewise’, with the candour of a rogue. But it was the gentleman she faced today and the gentleman was troubled.
‘It could get complicated.’ He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it—a gentleman’s gesture. Almost. The press of his lips to her hand wasn’t quite chaste in the same way her hands on him, helping manage his cue yesterday, hadn’t been quite instructional.
‘Complicated? How so?’ She breathed, dreading his answer. Something had changed for him.
‘People may know me here. Associating with me may make things difficult for you.’
That was the most polite way she’d ever heard it phrased before, but the meaning was still the same. ‘Difficult for me or for you?’ she questioned. ‘I’m fine with it. I am proud to associate with you. I’m sorry you don’t feel the same.’ Tears threatened. She was not going to cry, not for him and not over this. This was an eventuality she’d known was coming at some point. Viscounts’ sons were made for débutantes, not for the daughters of Bath bootboys.
She let anger come to her rescue. ‘I’m good enough for a quick one in the alley, to push up against an oak tree when no one’s looking, but heaven forbid people actually know we associate with one another.’
There was more she’d like to have said. She didn’t get the chance. ‘Stop it, Mercedes. That’s not what I meant,’ Greer hissed.
‘It’s exactly what you meant. You’re a hard man, Greer Barrington,’ she whispered, drawing her hand slowly away from him and stepping backwards towards the door.
‘Yes, yes, I am.’
A swift glance south confirmed it. Mercedes smiled coldly. ‘Good luck with that. Let me know when you get it all worked out.’ Maybe bed wasn’t a foregone conclusion after all. Her practical side offered consolation. Not bedding Greer avoided a number of extenuating complications, but her other side, the larger part of her, was extraordinarily disappointed. It was a small consolation to hear Greer’s door slam moments later. Apparently he was disappointed, too. At least the issue of status was out in the open now. They were no longer dancing around it and all the ways it would define what could or could not be between them.
Being with Mercedes, or not being with Mercedes, was like a bad waltz: one step forwards followed by two steps back and a couple of missteps in between. This latest exchange was a definite misstep. He’d not meant to imply he didn’t want to be seen with her, only that there might be people who would make it difficult for her, who might say cruel things because of her association with him, not the other way around.
Men could be fortune hunters and simply be called rogues. Women who did the same were grasping and desperate or considered licentious wantons. The grasping and desperate might be tolerated with pity, but licentious wantons were exiled. Whores had their places, after all. He didn’t want that for Mercedes. He wanted her to be acceptable. So that you can have her without cost. It would be the easiest solution, or it would have been if he’d phrased his concern better. Now he had to dig himself out of this hole he’d dug. It was a shame. Things had been going well.
Greer wanted to punch the wall. It would serve Mercedes right if he broke his hand. But a broken hand did him no favours so he opted for pacing in the hopes it would subdue his temper and his erection.
He’d thought they’d made progress in their relationship in Beckhampton, building on their exchange in the park in the prior town and their wild run through the streets. They’d moved from flirting and testing the waters of their attraction to suggestive banter. That banter had become a contract. He thought it was fairly clear from their discussion in Beckhampton where they were headed: into a relationship of sorts.
Of sorts. How was that clear? His logical mind laughed at him. Was all this about bedding her or having something more with her? Perhaps the whole problem was that they hadn’t worked that out. Every time they seemed to make progress, one of them threw a roadblock up—a snapped comment, a shrewd insinuation, or a challenge, and then they withdrew until the next time. No wonder they were frustrated and reading things into conversations that weren’t necessarily there. They had to stop overthinking this.
Greer stopped pacing and looked out the window of his room. He’d hurt her feelings today, inadvertently. It was up to him to make the next move and put things back into their proper orbit. It was up to him, too, to decide his future here in Bath, to stop thinking about what others wanted from him and consider instead what he wanted for himself.
Greer smiled. It felt as if a great weight had been lifted. Life had suddenly become simpler. He knew what he wanted: Mercedes. And he was going to get her.
