Bronwyn Scott Page 10

  He dismounted and helped Mercedes down himself. She looked up at the house, a small smile on her face. Lockhart would take it as a good sign. ‘Can you get us settled? I shall see you at dinner.’ He drew her aside to let Barrington and the trunks head into the house.

  ‘You’ve done splendidly with him.’ Lockhart nodded to indicate the Captain as he passed. ‘He’s come a long way. His play has been refined. He has a sense of strategy now. Well done, Daughter.’ He beamed at her. ‘You should get some new dresses made up while we’re here.’

  ‘I may. I have plenty.’ Mercedes didn’t thaw any further.

  ‘Well, it’s up to you. A pretty dress might go a long way with the Captain. He wants to impress you. Make sure you keep him dangling. That can be a useful tool, a leash to keep him on.’

  When Mercedes said nothing, he swung back up on his horse, calling down a promise, ‘I’ll see about tickets to the theatre while I’m about it.’ ‘It’, of course, was arranging entrance to the subscription rooms where men would play billiards all day long, serious gentlemen like himself.

  ‘How many should I expect for dinner tonight?’ Mercedes gave him a half-smile. She knew very well he was plotting already. Good for her.

  ‘None tonight, but the invitations will start rolling in by tomorrow.’ Lockhart winked at the Captain as he came down the steps. ‘Tonight will be the last night you’re saddled with only my company.’ Hopefully the Captain would take the hint. If there were any loose ends between him and Mercedes, Barrington had better tie them up quickly. In Bath the Captain might face competition for Mercedes. Not nearly so highbrow as London, Bath would be more tolerant of Mercedes’s antecedents and he needed Mercedes and the Captain together for now. If Mercedes froze him out, he’d have to manage her through the Captain.

  * * *

  Her father would not manage her as if she were a little girl. He was not forgiven. He could dazzle and compliment and offer new dresses and theatre tickets all he liked, but he was not forgiven, not this time.

  Mercedes stepped into the terraced house, her mind already whirling. Her father wasn’t the only one with plans to set in motion. She’d had all morning alone in the carriage to adjust her strategy. Plan A had failed. Her father was not going to allow her to go public with her talent. The quarrel the previous day had shown her that very plainly and there was no longer any reason to hold out false hope things would change in that regard. But there was always Plan B.

  She smiled to herself, surveying the luxuriously appointed drawing room, a place ladies would want to come and be entertained. This house was going to be perfect. With its location at the heart of Bath, it was well positioned to become a social centre to rival the Pump Room. She would see to it.

  ‘Does it meet with your approval?’ Greer had come up behind her, directing the grooms to take the trunks upstairs.

  She turned to face him, hardly able to prevent her features from radiating her excitement. ‘Absolutely.’ To keep him from suspecting too much, she crossed the room with a brisk stride and pulled open the double doors, leading to the dining room. ‘Very elegant,’ she commented, running her hand down the length of the polished table. ‘We can seat fourteen for dinner. That will do nicely.’

  ‘Do you really plan on doing a lot of entertaining?’ Greer queried dubiously. ‘Do you know anyone in town?’

  She tossed him a coy glance. ‘Not yet. But we will, you’ll see. We’ll have tickets to the theatre by tonight and invitations will fill the salver in the entryway by tomorrow. That was no idle boast my father made. He knows how to play this game.’ Mercedes smiled smugly. She knew how to play the game too and she could play it every bit as well her father could.

  ‘You didn’t go with him?’ Mercedes said as they made their way upstairs to see the private chambers. The downstairs had been perfect. Along with the drawing and dining room, there was a small office, a lady’s parlour and, best of all, a room with a billiards table. She suspected the room was normally used as an informal dining parlour or second sitting room. But the table was Thurston’s and fit the space admirably, and she would put that table to good use.

  ‘I could tell he wanted to be alone,’ Greer offered charitably. ‘This is his town, isn’t it? He grew up here?’

