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
