Bronwyn Scott (15 page)

She ran a hand between them for a discreet caress. ‘Let’s go back to the room and do something just for fun.’

Chapter Sixteen

F
un turned out to involve the rest of the wine and a bowl of strawberries with cream the innkeeper had put out for dessert. Greer grabbed up the bowl and wine and climbed the stairs behind Mercedes, watching the sway of her hips and acknowledging that he was staking a lot of assumptions on the sincerity of her climax last night.

At the moment, a large part of his body didn’t care, but he knew later an even larger part would—the part made up of his honour, his intelligence and self-respect, the core components of a man’s pride. He would not stand for being duped, not even for a beautiful woman. In the military, one learned quickly to keep one’s wits about them or end up dead. Beautiful women were as dangerous as anyone else, just more distracting, which required double diligence.

At the top of the stairs, Mercedes slipped the key into the lock and turned to him with a secret smile. ‘Won’t you come in?’

He set the bowl and wine on a small table, taking in the room. It was bigger than his and far better appointed. A massive oak bed stood in the centre of the room covered in a cheery blue-and-yellow quilt, and a maid had been in to lay an evening fire. There was a dressing screen behind which the private essentials were delicately hidden from view. In all, the room was homey and inviting. Mercedes stood before the fire, pushing down the puffed sleeve of her gown.

‘No.’ Greer strode forwards, taking her hand gently away from the sleeve. ‘Tonight, let me undress you.’ Last night had been a hurried joint affair. ‘I want to enjoy you, inch by inch.’ Last night had been frantic, physical sex.
Fabulous
physical sex, but tonight would be different. It would be a slow feast of love-making or at least as close as one could get to such a thing without breaking his promise, or exposing himself unduly to heartbreak.

He removed her dress first, his hands skimming the soft skin of her shoulders and following the gown down over corseted breasts and slim hips, tracing the erotic silhouette of her, thankful the gown hadn’t required a petticoat. He took off the stays next, luxuriating in the feel of her breasts falling free into his hands, their dusky nipples pressing against the thin cloth of the chemise. He stroked them with his thumbs, his own arousal straining and thick in the confines of his trousers. But it was not time for that yet.

‘Sit for me.’ He pressed her into the chair and bent to her feet, removing her slippers and sliding his hands up one leg and then the other, searching for the hem of her silk stockings. His fingers brushed the damp triangle between her thighs, his erection surging at the evidence she was absolutely ready for him, but he would prolong this if he could, turn it into the most exquisite of personal pleasures for her.

He knelt between her thighs, his face even with hers. Her pulse raced at the base of her neck, further assurance she was enjoying this. He gave a wicked grin. His hands covered hers where they rested on the chair arms. His mouth bent to the top ridge of her chemise, tugging with his teeth at the pale blue ribbon securing it, and pulled it through its eyelet casings. Greer rocked back on his haunches, extracted a knife from his boot and severed the ribbon into two lengths.

‘What are you doing?’ Her voice was the merest of breathy whispers. She was riveted.

‘You’ll see.’ He tied her wrists loosely to the chair and her grey eyes went gratifyingly granite-dark with desire. He’d not guessed wrong about his Mercedes; those who spend their lives in control sometimes like to lose it. His body didn’t argue. Instead, it was encouraging him to take his own advice.
Not yet.

Kneeling, he spread her legs wide and pushed her chemise back until she was exposed to him. It was a provocative sight: a woman revealed. More than that it was Mercedes revealed, her hair loose over one shoulder, eyes dark with knowledge of what was coming. Her wrists were tied, but she was not helpless. She understood the power she had by her very being to stir him. His blood began to boil.

He bent to her, his mouth at her core, tasting and teasing, suckling and surprising. He felt her buck and tense where his hands pressed back her legs high on her thighs, the delicious frustration of not being able to use her hands, to bury them in his hair, mounting. She would come for him soon and then they could slake their mutual pleasure together. With a last stroke, he wrenched a cry from her that spoke of utter ecstasy achieved. Her body went slack, her breathing coming hard and fast.

Greer slipped her ribboned bonds from her wrists and swept her into his arms. ‘You’re in no condition to walk,’ he said when she would have protested.

‘True. I guess it’s a good thing we took our walk earlier.’

