Tempting the Wolf (15 page)

“But, my good sir,” she said, her expression perfectly solemn, “I tire of you already.”

He laughed out loud and leaned closer. “That is because ye have
na
spent enough time with me.”

“Is it?”

“Most certainly. Ride with me, lass,” he said, holding her gaze, “and I will try to dislike ye as soon as ever I can.”

“Well, here is something to give you a start,” she said. “I do not ride.”

He drew back slightly, surprised, though he was not exactly sure why. Mayhap it was because all of London seemed wild for their handsome riding horses. Or perhaps it was because of the way his own bad-tempered beast had been soothed by her presence. “You jest,” he said.

“Rarely.”

“Then ye must certainly learn.”

She arched a brow at him. “To jest?”

“To ride,” he corrected.

“I think not.”

“But consider this, lass,” he said, leaning toward her with conspiratorial earnestness. “If, on the night your cob was injured, ye had been able to ride a palfrey, ye would not have—”

“Palfrey?” she interrupted.

“Hack,” he corrected, remembering the colloquial term. “Had ye been able to manage a hack, ye would na have had to suffer me own loathsome presence in yer own foine carriage.”

“A fine point,” she conceded, “but had I not spent those… loathsome minutes with you, you would not have been afforded the opportunity to begin detesting me.”

He shook his head once. “I fear it did little to further yer cause in that regard.”

“What a shame.”

“Aye, well, ‘tis sure to work better next time. I’ve an extremely short span of attention.”

“I’m certain you do, but surely there are a host of others here whom you could… dislike.”

“None that hold me interest I fear.” He moved carefully closer. “Indeed, I must confess, since seeing ye I can think of none other even—”

“Sir O’Banyon. Sir.” A tall lord hustled forward, face flushed and coat stretched tight across his belly. “Ahh, there you are. It seems Mrs. Murray has taken a fall.”

O’Banyon turned toward him. “That much I had gathered.”

“Aye, aye. I imagine you did,” breathed the lord. “A bit light-headed is all, I should hope. But she desires to go home straightaway.”

“Methinks that might be wise.”

“She said the two of you were neighbors of sorts, and that you would, perhaps, be kind enough to accompany her home.”

For the first time in his life, O’Banyon resented a lady’s request, but chivalry or something like it made him bow brusquely. “
Aye
,” he said. “Tell her I shall be there in but a wee span of time.”

The lord hurried away.

O’Banyon turned back toward the countess. “I’ve no wish to rush ye, me lady,” he said. “But might I have an answer?”

“I’m not certain,” said the countess, her back straight as a footman’s lance. “But I must say I am nearly moved to tears knowing I am the Irish whelp’s only interest.”

There was anger in her eyes, and maybe… just a hint of jealousy. He almost laughed aloud with delight.

“Then I shall surely look forward to teaching ye to ride at the earliest possible opportunity,” he said, and not awaiting a response, turned away.

“Nonsense,” said Lady Trulane. She stood before the towering brick of her manor house. Four carriages stood immobile in the graveled yard, horses waiting with cock-hipped patience. “You must ride with us, countess. It would not be the same without you.”

Indeed, it would not be, Antoinette thought. It would not be terrifying and stifling and dangerous. She had planned to ride with the others, had convinced herself she could do just that, but that was before she had caught her first glimpse of the Irishman.

Her hands had not been steady since, even though he stood some distance away, seeming in earnest conversation with Sibylla, who had ridden beside her on the journey there and would travel with Whitford on the return trip.

“I would love to, of course,” Antoinette said, bearing up under the gazes of her would-be companions, “but I fear there will simply be too much baggage.”

The Irishman was motioning to the girl’s arm. She raised it slowly, and with silent sobriety he squatted before her to clasp a simple circlet about her wrist. It looked suspiciously similar to the one he wore about his own broad arm. Who the hell told him he could give the child some strumpet’s braided hair?

“Nonsense,” said Trulane, snagging her back to the present. “Of course there is ample room. It’s an Eddings coach. We could fit a musk ox and a dromedary in if we so desired.”

