Bronwyn Scott (19 page)

Chapter Twenty

P
ride was all well and good, but it couldn’t feed you, which was why Greer found himself at a billiards table an hour after getting off the train. Still, he wouldn’t have taken Lockhart’s money for anything. He was going to do this ethically and on his own.

Greer studied the lay of the table. He’d need to use a bank shot to get around the mess of balls blocking his access to the pocket. He bent, lined up his shot and halted in mid-strike, distracted by movement in the open doorway—a glimpse of a coral-coloured gown, of long dark hair curled into a single thick length, the sound of a sultry voice full of unwavering confidence.

‘Good evening, gentlemen. Care for a game?’
Mercedes.
It was hardly worth the effort to ask what she was doing here. He knew what she wanted before she began to move from the doorway. She wanted to play. Her eyes met his ever so briefly before sliding away. She was wondering what he’d do. It was something of a shock to realise she wasn’t certain of his response—would he support her bid for acceptance or would he usher her straight back to the inn with a scold?

This would be the first test of their togetherness. If he did the latter, he’d prove himself no better than her father and that would be anathema to their relationship. Mercedes didn’t want a man who would chain her to rules. Even for her own good.

Greer stood, gauging the reactions of the other men in the room. They were slack-jawed in amazement, as well they should be. Mercedes was stunning. Like many of her dresses, this one wasn’t given to excessive trims and bows, relying instead on the curves of her figure for its adornment. The faintest hint of lip-colour highlighted her lush mouth and drew one’s gaze upwards towards her eyes as a subtle reminder of where a gentleman
should
be looking when he addressed her. Most of the men in the room were having difficulty remembering that rule.

She strode towards the table, surveying the game. Greer followed her with his eyes, wary and waiting for her to signal what she was up to. This was a test for her, too. He’d been clear that he wouldn’t run any of her father’s crooked gambits. He would play fairly and without artifice. He needed Mercedes to accept that as much as Mercedes needed him to accept her right to play.

‘Is it your shot?’ She looked at him for the first time since she entered the room. ‘You’ll need to use a bank shot to get around that mess.’

Greer smiled in hopes of easing the tension that had sprung up. The men didn’t know what to make of a female presence in their male-dominated milieu. He could help them there and he could help Mercedes. He nodded and held out his cue to her. ‘An excellent assessment. Perhaps you’d like to take the shot for me?’

A few of the men snickered, thinking he asked out of sarcasm. He quelled them with a look. Mercedes was not daunted. She took the cue, bent to the table and made the complicated shot with practised ease. Appreciative murmurs hummed around the table.

‘Would you like to join our game?’ Greer offered. The invitation had to come from him. No one else would dare go that far. They had to live here after tonight with wives and mothers who would never let them forget their one lapse in solid country judgement. But he could tell they were impressed.

‘I would love to.’ Mercedes chalked the cue and blew the lingering dust lightly over the tip in his direction. A few of the men sidled away to join card games in other rooms, but most remained, intrigued by the woman in the coral dress who would be gone in the morning, leaving them with a night they’d long remember.

* * *

‘Were you surprised to see me?’ Mercedes asked as they made the short walk back to the inn well after midnight.

‘No. You wouldn’t have got on the train this morning if you’d meant to hide away in inn rooms.’

‘You’re very astute for a man,’ she teased.

‘That’s quite a compliment, coming from you.’ Greer laughed into the mild summer darkness. In moments like this, laughing with her, walking with her, he felt alive as if he needed nothing more than Mercedes and enough money in his pocket to make it to the next town. Those were
not
thoughts worthy of a man raised to be a viscount’s son, but they were his thoughts and he’d been thinking them more and more often—one of his many fantasies when it came to Mercedes. She provoked the impossible in him.

‘You really weren’t surprised?’ she pressed. ‘I wore this dress just for you.’

‘Nothing you do surprises me, Mercedes.’ He drew her close and stole a kiss, and then another, a slow spark beginning to ignite. Why not? There was no one out that late to see.

‘
Nothing?
We’ll have to work on that,’ she whispered between kisses.

