Tempting the Wolf (20 page)

How could he fight beauty itself? He glanced at her, his gaze hopelessly drawn against his will.

Who was this woman who drew him like a siren’s song? What kind of power did she possess? Was it the usual magic controlled by a beautiful maid as Hiltsglen had suggested, or was there something more, something sinister, something he dare not contemplate. There were times he was certain she was all that was good and right with the world, when her smile overwhelmed him, when her beauty undid him. But other times… Perhaps more lucid times…

Uncertainty ate at him, gnawed at his mind until the rough roads gave way to the cobbled, gas-lit streets of London.

The coach rumbled to a halt. The company disembarked, their farewells subdued in the waning light of day. Everything in O’Banyon insisted that he accompany the countess to her waiting carriage, that he question her until he learned the truth. But truth was a slippery thing, and if he knew anything, he realized he was not quite sane where she was concerned, was not able to keep his wits, to refrain from touching her, though his very life might well be forfeit.

Far better then to return alone to his own abode. To spend the night in solitary reflection. Or so he thought. But morning shed little light on the situation.

Afternoon found him restless and irritable. ‘Twas said that the lads on Bond Street found some relief in pugilism, but O’Banyon did not quite trust himself to such dramatic sport. Thus, he saddled Luci and visited Hendershire’s estate to inquire about the young baroness’s health.

“I’m certain she will be entirely healed in a few days’ time,” said the baron, but his eyes looked tired, his cheeks gaunt.

They sat alone in a high-ceilinged parlor surely grand enough to house a queen. “She is eating then?” O’Banyon asked.

“Yes, yes, she eats,” said the baron, then closed his eyes and turned toward the long, narrow window that overlooked the bustling thoroughfare below. “But if the truth be told, she cannot keep it in her stomach.” His voice faded. “And she grows weaker by the moment.” His hand shook as he wiped it across his face.

So this was the face of love, O’Banyon thought. In truth, he had no use for such anguish. Far better to enjoy the pleasures of a host of lovely lassies than to agonize over one. Yet he could not put the white countess out of his mind, could not forget the sunlight of her eyes, the silver of her laughter.

Who was she? What powers did she possess? He feared he knew, but it could not be so. Not now. Not again. But there was an unearthly pull to her, an unnerving attraction that drew at his every fiber, that left him hard and sweating in the night, fraught with frustration and unanswered desires.

He must learn the truth, before it was too late. Before he was lost again.

The cobbles clattered beneath his mount’s cadenced hooves as he left Hendershire’s estate.

Hyde Park was awash with polished carriages and handsome horses, stepping lively, going nowhere but round and round.

Ladies glanced his way as he pressed his steed in amongst the others. Gentlemen scowled at their partners’ floundering interests. Pleasantries were exchanged. Flirtations were renewed, but the one woman he longed to see was not amidst the throng. And indeed, without her, the world seemed strangely bereft, hazy and dim as if the light of the sun had been somehow diminished.

“… haven’t seen you about for several days.”

O’Banyon brought his attention back into focus. Mrs. Murray gave him an arch glance from the scarlet seat of her tilbury phaeton. The hood was folded back so that the evening sunlight shone on her carefully coifed hair and pearl ear bobs. A footman in bright livery stood at her horse’s head and resolutely avoided eye contact.

“Indeed,” she said. “I am not entirely certain you are here even now.”

He smiled and bowed over Luci’s arched neck. The mare jigged beneath him, hopefully eyeing a steed half her size. Was that the way of the world, then? To forever want what you could not have? But nay, that had never been true of him in the past. He had been happy with any number of maids. It had never been a chore to give a comely maid his undivided attention. So—

“… elsewhere.”

And damn it, she was speaking again.

“Me apologies,” he said. “What say ye?”

She gave him a careful smile. “Dare I ask to where your mind has wandered, Sir Banyon?”

He leaned toward her, gathering his wits. Beneath him, Luci arched her neck and gave a girlish nicker. “Places that said aloud tend to get me face slapped,” he said.

Mrs. Murray laughed and glanced through her lashes at him, not entirely unlike the longing glance the giant mare sent toward the stunted stallion.

“Intriguing. Tell me, Sir O’Banyon, are you free this afternoon? I willbe hosting a small gathering at my home in Nettle Heights.”

“Indeed? How small?” he asked.

She tilted her head slightly.“If you come… there shall be… let me think… just the two of us,” she said.

It should have been an irresistible offer, but a tantalizing image was teasing his mind’s eye— dark hair framing a pixie face, slanted eyes watching him with sharp-edged intellect, drawing him closer, pulling at his soul.

He felt cold sweat trickle down his spine. He straightened it with an effort. “Two be me favorite number,” he said.

The lady gave him a satisfied nod then slapped the reins against her horses haunches. For a moment ‘twas a race to see if her footman would regain his place at the back of her carriage. He bumped inelegantly into his seat, holding on tight as they whirred past a crested brougham and out of sight.

Though O’Banyon stayed some while in the park, the time seemed poorly spent. Dour and dissatisfied, he turned the sullen mare toward home. But it was not much later that he found himself on a quiet road a short distance from Arborhill. From a gently sloping hill framed in bracken fern and horse chestnuts, he could see the wrought-iron gates and grand entrance to the countess’s estate. She was there. He could sense her presence, could feel her allure like a silken cord, drawing him in, pulling him under.

