Bronwyn Scott - Regency Gamble - A Lady Risks All / A Lady Dares

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.

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.’

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