What happened next would always remain blissfully fuzzy in his memory. He was fairly sure it was Mercedes who danced them back into a shallow alley off the main thoroughfare and hitched her leg about his hip. But it was him who rucked up her coral skirts and took her wildly against the brick wall of a building just like he’d wanted to on a prior occasion, both of them aroused beyond good sense by the eroticism of the encounter and the exhilaration of the night. Climax came fast, a blessed, thundering release.

‘Nothing?’
Mercedes sucked at his ear lobe. ‘Really?’

‘All right,’ Greer panted, exhausted. ‘Maybe that.’

‘Maybe that?’
Mercedes echoed softly. ‘I’ll try harder tomorrow.’

Greer caught his breath and arranged his trousers with a laugh. Good Lord, if she tried any harder, he’d be worn to a stub before they reached Devonshire, which might not be an unpleasant experiment.

* * *

Mercedes hoped Devonshire would not prove to be an experiment in unpleasantness. Devonshire was close to nothing, least of all Birmingham. It had taken a week’s worth of travel to reach this south-west corner of England. The week itself had been extraordinary, made up of billiards games and trains, and coaches, when the rails ran out. Every night was spent in Greer’s bed. Every day was spent believing this could work. They could be together—weren’t they proving it?

But now that they were here, Mercedes’s stomach was an inconveniently tight ball of nerves. By the time Greer’s home came into view down a long winding drive lined with ancient oaks, her rampant thoughts had coalesced into one singular concern: what had she done? She was miles from anywhere with a viscount’s son, about to meet a family that couldn’t possibly welcome her, but who could quite possibly throw her out of their home.

The sprawling estate loomed over a horseshoe-shaped drive, an overpowering sandstone testament to good breeding that dwarfed the Brighton terraced homes and she
knew
. She’d overstepped herself this time, reached too high. On the road it had become easy to forget all that Greer had been born to. There would be no forgetting here, for her or for him. Greer reached over and squeezed her hand, reading her thoughts with alarming accuracy. ‘You’ll do fine.’ He pulled the gig they’d rented in the village to a halt and he moved around to help her down, his hands resting at her waist. ‘I would say “they’re going to love you...”’ he murmured.

‘But they’re not.’ She gave him a smile. They were here for Greer. He needed to make decisions and put ghosts to rest and that could only happen here where they could be confronted.

Do you love me?
She hated herself for the traitorous thought. She’d asked him not to love her and now she found that was the very thing she craved.
You don’t need him
, her mind rallied. Didn’t need Greer? What a lie. She didn’t want to need him, but she did. When he’d held out his cue to her, when he’d punched Luce Talmadge, the countless times he’d made her laugh, or divined her thoughts before she’d voiced them—all proved it.

Worst of all, she suspected she more than needed him. She
loved
him. What else could explain why she’d risked coming here where there wasn’t only his family to face? There was also the possibility Greer might never leave. He might take a look around and decide to stay. There was no guarantee he’d go on to Brighton. But she would. She had to. Her ghosts had to be exorcised there.

‘Don’t borrow trouble, Mercedes.’ Greer squeezed her hand reassuringly. ‘It’s just my family, not the Spanish Inquisition.’ He led her up the curved stairs to a front door which opened before he could knock, a footman bowing with a gracious, ‘Milord, welcome home.’ For a second it was all very formal, then chaos broke loose.

‘Greer!’ Two blonde girls rushed at him from the wide staircase in the foyer, and more people materialised from doorways. There were hugs and handshakes for Greer. It was not a moment for intrusion. Mercedes stood back, giving Greer the moment to drink in his family. After the initial onslaught of familial affection had ebbed, Greer drew her forward.

‘Everyone, this is Miss Mercedes Lockhart. Mercedes, these are my sisters, Clara and Emily.’ They were charming, blue-eyed and blonde. Clara was perhaps fifteen, Emily seventeen and on the brink of womanhood. She’d be going to London soon and breaking hearts with a smile that looked so much like Greer’s there was no doubting the resemblance.

‘This is my brother, Andrew.’ The heir, the brother who wanted Greer to take over the home farm. He had Greer’s looks, but not Greer’s graceful build. He was solid, sturdier, not unattractive, but lacking Greer’s magnetism. He was a practical man, a reliable man who’d probably never entertained a risky thought in his life. It was no wonder he couldn’t understand Greer’s reticence to embrace the home farm.

