A Lady Risks All. Bronwyn Scott

Any plans after you leave Brighton? Or do you await orders? We’ve talked billiards all night, but I haven’t learned a thing about you.’

      ‘I thought I’d wait a few months and see if I am recalled to active duty. If the possibilities are slim, I’ll sell my commission.’

      ‘You like the military, then?’

      Captain Barrington fixed her with a penetrating stare. ‘It beats the alternative.’

      They’d stopped walking and stood facing each other on the pathway. There was seriousness in his eyes that hadn’t been there before and she heard it in his voice.

      Her voice was a mere whisper. ‘What’s the alternative?’

      ‘To go back and run the home farm under my brother’s supervision. He’s the heir, you see. I’m merely the second son.’

      She heard the bitterness even as she heard all the implied information. A man who’d experienced leadership and independence in the army would not do well returning to the constant scrutiny of the family fold. A little thrill of victory coursed through her. She’d been right. He was a gentleman’s son. But he was staring hard at her, watching her for some reaction.

      ‘Are you satisfied now? Is this what you brought me out here to discover? Had your father hoped I might be a baron’s heir, someone he might aspire to win for your hand?’ His cynicism was palpably evident.

      ‘No!’ Mercedes exclaimed, mortified at his assumptions, although she’d feared as much earlier, too. Her father had tasked her with the job of unearthing Barrington’s situation, but hopefully not for that purpose. If not that, then what? An alternative eluded her.

      ‘Are you sure? It seems more than billiards tables are for sale tonight.’

      ‘You should ask yourself the same thing, Captain.’ Mercedes bristled. He’d put a fine point on it. She’d stopped analysing her father’s motives a long time ago. Mostly because being honest about his intentions hurt too much. She didn’t like thinking of herself as another of his tools.

      The comment wrung a harsh laugh from the Captain. ‘I’ve been for sale for a long time, Miss Lockhart. I just haven’t found the highest bidder.’

      ‘Perhaps your asking price is too high,’ Mercedes replied before she could think better of the words rushing out of her mouth. She had not expected the charming captain to possess a streak of cynicism. It forecasted untold depths beneath the charming exterior.

      ‘And your price, Miss Lockhart? Is it too high as well?’ It was a low, seductive voice that asked.

      ‘I am not for sale,’ she answered resolutely.

      ‘Yes, you are. We all are.’ He smiled for a moment, the boyish charm returning. ‘Otherwise you wouldn’t be out here in the garden, alone, with me.’

      They held each other’s gaze, blue challenging grey. She hated him in those seconds. Not hated him precisely—he was only the messenger. But she hated what he said, what he revealed. He spoke a worldly truth she’d rather not recognise. She suspected he was right. She would do anything for her father’s recognition, for the right to take her place at his side as a legitimate billiards player who was as good as any man.

      ‘Are you suggesting you’re not a gentleman?’ Mercedes replied coolly.

      ‘I’m suggesting we return inside before others make assumptions you and I are unlikely to approve of.’

      Which was for the best, Mercedes thought, taking his arm. She wasn’t supposed to have brought him out here to quarrel. Of all the things her father had in mind, it wasn’t that. Perhaps her father thought they might steal a kiss, that she’d find the Captain charming; the Captain might find her beautiful and her father might find that connection useful. She could become the lovely carrot he dangled to coax Barrington into whatever scheme he had in mind.

      The garden had not been successful in that regard. Not that she’d have minded a kiss from the Captain. He certainly looked as if he’d be a fine kisser with those firm lips and mischievous eyes, to say nothing of those strong arms wrapping her close against that hard chest. Truly, his manly accoutrements were enough to keep a girl bothered long into the night.

      ‘Shilling for your thoughts, Miss Lockhart.’ His voice was deceptively close to her ear, low and intimate, all trace of cynicism gone. The charmer was back. ‘Although I dare say they’re worth more than that from the blush on your cheek.’

      Oh, dear, she’d utterly given herself away. Mercedes hazarded part of the truth. ‘I was thinking how a quarrel is a waste of perfectly good moonlight.’

      He’d turned and was looking at her now. ‘Then we have discovered something in common at last, Miss Lockhart. I was thinking the same thing.’ His blue eyes roamed her face in a manner that suggested she had the full sum of his attentions. His hand cupped her cheek, gently tilting her chin upwards, his mouth descending to claim hers in a languorous kiss.

      She was aware only of him, of his other hand resting at the small of her back, intimate and familiar. This was a man used to touching women; such contact came naturally and easily to him. Warmth radiated from his body, bringing with it the clean, citrusy scent of oranges and soap.

      It wasn’t until the kiss ended that she realised she’d stepped so close to him. What distance there had been between their bodies had disappeared. They stood pressed together, her body fully cognisant of the manly planes of him as surely as he must be of the feminine curves of hers.

      ‘A much better use of moonlight, wouldn’t you agree, Miss Lockhart?’

      Oh, yes. A much better use.

      ‘Will you help me with him?’ It was to her father’s credit, Mercedes supposed, that he’d waited until breakfast the following morning before he sprang the question, especially given that breakfast was quite late and the better part of the morning gone. The men had played billiards well into the early hours, long after Captain Barrington had politely departed and she’d gone up to her rooms.

      Mercedes pushed her eggs around her plate. ‘I think that depends. What do you want him for?’ She would not give her word blindly; Barrington’s remarks about being for sale were still hot in her ears.

      Her father leaned back in his chair, hands folded behind his head. ‘I want to make him the face of billiards. He’s handsome, he has a good wit, he’s affable and he plays like a dream. For all his inherent talents, he needs training, needs finishing. He has to learn when it pays more to lose. He has to learn the nuances of the game and its players. Billiards is more than a straightforward game of good shooting between comrades in the barracks. That’s the edge he lacks.’

      ‘Playing in the billiard clubs of Brighton won’t give him that edge—they’re too refined. That kind of experience can only be acquired …’ Mercedes halted, her speech slowing as realisation dawned. ‘On the road,’ she finished, anger rising, old hurts surfacing no matter how deeply she thought she’d buried them. She set aside her napkin.

      ‘No. I won’t help some upstart officer claim what is rightfully mine. If you’re taking a protégé on the road, it should be me.’ She rose, fairly shaking with rage. Her father’s protégés had never done her any good in the past.

      ‘Not this again, Mercedes. You know I can’t stakehorse a female. Most clubs won’t even let you in, for starters.’

      ‘There are private games in private houses, you know that. There are assembly rooms. There are other places to play besides gentlemen’s clubs. You’re the great Allen Lockhart—if you say a woman can play billiards publicly, people will listen.’

      ‘It’s not that easy, Mercedes.’

      ‘No, it’s not. It will still be hard, but you can do it. You just choose not to,’ she accused. ‘I’m as good as any man and you choose to do nothing about it.’

      They stared at each other down the length of the