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.
‘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
