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