He laughed and deposited her on the bed, settling the bowl of strawberries beside her. He dipped one in cream and held it to her mouth. ‘You’re not worn out already, are you?’

‘Never.’ She took a bite. ‘Get undressed and I’ll show you who’s worn out.’

Greer undressed quickly. The time for play had passed and his body was eager to join with hers. But she cried foul play at the speed at which his clothes fell to the floor. ‘Unfair! Don’t I get to look?’

Greer shook his head. ‘Another night.’

Mercedes made a pretty moue with her mouth, more seduction than pout. ‘You are going to pay for this.’

‘With pleasure.’ Greer stared down at her, marvelling at her boldness.

‘Absolutely with pleasure.’ Mercedes licked the cream off her strawberry with a provocative swirl of her tongue, looking entirely wicked. ‘Is there any other way?’ She pulled him down to her, her hand closing about his engorged length. ‘Now, let’s take care of this.’

Femme fatale.
If they kept this up, she’d definitely be the death of him. And a happy death it would be. There were far worse ways to go.

* * *

They took their leisure heading into Birmingham for which Mercedes was grateful, grateful for the nights it afforded her in Greer’s arms and for the days it offered her to figure out her feelings. Some of those feelings were easy enough. Greer excited her. His bold passions matched her own and in that regard the blossoming relationship was fairly straightforward. If it had only been about sex, all would have been well. But it would also have been missing a large part of what attracted her to Greer in the first place.

She peered at him over the top of her book. He’d gone back to riding in the carriage with her in the mornings. Sometimes they talked, sometimes they read. Sometimes they even read aloud to one another when they came across interesting passages. Today they were reading silently. As usual, he looked fresh. He shaved every morning and took great care with his
toilette
after he left her bed. She never got to watch that particular domestic intimacy. He always returned to his room for it, but in her mind’s eye she had an enticing image of him bare-chested in front of a mirror and basin, running a razor down his cheek.

‘Yes? You’re staring.’ Greer put down his book.

‘I was just thinking sometimes a half-naked man is sexier than a completely naked one.’

‘Perhaps we can put that hypothesis to the test later tonight.’

‘We’ll see.’ She wondered if part of the attraction to this affair was the clandestine nature of it. There was no guarantee there’d be room arrangements conducive to a nightly visit. There was no guarantee her father would be out playing, although they’d been lucky that he had these last few nights. The unknown added a certain spice to their encounters, never allowing them to take for granted that the encounter would be one of many.

Outside, the scenery started to change. The bucolic countryside gave way to the more organised signs of civilisation Birmingham-style. Canals cropped up, full of the flatbed barges hauling cargo. In the distance, the smoke of factories loomed in a hazy grey sky. Mercedes dropped the curtain with a frown of distaste.

‘Birmingham not to your liking?’ Greer quipped.

‘It’s not one of my favourite cities. It’s dirty.’ There were other more personal reasons she didn’t like Birmingham. A distasteful part of her past was here in this city too. It was where she’d first met Luce Talmadge.

‘Your father thinks we’ll find players here.’

Mercedes shrugged. ‘I don’t care what he finds here as long as we don’t stay too long.’ She could handle about two days in Birmingham.

Greer prodded her foot with his toe. ‘Then it’s the turn for home.’

She nodded. They would not head any further north. They’d turn east and take in Coventry and then south past Cambridge and London before making it to Brighton at the end of June with two weeks to spare before the tournament. The last part of the journey would go quickly. Her father would be eager to spend time in London now that the Season was underway. He’d spare little attention for the small villages and hamlets between Coventry and London. It was the end of May. He would feel time pressing. But that wasn’t what Greer had meant with his comment. There were three weeks left of this magical journey with him where everything existed time out of mind. She tried not to think about it.

‘London will be nice. You will see many of your acquaintances, no doubt. Will you want to stay at your own quarters there?’ Since Bath they’d not addressed the status issue again. It didn’t matter that they were together in these nouveau-industrial towns full of men with new money. Towns like Birmingham and Coventry thrived because of men like her father, self-made men who had parlayed skills and opportunities into fortunes. ‘I do understand, Greer, London isn’t Bath. I won’t be acceptable there,’ she said softly.

She couldn’t say she hadn’t been warned. She’d known this from the start.

Greer shook his head. ‘It’s not you. It’s what I’ve been doing.’

