Читать книгу Regency Gamble: A Lady Risks All / A Lady Dares - Bronwyn Scott - Страница 17

‘What are the rules to a good hustle?’ Mercedes all but barked across the table in yet another small inn in yet another middling, nameless town. Good Lord, the woman was driving him crazy on all levels.

Greer gave her a steely look across the billiards table. If she asked him how to hustle one more time he was going to walk out of this room. Every morning in the carriage it was the same drill: ‘Tell me the best place to aim a slice, the proper way to split a pair, what are the best defensive shots.’ Every afternoon, it was practice, practice, practice until he could execute the strategies in his sleep. At least he could when he wasn’t dreaming of her.

Since Bosham she’d managed to torture him by day as well as night; the temptress that had sucked his ear lobe to near climax in the Millstream parlour had taken up residence in his dreams, leaving him waking aching and hard. But that temptress became a termagant in the morning.

‘Well? What are the rules to a good hustle?’ Mercedes prompted when he met her questions with silence. ‘Aren’t you going to answer?’

Greer put down the cue stick and folded his arms across his chest. ‘No, as a matter of fact, I am not.’ Then he did as he’d promised himself. He walked past Mercedes and out the front door of the inn into the glorious spring afternoon.

‘Greer Barrington, come back here. I have asked you a question.’

Oh, that did it. He was not going to acquiesce, not before he gave her a piece of his mind. He didn’t stop until he’d reached the town green though he was aware of her behind him every step of the way, her anger palpable as it chased him across the street. Greer turned and faced her, fixing her with a hard stare. ‘Can you leave me the hell alone for once? What is it you want? “How do you shoot a slice, how do you split a pair, how do you compensate for angles?” It never stops!’

His voice was too loud, but he didn’t care. It felt good to let out the frustrations, sexual and otherwise, that he’d carried for days.

Mercedes answered him evenly, unfazed by his harsh words. ‘I like the best, Captain. That’s what I want. And if you want what I want, you’d better be the best because I don’t have time for anything less.’ Nothing got to her. Just once he’d like to see something get under her skin.

‘You did in Bosham. You had time for a picnic, time to stroll around the fair.’ Greer made a wide gesture to indicate the park around them. ‘Spring is passing you by while you’re penned up in a dark inn shooting slices and teaching hustles.’

Something shifted in her grey eyes and her gaze lost its hardness. Her anger was fading. For a fleeting moment he thought he saw something akin to sadness in them, then it was gone, replaced by something more stoic, more like the Mercedes he’d come to know. ‘If I am, it will be worth it. I can enjoy next spring. Chances don’t come my way very often, Captain. I have to take them when they do, spring notwithstanding.’

‘Greer, please. No more “Captain.” You only call me “Captain” when you’re angry.’ Greer gave up the last of his anger, intrigue overriding his frustration. ‘What opportunity is that, Mercedes?’

‘To be on the road with my father,’ she said simply but tersely, and Greer sensed this was not a direction she’d willingly take the conversation. Her relationship with Lockhart was a touchy subject and, quite frankly, the relationship seemed a bit odd to him. It was nothing like the relationship his sisters had with his father. Mercedes and Lockhart were more like partners than a father and daughter.

It was strange, too, to think the indomitable Mercedes would yearn for time with her parent like any other child. He’d spent his childhood lapping up any crumb of attention from his father’s table, treasuring those rare moments when his father came out of his office to take him riding. Even now, he knew he still craved his father’s approval. He’d wanted to make his father proud of his military career.

Greer gave Mercedes a considering glance as they walked; she was so beautiful and proud it was hard to imagine she harboured the same wants as the rest of them. But she’d no more admit to it than he would, if asked. The conversational angle was played out. She would let him go no further with it. All he could do was tuck her arm through his and change the topic.

‘Have I ever mentioned how much you remind me of my superior officer, Colonel Donald Franklin? We had a secret nickname for him.’

Mercedes favoured him with a tolerant smile, the kind reserved for belligerent six-year-olds. ‘And what was that name? I’m sure you’re going to tell me whether I want you to or not.’

‘Drill book Donny or sometimes Old Prissy Pants.’

‘I’m sure you want to tell me what he’d done to earn such lovely monikers.’

‘He never relented. Buttons, boots, hilts—he’d have as big a fit over them not being polished to perfection as he would over something important like messing up manoeuvres.’

‘Little things matter,’ Mercedes said defiantly, taking the Colonel’s part. He’d known she would even if it was just to be stubborn. He understood that. It was better to be stubborn than vulnerable. ‘Besides, he brought you back alive didn’t he? His lessons couldn’t have been that useless.’

He didn’t miss the subtle analogy. She could bring him back to life, give him the spark his life was missing if he’d just listen to her. Still, for the sake of argument, he had to respond. ‘Buttons and boots can’t get you killed.’

‘I disagree. Buttons, boots, manoeuvres—they’re all part of acquiring discipline. In fact, it was one of the first things I noticed about you: your well kept uniform. It spoke volumes about the kind of man you were.’

‘What kind of man is that?’ He was enjoying this now. They were good together this way—walking and talking, sharing insights the polite people of the ton would consider too bold between a man and a woman.

‘A man who can be relied on to follow the rules.’ She tossed him a coy smile. ‘There was no Colonel Franklin to insist on polished buttons that night in Brighton and yet they were. No matter how much you may rail against his rules, you will follow them.’

Greer gave a growl of dissatisfaction. He wasn’t sure the analysis was all that complimentary. ‘You make me sound like a milksop, as if I can’t think for myself.’

