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.
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