Mercedes nodded, but in her mind she made a check on her mental calendar. He would leave her in London. The divide between their two worlds would be painfully obvious. There would be no buffer of the isolation of the road to obscure it. Well, now she knew how it would end. London would be good. It would mean the split wouldn’t happen in Brighton over the tournament.

‘Perhaps there will be word of a posting.’ Mercedes changed the subject. It was the one topic he remained markedly closed on.

‘I hope not.’

‘Really?’ It was the most insightful comment he’d made to date. But he offered nothing more and they returned to their books.

* * *

Although Mercedes hated Birmingham, she was glad it was a short day in the carriage. It was not a companionable silence that had sprung up between them. The coach pulled up to a new but elegant hotel in the city centre shortly after noon, and Mercedes was happy to have her feet touch the ground.

‘A nice change from rural country inns, don’t you think?’ Her father took her arm and led her inside, pleased at his choice of accommodations. Luxury always pleased him. She could see why. The lobby sported a large crystal chandelier and twin spiralling staircases on either side of the spacious room leading to the floors above. To one side, Mercedes caught the clink of silverware on china, denoting the hotel restaurant. The clientele milling about were well dressed in the latest fashions. This was a place important people stayed and, above all else, her father liked to be important.

Upstairs, the rooms bore out the signs of luxury evident below. Her bed was wide and her window overlooked the street. She could catch a glimpse of the Birmingham shopping arcade just a few streets over.

A knock on her door distracted her from the view. Perhaps it was Greer, coming to apologise. But for what? London would be difficult. He didn’t have to be sorry for the truth. Maybe for speaking it, she thought uncharitably. No one liked to be told they were second rate. Still, unspoken truths didn’t make them less true, less existent.

It wasn’t Greer at the door and her heart sank a little at the sight of her father. ‘Is your room fine?’ he asked. His room and Greer’s room were right across the hall.

‘Yes, it’s lovely.’ Mercedes put on a smile, but her father was too astute to be fooled.

‘What’s on your mind? Don’t tell me you’re thinking about things that don’t bear mentioning?’ He chucked her under the chin. ‘What happened was a long time ago. You’re free from all that. Luce Talmadge can’t hurt you anymore.’

What if it’s happening again?
The words nearly burst out. What if she was falling in love with Greer? She couldn’t tell him. Her father would either say, ‘Well done, it will keep him where we need him’, or he’d do something utterly stupid like march them off to a church. After all, it was the kind of marriage he’d always wanted for her.

Her father loved her, but he didn’t necessarily understand her, although he thought he did. It was at times like this that she wished she had a mother. Perhaps a mother would know what to say. It was a foolish notion. She was twenty-three, far too old to need a mother. Perhaps a friend would do? She missed Elise Sutton very much in those moments. They’d grown close in Bath and had discovered they had a lot in common with the way they’d grown up as their fathers’ favoured children.

‘I know.’ She nodded, knowing her response would make her father happy.

‘Good.’ He drew out the thick wallet of pound notes he carried in his inside pocket and withdrew several. ‘The arcade is nice. Take the afternoon and go shopping. I’m sure the Captain will accompany you. I don’t want you out alone in a strange town. Then, around five o’clock, I want you to meet me at the billiards lounge on this card. It’s a subscription room, but you’ll be admitted. Tell the Captain to pay the temporary fee.’ He winked and she knew precisely what he wanted.

‘You’ve been playing a lot since Bath.’ The part of her that wasn’t entirely distracted by Greer had noticed. Her father played privately at home, of course. But he seldom played in his own subscription room. He’d played nightly in Bath and he’d gone out since then even on the nights he’d given Greer off.

Her father merely smiled. ‘I’m not so old as all that, Mercedes. A man has to have his pleasures. Who says I can’t play when I want? I have to keep my game in shape.’

True enough. Her father was a handsome man in his late forties with dark hair lightly streaked with silver, and sharp grey eyes. Moderate in height and slender in build, he still cut an imposing figure at the billiards table. No one could doubt his acumen with a cue. Well dressed and well mannered, his presence was sometimes even considered daunting if one crossed him. Why shouldn’t he be out playing? But it
was
out of character for him, and Mercedes couldn’t help the suspicion that something else was going on. Perhaps she wasn’t the only one living a double life, lately.