An idea came to him. He went to his trunk and pulled out his uniform, shaking out his scarlet jacket. Perhaps an association with him could work in her favour. Perhaps, if the need arose, he could make her acceptable.
Greer laid the jacket aside. One problem solved. Pacing had subdued his temper and given him clarity. There would be a price for this decision, but maybe it was time to pay it. He looked down at himself. There was still his erection to deal with, the problem pacing hadn’t resolved. It was a good thing he hadn’t punched the wall. He was going to need that hand after all.
Chapter Twelve (#u905d9541-109c-5c0e-b782-f813e2a4252c)
By half past six, Mercedes had the house well in hand; a cook, a housekeeper, one maid and two footmen-cum-valets, happy to act as men of all work, were established below stairs having performed their services for the evening with sufficient dexterity. Keeping busy had taken her mind off Greer. But she prepared for an evening at the theatre with a growing sense of trepidation. Either Greer would be downstairs waiting or he would not. Her father would have her neck if Greer had left and she would be vastly disappointed, but not surprised.
She’d not left things on a good note with him that afternoon. Perhaps she should have let him explain. But it had been easier to get angry, safer. She’d started that conversation with the intention of taking things further, of acting on the implicit contract they’d established in Beckhampton. But then, at the slightest hint of trouble—those ambiguous words about the consequence of their association—she’d retreated. Not only had she retreated, she’d thrown up a fortress. It would be no wonder if Greer left. Any other man would have. Men didn’t like difficult women. Now, as she took a last look in the mirror, she was betting Greer wasn’t like any other man.
She’d worn the oyster-coloured summer organdy and pearls and put her hair up in a simple twist. The effect was one of elegance and class. Tonight, she dared any lady to look better. Greer would be proud to have her on his arm if he was downstairs. Mercedes drew a breath to steady herself. There was no more waiting.
At the top of the stairs, that breath was taken away at the sight of Greer. He’d stayed! Relief swamped her, mingled with abject appreciation of his appearance. He leaned casually on the banister, one foot on the bottom step, his head resting on his hand as he looked up at her, his gaze hot and approving as he took her in. He was turned out in the full glory of his dress uniform, much as he had been that first night in Brighton.
‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ Mercedes said, taking the final step. The comment was de rigueur. She wasn’t truly late, merely the last one downstairs, and the curtain didn’t rise for another half hour.
Greer took the matching mantlet from her and stepped behind her to drape it. ‘Beauty in any form is always worth waiting for.’ His hands skimmed her shoulders, his voice low for her alone. ‘I’m sorry about this afternoon.’
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- Жанр: Исторические любовные романы, Современная зарубежная литература
- Язык: Книги на английском языке
- Объём: 490 стр. 1 иллюстрация
- ISBN: 9781474056106
- Дата выхода книги: 30 декабря 2018
- Версия: 📚 Электронная книга
A Lady Risks AllIt would be unwise to mistake me for an innocent debutante – for years I have graced the smoky gloom of many a billiards club and honed my skills at my father’s side.But now he has a new protégé – a Captain Greer Barrington – and while my father would see me attract the attentions of an eligible lord, I, Mercedes Lockhart, have other ambitions… Even if that means seducing the Captain to earn back my father’s favour! I know I must avoid falling for Greer’s charming smile . . . but his sensual kisses could be worth the risk …A Lady DaresAccording to society, I, Elise Sutton, haven’t been a lady for quite some time – a lady couldn’t possibly run the family company and spend her days on London’s crowded, tar-stained docks. And she most certainly wouldn’t associate herself with the infamous Dorian Rowland – privateer, smuggler and The Scourge of Gibraltar himself!But I need Rowland and his specialised expertise, especially with the wolves circling, waiting for me to fail. I yearn to feel alive and Rowland, who can kiss like the devil, inflames my senses and makes me dare to break free …
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