  Mercedes nodded. That was something Greer would only have known from listening to bits and pieces of conversations, further testimony to the fact that he was a good listener, a keen observer. One had to be careful around people like that. ‘He and Kendall Carlisle were boot boys in the subscription rooms until a gentleman noticed their interest and took them under his wing. He showed them the game and the rest, as they say, is history.’

  They came to a large room done in dark, masculine greens, clearly designated for the master of the house. ‘You can put my father’s things in here,’ Mercedes directed the grooms. She would have to get staff hired this afternoon. She mentally added the task to her list.

  Down the hall were two other rooms across the hall from each other, one in pale blues and the other in a deep gold. She stepped inside the latter and surveyed it, taking in the large, heavy four-poster bed and the clothes press. The room was simply done, but not shabby.

  ‘Will it do for you, do you think?’ It would be interesting to have Greer so close to her. On the road, most inns hadn’t had three separate rooms available. He and her father had shared a room on those occasions. Having him alone and across the hall in a private home was far different. She wondered what he’d do if she were to slip into his room one night? She wondered if she would do it?

  ‘Mercedes?’ Greer was talking to her, had been talking to her.

  ‘Yes?’

  He shook his head. ‘You haven’t heard a single word I’ve said. What’s going on in that head of yours? Your brain’s been running a mile a minute since you got out of the carriage.’

  Mercedes smiled sweetly and sailed towards him, running a hand up his chest. ‘I was wondering what I’d find if I crossed the hall in the middle of the night.’

  ‘You’d find me.’

  ‘Yes, but which you?’ Mercedes murmured, head cocked to one side, eyes on him. She watched desire flicker in his eyes as it warred with his sense of decency. ‘Would I find the gentleman? The officer? The rogue? The gambler, even? I wonder what would happen to your wager then?’

  ‘You coming to my room doesn’t preclude my ability to seduce you first,’ Greer countered.

  ‘But it does make the waters murky,’ she parried. ‘One might argue I won because I opened the door. I started it.’

  ‘You start a lot of things, Mercedes.’ Greer’s hand covered hers where it lay against his chest, his eyes going quietly blank, all desire pushed back for the time being. ‘I thought we’d agreed yesterday it would be foolish to pursue this aspect of our relationship.’

  ‘I recall no such thing.’ Of course, it had been there in the subtext of their exchange. If I was using you for sex, Captain, you’d have known it by now. And his bold, ‘likewise’, with the candour of a rogue. But it was the gentleman she faced today and the gentleman was troubled.

  ‘It could get complicated.’ He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it—a gentleman’s gesture. Almost. The press of his lips to her hand wasn’t quite chaste in the same way her hands on him, helping manage his cue yesterday, hadn’t been quite instructional.

  ‘Complicated? How so?’ She breathed, dreading his answer. Something had changed for him.

  ‘People 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.

  Chapter Twelve

  By half past six, Mercedes had the house well in hand; a cook, a housekeeper, one maid and two footmen-cum-valets, happy to act as men of all work, were established below stairs having performed their services for the evening with sufficient dexterity. Keeping busy had taken her mind off Greer. But she prepared for an evening at the theatre with a growing sense of trepidation. Either Greer would be downstairs waiting or he would not. Her father would have her neck if Greer had left and she would be vastly disappointed, but not surprised.

  She’d not left things on a good note with him that afternoon. Perhaps she should have let him explain. But it had been easier to get angry, safer. She’d started that conversation with the intention of taking things further, of acting on the implicit contract they’d established in Beckhampton. But then, at the slightest hint of trouble—those ambiguous words about the consequence of their association—she’d retreated. Not only had she retreated, she’d thrown up a fortress. It would be no wonder if Greer left. Any other man would have. Men didn’t like difficult women. Now, as she took a last look in the mirror, she was betting Greer wasn’t like any other man.

  She’d worn the oyster-coloured summer organdy and pearls and put her hair up in a simple twist. The effect was one of elegance and class. Tonight, she dared any lady to look better. Greer would be proud to have her on his arm if he was downstairs. Mercedes drew a breath to steady herself. There was no more waiting.

