A Lady Risks All. Bronwyn Scott

to beat a woman?’

      He laughed at that—a deep, sincere chuckle. ‘I’ve already beaten you once tonight. I won the first game, if you recall?’

      ‘I do recall, and I suspect you were too much of a gentleman to win the second.’ Mercedes was all seriousness.

      This was the type of thing her father wanted her to ferret out and destroy. Chivalry was anathema on the road. She supposed his idea of chivalry didn’t stop at women, but extended to poor farmers who’d come to town on market day and stopped in to play a game, or to men seemingly down on their luck, or to men, unlike him, who wagered with what they couldn’t afford to lose. Such chivalry stemmed from the code of noblesse oblige that gentlemen were raised with and it would definitely have to go.

      ‘Such fine sentiments will beggar you, Captain.’ Mercedes flirted a bit with her smile, gathering up the balls for another game.

      Barrington shrugged, unconcerned. ‘Manners beggar me very little when there’s no money on the line. We were just playing.’

      ‘Is that so?’ Mercedes straightened. Just playing? Her father would blanch at the idea of ‘just playing’. There was no such thing in his world. She reached for the envelope where she’d laid it on a small table. She tossed it on to the billiards table. ‘I want your best game, Captain. Will this buy it?’ She’d known precisely what use her father meant for the envelope. She was to buy the Captain with it.

      ‘Are you serious?’ His eyes, when they met hers, were hard and contemplative, not the laughing orbs that had not cared she’d accused him of going easy on her.

      ‘I am always serious about money, Captain.’

      ‘So am I.’

      She knew it was the truth—the calculation in his eyes confirmed it. This was a chance to rightfully win what her father had offered earlier. He’d desperately wanted that money; she’d seen the delight that had flared in his eyes ever so briefly. Only his honour had prevented him from taking it. ‘You’re on, Captain. Best two out of three.’

      She won the first game by one point, earned when he barely missed making contact with his ball, legitimately this time.

      He took his coat off for the second game and rolled up his sleeves. Was he doing it on purpose to distract her? If so, it wasn’t a bad strategy. Without his coat, she could see the bend and flex of him clearly outlined by his dark-fawn trousers, and there was something undeniably attractive about a man only in waistcoat and shirt, especially if the man in question was as well proportioned as the Captain.

      He was handsomely turned out tonight in a crisp white shirt and fashionable, shawl-collar waistcoat of burgundy silk, showing off those broad shoulders. His blond hair had fallen forwards, the intensity of their play defeating the parting he wore to one side. Now, all that golden perfection fell forwards, hiding his eyes from her as he concentrated on his next shot.

      It was a sexy look, an intense look—a crowd would love it, a woman would love it, looking up into that face, that hair, as he moved over her, naked and strong. Mercedes pushed such earthy thoughts away. She had a game to lose. This was no time to be imagining the Captain naked and in the throes of love-making.

      Barrington won the second game, just as she’d planned. His honour ensured it. He’d promised her his best game and he could be counted on to keep his word, his honour making him blind to any dishonour in another. It would prevent him from seeing her game as anything other than straightforward and perhaps his bias would, too. No matter what a man said, a man never believed a woman was a real threat until it was too late. She didn’t think the Captain was any different in that regard. It was the nature of men, after all, to believe in their infallible superiority.

      ‘This is it. Winner takes all.’ Mercedes set her mouth in a grim line of determination. Whether anyone knew it or not, there was just as much pressure to lose well as there was to win. But Barrington was nearly untouchable in the third game, potting balls without also hazarding his cue ball, and it made her job easier. He was starting to smile, some of the intensity from the second game melting away, overcome by his natural assurance and confidence.

      ‘Look at that,’ he crowed good-naturedly after making a particularly difficult shot, ‘just like butter on bread.’

      Mercedes laughed too. She couldn’t help it. His humour was infectious. This must be why people like to play him, she thought. Even if you were losing to him, you wanted him to win. His personality drew you in, charmed you. That would have to be saved. She added it to the mental list in her head: chivalry, no, personality, yes. She wondered if she could change the one without altering the other? Without altering him? Because Greer Barrington was eminently likeable just the way he was. She had not bargained on that. She lined up her last shot and took it with a little extra force to ensure the slip. She would make her shot—he would be suspicious if she didn’t—but her cue ball would hazard and that would decide the game in his favour.

      Mercedes thumped the butt of her cue on the floor with disgust. ‘Devil take it,’ she muttered on her breath for good, compelling measure, her face a study of disappointment. ‘I had that shot.’

      Barrington laughed. ‘You’re a bad loser.’ He said it with a certain amount of shock as if he’d made a surprising discovery. He shifted his position so that he half sat on the edge of the table, his eyes alight with confidence and mischief. But Mercedes already knew what was coming. Part of her wanted him to take the money and be done with it. If he was smart, he’d pocket that envelope, walk out of here and forget all about the Lockharts. His blasted chivalry was about to work against him.

      ‘I’ll give you a chance to win it back. One game takes all, I’ll wager my envelope against—’

      She interrupted. ‘The road. Your envelope against the road. I win, you take my father’s offer.’ Don’t do it. The wager is too much and you should know it.

      Barrington studied her for a moment. ‘I was going to say a kiss.’

      ‘All right, and a kiss,’ Mercedes replied coolly. But she wasn’t nearly as cool as she let on. This wouldn’t be like the previous set of games where she’d been entirely in charge of the outcome. She’d decided who’d won and it had been easy to control things simply by losing. She wouldn’t have that control here. Her only option this time lay in complete victory.

      She chalked her cue and watched Barrington break one of his shattering breaks in the new style becoming popular in the higher-class subscription rooms. She studied the lay of the table and took her shot. On her next shot, Mercedes carefully leaned over the table, displaying her cleavage to advantage where it spilled from the square neckline of her gown. If he could take off his coat, she could make use of her assets, too. She looked up in time to catch Barrington hastily avert his gaze, but not until he’d got an eyeful. She smiled and went back to her shot. ‘Like butter on bread,’ she said after it fell into a pocket with a quiet plop.

      Barrington shot again. ‘Like jam on toast.’ He raised a challenging eyebrow in her direction. His shot had been an easy one and he had the better lay of the table. None of his remaining shots would require any particular skill or luck. If she didn’t do something now, he’d outpace her and win. The shot she was looking for was risky. If she missed, it would assure Barrington’s victory and she’d have some explaining to do to her father. But if she didn’t try she would likely end up losing anyway.

      She bent, eyeing the table. Unhappy with the angle, she moved, bent, sighted the ball and moved again. Finally pleased, she aimed her cue. ‘I find jam a bit sticky.’ She shot, the cue ball splitting the pair she’d sighted perfectly, each one rolling smoothly to their respective pockets.

      The Captain favoured her with a sharp look. ‘Impressive. I think you may have been holding out on me.’

      Mercedes lifted a shoulder in a shrug. ‘A lady must have her secrets, after all.’

      Two shots later she claimed victory. Her risky shot had paid off.

      Barrington