“Then let’s do,” said Mr. Winters, nodding to his man who just then delivered his bags. “It does sound entertaining.”

“Far more entertaining than myself,” said the countess and forced herself to refrain from staring at the Irish mutt. But from the corner of her eye she saw Whitford place her trunk atop the giant coach.

“Oh, no. Excuse me, please,” she said softly, and hurried to tell him of her change of plans.

But in that moment Sibylla wandered away and O’Banyon rose to his feet. Their gazes met across the courtyard and then he was coming toward her, his strides long and sure.

“Countess.”

Her heart did a thump at the deep burr of his voice. She turned slowly, manners insisting that she do so. “Yes, Sir O’Banyon?”

“There is na need to fear,” he said.

She kept her body perfectly still. “No, my good sir,” she agreed. “I am certain there is not.”

“Then why do ye insist on traveling alone?”

How the devil had he heard her conversation? ‘Twas obvious he’d been well occupied trying to win over tiny Sibylla.

“This has naught to do with fear, sir,” she said. “I am but accustomed to having things my own way.”

“And yer way be alone?” he asked.

She tightened her grip on her parasol, glad to have something to occupy her hands. “Perhaps you can forgive me if I’ve no wish to make the others uncomfortable for the entirety of the long drive.”

“Then travel with us,” he said, “for surely none could be uncomfortable in yer presence.”

It was a cheap compliment, most probably spoken a hundred times to a score of adoring women, and yet a despicable shiver snaked up her spine. She gritted her teeth against the potent feelings.

“Tell me, sir, were you born with that gift for flattery, or is it something you manufacture?”

He watched her for an instant and finally lifted one corner of his satyr’s mouth the slightest degree.

“Ye are angry with me,” he said.

She raised a single brow. Her back actually ached with her regal stance. “Whyever would you think so?”

His gaze was unblinking. “I did na share her bed.”

She knew exactly and immediately what he meant, though she wished to hell she did not. “I am certain that would be welcome, and most probably surprising news to any number of women,” she said. “But since I’ve no idea what you speak of I believe I shall—”

” Tis but the fact that we be neighbors that Mrs. Murray asked me to escort her home.”

“Of course.” Anger coursed through her. Unacceptable and foolish. “It makes perfect sense now. That is just the reason a woman of Cecelia Murray’s reputation would ask you to accompany her.” She turned away. “Now if you’ll excuse me—”

“Ye flatter me, lass,” he said.

She pivoted back, lips pursed. It had been a long while since she had been truly angry. Hard emotion was not something she dabbled in. “I am ever so happy to hear that, sir,” she said. “Indeed, my poor heart is all but aflutter at the idea.”

Laughter danced in his heaven-bright eyes. “I dared not hope for jealousy from such a foine lass such as yerself.”

“Jealousy,” she said, her tone admirably level.

“She be a handsome woman,” he admitted. “Comely of face and pleasing of form, but if the truth be told, ‘tis difficult for me to see another when ye are in plain view.”

What would happen if she struck him? If she loosed her tight control and punched him in the nose? she wondered, then squelched the idea. It was ridiculous—lovely, but ridiculous. “But I was not… as you say… in plain view, was I Sir O’Banyon?”

“Ye were,” he said, “in me own mind.”

Something softened dangerously inside her, easing her tension, brightening her thoughts. But she could afford softness no more than she could anger, so she tilted her head and gave him a smile. “I’m surprised there’s room in there for me, sir, what with your high opinion of yourself.”

He laughed. “Travel with us,” he entreated and extended a hand. ” ‘Twill be—”

“
Non
!” she said and jerked away, knowing she had spoken too quickly.
You are not some grubby street waif, snapping off garbled half sentences. You are a lady, or you shall be, fit to marry the likes of me
. “My apologies,” she said. “But I cannot.”
Why? Think girl
. “I fear I may find it necessary to leave Bath early and I’ve no wish to disturb the others’ pleasure.”