  At the top of the stairs, that breath was taken away at the sight of Greer. He’d stayed! Relief swamped her, mingled with abject appreciation of his appearance. He leaned casually on the banister, one foot on the bottom step, his head resting on his hand as he looked up at her, his gaze hot and approving as he took her in. He was turned out in the full glory of his dress uniform, much as he had been that first night in Brighton.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ Mercedes said, taking the final step. The comment was de rigueur. She wasn’t truly late, merely the last one downstairs, and the curtain didn’t rise for another half hour.

  Greer took the matching mantlet from her and stepped behind her to drape it. ‘Beauty in any form is always worth waiting for.’ His hands skimmed her shoulders, his voice low for her alone. ‘I’m sorry about this afternoon.’

  ‘I thought you might have left.’ She drank in the scent of him, all citrus and sandalwood. His hands were warm where they lingered at her shoulders.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mercedes. I never leave until I get what I came for.’

  ‘You mean me.’

  ‘I mean you.’ He offered her his arm. ‘Shall we? Your father is waiting outside. He has rented a small victoria for the evening.’

  ‘Greer?’

  ‘Yes?’

  She smiled mischievously. ‘Nice buttons.’

  * * *

  The ride to the theatre was uneventful unless one counted the butterflies fluttering in her stomach. Greer had stayed for her. The realisation played in her mind like a litany. It didn’t mean all their problems were magically solved, but it did mean they could move forwards to wherever they wanted to go.

  The carriage stopped to let them disembark in front of the tri-arched Theatre Royale. Brighton had its culture, to be sure, but there was something distinctly exciting to be attending the theatre in Bath. The press of people and the buzz of a hundred conversations only made it more so. She put her hand in Greer’s and he squeezed it as he helped her down, a shared look passing between them as if he knew what she was thinking and perhaps shared the feeling.

  Inside, her father had secured prime seats in the box of his newest ‘best friend’, a Sir Richard Sutton, his wife, Olivia, and his daughter, Elise. Introductions were made, Sir Richard and her father acting like old friends instead of acquaintances who’d met only hours earlier. Seats were taken and th
e lights dimmed as Greer slid into the space beside her. She had not missed the fact that for the first time since their association, her father had introduced Greer as Lord Captain Barrington. Sir Richard had been impressed. If the reference had bothered Greer, he’d made no show of it.

  The play was a rendition of Shakespeare’s comedy As You Like It, and the cast was good. There was champagne at the intermission, their box filled with the Suttons’ acquaintances. It turned out Sir Richard was a prominent yacht builder with connections to the royal family and those in the exclusive royal set. As a result, he was quite popular with the titled families that had come to Bath before heading to London.

  Mercedes smiled to herself. It was becoming clear why her father had ingratiated himself with this particular individual. But she liked Elise and thought Lady Sutton would serve her own purposes quite nicely. By the time the Lockharts and Suttons parted ways for the evening, Mercedes had an invitation to join them in the Pump Room tomorrow. They would have an invitation from her the day next for cards and afternoon tea, only they didn’t know that yet.

  Plan B was going swimmingly.

  * * *

  The next day set the pattern for the days to come. Mercedes slept late, dressed carefully for a promenade with Greer in the Pump Room, during which she’d meet with her newly accumulated friends: Elise Sutton and her mother, and by extension of that, Lady Fairchild, Mrs Ogilvy, Lady Dasher, whom all her friends called Dash, red-headed and vibrant Mrs Trues and her friend Lady Evelyn.

  After the gossip of the Pump Room, where Mercedes made an enormous effort to listen to everything that was being said and about whom, there were the afternoon activities. Most of these were organised or prompted by her. She talked Mrs Trues into arranging an ‘historical tour’ of the Roman ruins. She convinced Lady Evelyn, who loved painting in the countryside, to put together an ‘artist’s picnic’ for the ladies. The event was such a success the ladies decided to do it once a week, weather permitting. There were the weekly card parties Mercedes hosted herself in the elegant drawing room of the rented terraced house.