‘This is my mother, Lady Tiverton.’
Viscountess Tiverton
, Mercedes thought. She had a kind smile for Mercedes but Mercedes was reluctant to trust it. Such a smile wouldn’t last, not when she discovered the type of woman her son had been fraternising with. It wasn’t self-pity or a sense of inadequacy that led to the thought, just honesty. She’d lived in Brighton, after all. She’d seen plenty of nobility and she knew where the lines were drawn. Rich billiards players and their daughters were fine when it was all fun and games. They became
de trop
when blood was on the line.

‘And this is my father, Viscount Tiverton.’ Greer completed the introductions. The Viscount was tall, having passed on his lean physique to Greer, and his more reserved personality to his older son. Mercedes thought Greer had got the better portion of the genetic deal.

Lady Tiverton ushered them all in to the drawing room and rang for tea, giving the staff time to recover from the surprise of Greer’s arrival. Tea would give Lady Tiverton time to arrange for rooms to be prepared. Mercedes had used the ploy more than once when her father had brought home unexpected visitors. For the first time since she’d left her father, Mercedes felt a twinge of loss. She’d had a week to let her anger cool and in the absence of that anger, she missed him.

Tea was a polite interlude. There was nothing more than small talk exchanged. If there was to be an interrogation, it would occur in private. Well, there was no ‘if’. Mercedes knew there
would
be an interrogation. She was aware of Andrew’s eyes on her, studious and discerning. The next time she caught him watching her she looked him straight in the eye and smiled. He looked away hastily, nearly spilling his teacup and earning a short scold of caution from Lady Tiverton.

Greer nudged her covertly with the toe of his boot as if to say,
play nice
. She’d try, but she’d decided after the second cup of tea she could be nothing other than she was and Mercedes Lockhart didn’t tolerate insolence in any form, not even from viscounts’ heirs.

When rooms were ready, Mercedes found Emily and Clara at her side, insisting on accompanying her upstairs. They chattered the whole while, pointing out aspects of the house as they passed hallways and closed doors.

‘What’s down there?’ Mercedes gestured to one corridor the girls didn’t mention.

‘That’s all storage. It’s where we keep the nice things for special visits.’ Clara shrugged as if such an area was commonplace. Mercedes didn’t comment, but the corridor intrigued her. It might be worth a visit. She’d noticed a change in the house as they’d moved up the stairs. The public rooms had been exquisitely done up, but the private areas lacked that same veneer.

The runners on the hall floors were clean but worn, having seen generations of Barringtons. The long curtains at the hall windows were faded from years in the sun. Tables that should have been cluttered with knick-knacks were bare.

The room she was given was lovely, done up in light yellows and pinks with a view of the south lawn and gardens, but by no means sophisticated. The old, solid oak furnishings would have suited a well-to-do farm house. Her rooms in Brighton far outclassed them.

The girls made themselves comfortable on the wide window seat, watching in wide-eyed amazement as she unpacked her trunk.

‘Don’t you have a maid?’ Emily asked.

‘No. We’ve been travelling and it’s been faster not to be burdened with one.’ Mercedes shook out the blue dinner gown she’d worn the first night she’d met Greer. She hoped he wasn’t being interrogated downstairs. She’d felt awkward leaving him after a week solely in his presence. Since Birmingham it had just been the two of them. That would all change. Now there were others vying for his time. She’d have to learn to share him.

Emily’s eyes widened further. She was old enough to take in the implications of such a statement. ‘You travelled
alone
with my brother?’ Mercedes wished she’d worded it more carefully.

‘He’ll have to marry you!’ Clara chimed in with a worthy amount of adolescent fervour over the scandal.

‘No, he doesn’t.’ Mercedes turned away, putting a chemise in a bureau drawer scented with sweet lavender. Would
she
marry
him
if he asked? It was an academic question only. They’d never talked of any future beyond Brighton and even that future had become uncertain lately. Would they go on to Brighton? Or would only she go on? Greer had not mentioned the tournament since leaving Birmingham and it was highly possible, once he saw the benefits of home, he’d simply stop here. He didn’t need Brighton, not like she did.