He watched her in silence, his expression earnest, his gaze as steady as the sun. “I’ll na let ye succumb to temptation, lass,” he said quietly. “Na matter how badly ye wish to.”

“What?” she rasped.

He raised his brows as if startled by her fierce reaction. “I said, I’ll na let meself succumb to temptation. Ye can trust me.”

She stared at him. It might just be that she was losing her mind. “I would not trust you,” she said, “if you were the last man in all of Christendom.”

It felt as though he were looking into her very soul, and though she tried to glance away, she found she could not. “I may well be,” he said softly, “for the likes of ye.”

She stared at him for several hard seconds, then turned abruptly away. “Whitford,” she called, “I shall be taking my own carriage after—”

“I would sore hate to tell the others that the elegant white countess traipses about her garden in a night rail as sheer as a butterfly’s wing.”

She turned slowly toward him. “Tell me, Sir O’Banyon, is it true what they say of Satan? Does he indeed have horns and a lengthy forked tail?”

He laughed. “I am na the devil’s servant, lass. I but long for yer company.”

“No.”

“Then I shall accompany
ye
,” he said and took a step toward her vehicle.

She felt the blood drain from her face. She couldn’t be closeted away with this man. She could barely speak to him in the open air without a desperate, idiotic longing roaring up inside her. It wasn’t lust. It was more complicated than that, and simpler, and… good God, he was built like an ancient statue, all long hard muscles and… Maybe it was a little bit of lust.

“I fear that would not be seemly, sir, without a chaperone to guard my reputation,” she managed.

He leaned toward her slightly. She arched back the tiniest degree.

“Neither would it be seemly if I told the others that ye feared ye could na keep yer hands to yerself if we traveled together alone for so long a time.”

“I think, sir, that you may be the first person I have hated for a very long while.”

“Come.” He chuckled. “They wait.”

They were rolling silently on the coach road toward the west, the cushions soft beneath them, the ceiling high and vaulted, their drinks still cool from the time spent in the ice chest that had been packed along.

Antoinette sat next to the door. The broad, square windows were open wide. O’Banyon sat across from her so close they were breathing the same air, all but thinking the same roiling thoughts.

“Lady Glendowne is indeed an amazing woman,” said Lady Trulane, stroking a fuzzy white dog with a tongue as long as her forearm. “There is nothing quite so happy as an Eddings coach.”

“Or quite so expensive,” added Winters.

“Surely with the sale of your marvelous paintings, you can afford to purchase one,” said Amelia.

“Well certainly,” he agreed. “That and the price of my soul would very nearly afford me this sort of luxury.”

O’Banyon chuckled, but Antoinette could still feel his attention on her. Cocky bastard, she thought. Who the bloody hell did he think he was? Some enchanted gift to women?

“What of you, sir knight?” asked Lady Trulane. “Would you sell your soul for an Eddings?”

“Nay,” he said, “for unlike Mr. Winters here, I fear me own soul is na worth near enough to purchase tufted seats and brass lanterns.”

“Then perhaps you should have married the baroness before your large friend found her,” Lord Hendershire suggested. Amelia’s husband was not a handsome man, but if his moony glances toward his wife were any indication, he was as devoted as one of Lady Trulane’s lap dogs.

“Alas,” O’Banyon said. “I fear Hiltsglen had the unfair advantage of saving the lady’s life.”

Mr. Winters tsked and shook his head. “Women are oft fools for such things.”

“Things like strong men who are willing to give their lives for those they love?” Lady Trulane asked.

“Aye, just that sort of thing,” said Winters, shivering. “Bloody nasty mess that was, aye? How is it you know the giant Hiltsglen, O’Banyon?”

“We fought together,” he said simply.

A soldier? Antoinette would never have guessed it. But maybe she was shortsighted. If she tried she could imagine the roguish Irishman in bright regimentals, but somehow it was easier still to think of him in a different kind of battle, something more elemental, wearing naught but his ancestral plaid, muscles bulging, with a notched sword in one hand as he challenged all comers. And good Christ, when had she become so girlishly fanciful?