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.’