‘Not at all. I’ve never once thought you were weak. Following rules makes you a man of discipline. It makes you reliable. I find that a very attractive quality.’ She smiled again, a smile made for bedrooms and the dark, not public parks in the brightness of the afternoon.

She was flirting overtly with him now, the first time since Bosham. Greer felt himself go hard. Did she have any idea what sort of fuse she was lighting? She was by far the most intriguing woman he’d ever encountered. She called to him body and mind. The very physicality of her sensuality beckoned in wicked invitation while her mind fascinated him with its insights on human nature. To truly know her would be a heady prize, one he doubted any man had yet to capture. But one, he was sure, many men had failed in the attempting.

‘Circe,’ he said softly, letting the air charge between them and the afternoon be damned. If she wanted to play this game, who was he to deny her? He was confident enough in his abilities. Perhaps he’d be the one to claim the prize.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You,’ Greer drawled. ‘You’re Circe, the siren from Homer’s Odyssey.’

She tossed her head, tiny diamond studs in her ears catching the light, an entirely seductive movement that drew the eye to her face. ‘Tell me, did Circe play billiards?’

Greer laughed. ‘No, she was, and I quote directly from Homer, “the loveliest of all immortals.” She enticed men, but when they failed to win her, she turned them into animals.’

Mercedes cocked her head to one side, giving him a smouldering stare of consideration. ‘Do you think I’m in the habit of reducing men to their baser natures? I think men do that quite well on their own without any help from me.’

‘I think, Mercedes, you know exactly how you affect a man.’ They’d come to an old, wide oak that hid them from the view of others in the park. It would be the most privacy they’d have. The game was getting dangerous now. How far did he dare take it? How far would Mercedes allow him to take it?

‘And Circe? Did she know or was it the type of curse where she was doomed to attract men? I must confess, I wasn’t all that good with the classics at school.’

He could imagine that. Mercedes was the practical sort; the classics wouldn’t hold any appeal for her unless they held the secrets to turning metal into gold. ‘What were you good at?’

Mischief flickered in her eyes. ‘Palm reading. Would you like me to read yours?’ She took his hand and turned it palm up between them.

‘They taught palmistry at your school?’ This must have been an interesting school indeed.

‘No,’ Mercedes said without looking up, all her attention riveted on his palm. ‘The gypsies did and they camped near the school every spring.’

‘And you ran off to visit them?’ At least he hoped her gaze didn’t drop any lower. There was an impressive show going on in his ever-tightening trousers. He’d have to get it under control before they started walking again.

‘Of course.’ She did look up briefly, then, her eyes dancing. ‘And no, my father doesn’t know.’

He should have known. Greer chuckled. ‘Well, go on, tell me what you see.’ Besides a full-blown erection just inches from your skirts. He was going to have to start wearing his darker trousers. A man couldn’t hide anything in fawn. Inexpressibles. Hardly. They were more like expressibles.

‘For starters, you have an air hand. That means you have long fingers and a squarish palm.’ She traced the outline of his hand with a slow finger. ‘I noticed your long fingers right away that first night.’

‘An air hand? Is that good or bad?’ He didn’t really care, he just liked the feel of her fingers tracing the lines of his palms.

‘Neither. It simply describes characteristics. You like intellectual challenges. You are easily bored. That would explain your enjoyment of the military and your eagerness to avoid the home farm, don’t you think?’

Once more they skirted a truly personal issue. This time it was he who shied away from it. He caught her looking up at him from beneath her dark lashes. He chose to play the cynic. ‘It would if I hadn’t already told you that. How do I know you’re not just putting pieces of fact together and making this up to suit?’

‘You have to trust me.’ She spread his fingers and studied them each in turn. ‘Look at that.’ Mercedes licked her lips, looking entirely wanton and very much like a gypsy. He was positively rigid now. Her next words just about did him in. She caressed the flat of his palm. ‘You are a sexual creature who excels in the intimate arts.’

‘Be careful, Mercedes,’ Greer warned in low tones. He was about to ‘excel’ right there.

‘Or what? I’ll find my skirts up and my legs wrapped around your waist? Is that a promise?’ Mercedes gave a throaty laugh. The image she painted was a potent one but this was not the time or place for such a demonstration.

Greer grabbed her wrist none too gently. ‘That’s enough.’ She needed to be taught a lesson about toying with a gentleman’s sensibilities. ‘I will not play the animal to your Circe in the middle of a public park.’

She shot him a hard look and yanked her wrist away from the shackle of his grip. ‘Of course you won’t. In the end, you’ll always abide by the rules.’

It was said mockingly. She was daring him and he was almost tempted to prove her wrong, that he would break those rules and take her right there. Goodness knew it was what his body wanted.

‘Is that what you want?’ Greer asked tersely. ‘Do you want me to take you here in this most uncouth fashion?’ He could feel the closeness between them evaporating.

‘What I want is for you to concentrate on tonight,’ Mercedes snapped. Just like that the termagant was back. For a few moments they’d been something more than travelling partners. The lines that defined their association had blurred ever so briefly. He was coming to recognise Mercedes was very good at such blurring, especially when it helped her get something she wanted.

Damn her.

It all became crystal clear: the best target is someone whose ego is greater than their skill. Give up a bit early, let them think they’ve got the upper hand, then raise the stakes and win the game. Always quit while you’re ahead. Greer blew out a breath and had the good grace to laugh. ‘Are you hustling me, Mercedes?’

She smiled, wicked and knowing, a finger trailing lightly down his shirt front. ‘I don’t know, Greer. Tell me again, what are the rules to a good hustle?’