aspirants like himself.
Greer set aside the letter. It was becoming more evident that his military options were coming to a close. Of course, he could stay on half-pay as long as he liked, but with no re-posting imminent, it seemed a futile occupation.
The second letter was from home and he opened it with some dread. He could predict the contents already: news of the county from his mother and a directive to return home from his father. As always, a letter from home filled him with guilt. He should want to go back. But he didn’t. He didn’t want to be a farmer, and he didn’t want to be a countryman. His father was a viscount, but a poor one. The title had come with only an estate four generations ago, and money had always come hard for the Barringtons. He did not want a life full of expenses he could barely meet and responsibilities he was required to fulfil. His older brother was better suited to that life. To what he himself was suited for, Greer did not yet know.
He reached for the third letter, surprised to see it was from Allen Lockhart. The short contents of the note brought a smile to his face. Mercedes and I would like to invite you to a private supper this evening to become better acquainted.
The sentiments of the note might be Lockhart’s, but the firm, cursory hand that had penned it was definitely Mercedes’s. Greer could see Mercedes penning the note with some agitation, her full lips set in an imperious line, in part because she didn’t want to see him again and in part because she did. He was quite cognisant that Mercedes had no idea what to do with him—kiss him, hate him, or something in between if that was possible.
Mercedes.
She’d stopped being Miss Lockhart the moment he’d taken her in his arms. Their kiss had been far too familiar, far too intimate to think of her any longer on a last-name basis. In his arms, she’d been alive, warm and far more passionate than the sum of her cold hauteur had indicated at dinner. It had been the most pleasant surprise in an evening full of surprises. Therein lay the rub.
Had it been a surprise? Greer thumbed the corner of the heavy paper in contemplation. The kiss had seemed completely spontaneous at the time. They’d been quarreling. He’d thought the moment for stealing a kiss had passed and then suddenly the moment had returned.
He’d done the kissing. He distinctly remembered making what might be termed as the ‘first move’. But Mercedes had supplied the motivation. She knew very well what she was doing with her reference to moonlight. Was the flirtation contrived? Had it been her last effort to comply with some secret plan of her father’s for the evening? Had she realised that quarrelling with a coveted guest was not constructive? The note he held in his hand certainly suggested as much. There had to be a reason for getting ‘better acquainted’. And yet the kiss itself did not seem contrived in his memory. Instead, it seemed very much the honest product of curious passion.
And now there was to be a private dinner. Greer was aware there was more to it than a simple dinner, but even so, he was looking forward to it a great deal. There would be good food, good wine and the intriguing Mercedes would be there. That alone was enough to secure his acceptance.
The atmosphere at dinner was decidedly different than it had been the prior evening—less orchestrated, less of a show—but no less impressive because of it, and Greer found he was enjoying himself immensely.
The three of them dined informally in a small, elegantly appointed room done in subtle shades of gold designed expressly for the purpose of holding more intimate entertainments. Even the mode of eating reflected that intimacy. They dined en famille on juicy steaks and baby potatoes, helping themselves to servings from the china bowls in the centre of the round table and pouring their own rich red wine from glass decanters, thus removing the need for hovering footmen.
Greer had lived with the deprivations of military life long enough to fully appreciate the little luxuries of the moment, and man enough to appreciate the woman across from him.
Mercedes Lockhart glowed in the candlelight, dressed in a copper silk trimmed in black velvet, a gown so lovely it would have driven his sisters to violence. Her hair shone glossy and sleek, the flames picking out the chestnut highlights winking deep within the dark tresses. Tonight, she wore those tresses long, their length furled into one thick curl that lay enticingly over the slope of her breast, a most provocative cascade to be sure and a most distracting one. He nearly missed Lockhart’s next question.
‘What are you doing in Brighton, Captain?’ Lockhart poured wine into his empty glass. ‘Our sleepy little resort town must be tame by comparison to the military.’
Greer picked up his newly filled goblet. ‘Waiting for the next adventure.’ Brighton wasn’t all that different in that regard than the military. There’d been plenty of waiting in the army as well. Hurry up and wait; wait to live, wait to die. He was still waiting, only the scenery had changed.
‘Will there be one? Another adventure?’ Lockhart probed in friendly tones but Greer sensed he was fishing for something, looking for some piece of information. He’d discussed his situation with Mercedes last night but she’d apparently not chosen to pass the details on to her father. He shot Mercedes an amused glance. Why? To prove she wasn’t her father’s agent as he’d accused?
‘Well, that’s the question.’ Greer saw no reason to dissemble. His life was a fairly open book for those who cared to read it. Open and relatively dull, if the truth was told. ‘A family friend is making enquiries on my behalf, but I am not alone in my desire for a posting.’
‘I expect not these days,’ Lockhart replied with a knowing nod. ‘There are a lot of officers looking for work. Half-pay is a hard way to live. It’s not enough to support a wife or start a family.’ Lockhart offered him a smile that bordered on fatherly. ‘No doubt those things are on your mind at your age.’
‘Eventually, I suppose, sir.’ Greer thought the question a bit too personal on such short acquaintance. Lockhart was still fishing, but this time Greer chose not to bite. Lockhart was not put off by his cool response.
‘Sir?’ Lockhart laughed good-naturedly. ‘The military has trained you well, but there will be none of that here. We are not so formal as that, are we, Mercedes?’
‘Of course not, Father. We’re very friendly here,’ Mercedes said. She spoke to her father, but she was looking at him, something sharp and aware in her eyes as she studied him.
‘Call me Allen.’ What was going on here? Greer was instantly suspicious. The request was friendly enough, to borrow Mercedes’s word, but far too familiar. His father had raised him to be wary against such easily given bonhomie.
‘Allen’ leaned forwards. ‘Have you considered that you don’t need the military to provide the next adventure?’
Ah, things were getting interesting now. Very soon, all would be revealed if he played along. ‘Forgive my lack of imagination; I’m hard pressed to think of another outlet.’ What would a man like Lockhart have in mind? Did he want to make a salesman out of him? Have him sell Thurston’s tables? Wouldn’t that rankle his father? A viscount’s son hawking billiards tables. It might be worth doing just to stir things up.
‘Come on the road with me. I need to drum up business for the All England Billiards Championship in July. Why don’t you come along? I’ll pay all expenses, give you a cut of whatever money we hustle up along the way, and the