His body felt tight and hard with desire. He gritted his teeth against the temptation, almost spurred his mare forward, then, cursing, turned his mount toward Nettle Heights. The traffic blossomed, then thinned as he left the posh whips and carefully coifed ladies behind. In the heart of London, millers and cobblers earned their livings much as they had for hundreds of years. But now they rubbed shoulders with a host of perfumers and button-makers and drapers. Indeed…

“Sir.”

O’Banyon glanced up, shaken from his dark reverie. Mr. Winters sat a blood bay gelding, watching him from but a few feet away.

“You look quite lost.”

“Lost?” O’Banyon brought himself back to the present with an effort. “In thought mayhap.”

“Well, you must do a fair amount of that,” he said. “Thinking that is. ‘Twas quite clever of you to suggest looking in the garden for the countess.”

“Na clever a’tall,” he countered. “I was but trying to get ye from me chambers in the quickest possible manner.”

Winters laughed. “Ahh yes, I believe I owe you an apology for the ahh… interruption.”

O’Banyon shrugged.” “Us said that absence but makes the heart grow warmer.”

“And did it?”

“The lass was na cold,” he said and refused to think of the woman with whom he had truly been engaged. The woman whom he could not forget, yet could not touch.

“I must admit that for a time I thought you were with the countess herself.”

Worry jolted through O’Banyon, though he assured himself he had no particular reason to protect the lady’s reputation. Indeed, ‘twas entirely possible the world needed protection from her and not the other way about, and yet, despite everything, he wanted nothing more than to guard her, to hold her, to make certain all was well and safe in her world. “In truth,” O’Banyon said, “I fear she has little interest in the likes of me.”

Winters grinned. “Aye, well, I would not take it too much to heart, Sir. Lady Colline is… well… let us simply call her unique.”

“Aye. She is that.”

“Some find her cool detachment… unnatural. But for myself, I do not believe in such nonsense.”

O’Banyon felt his muscles tense. Felt himself grow bitter cold. “What nonsense might that be?” he asked.

Winters laughed. “The stories about her… unusual qualities,” he said. “But then, I find the aversion to touching another completely understandable. Humans are such smelly beasts. Well, I must away,” he said. ” ‘Twas grand indeed to see you once again.”

“Aye,” O’Banyon agreed, but his mind was spinning as he pressed his steed into a canter. Answers. He needed answers before it was too late, before he was lost entirely.

It was only a short distance to Nettle Heights now. Mrs. Murray’s aging doorman showed no expression as he invited Banyon inside. The same could not be said for the lady herself as she entered the drawing room where O’Banyon waited.

“Why, sir,” she said. “I am delighted to see you have had the good taste to accept my invitation.” They were alone in a chamber that outsized the entirety of the hovel he had known in his boyhood, but he failed to appreciate its grandeur, or even the periwinkle gown that displayed his hostess’s bosom with such eager openness.

“Despite what some say,” he countered as he assembled his thoughts and kissed her hand, “I am na completely without wits.”

She smiled and dipped her gaze down the front of his form. “Or other fine qualities.”

” Tis good to ken ye think so,” he said, but he was chafing with impatience, wrapped in tempered anxiety.

“Well…” She took a seat and motioned for him to do the same. “I’m certain I’m not the first.”

“Nay,” he agreed, “but na every lass realizes me fine attributes whilst I am fully clothed.”

She stared at him a moment, then threw back her head and laughed. The tone was brassy and unbecoming. He scowled at his uncharitable thoughts.

“I like a man who recognizes his gifts.”

“I am fond of women who recognize them as well,” he assured her and tried to find his footing, to relax, to enjoy the moment.

She laughed again. “I admit that I was somewhat concerned that you had become interested in another.”

She indicated the fragile glasses that held wine on a silver tray nearby. He took one.

“Another, me lady?” he asked.

“There have been rumors of you and the countess of Colline.”

He tightened his hand on the glass. It felt cool and hard beneath his fingers. Not unlike the hilt of a fine blade. “I enjoy a good rumor as much as the next man if ye care to share,” he said.

She smiled, watching him closely. ” ‘Tis said you have become enchanted.”

He drank but did not taste the wine, for his thoughts were spinning madly. “Ye dunna look like the kind to believe in ghosts and hobgoblins, me lady.”

“Then you do not find the countess… unusual?”

“Truth to tell…” He shrugged. The movement felt oddly stiff. “She shows suspicious little interest in me.”

She laughed. “Oh…” she tsked. “You poor thing. I imagine that is unusual indeed for a man of your… naked charms.”

“Aye well,” he said with a tilt of his head, “she’s not had an opportunity to see me charms.”

“One of the few?” she asked, arching a brow at him and rising to her feet.

“Mayhap you’ve got the wrong impression of me,” he said.

She closed the double doors that led into a cavernous ballroom. “I very much doubt it,” she said, turning back. “I know men quite well.”

But what did she know of the countess? “I might yet surprise ye, lass,” he said, glancing up as she approached.

She shrugged as she sank to the seat beside him. “I admit, you have shown surprising good taste in coming here.”

“Me thanks.”

“You see…” She drank, nearly emptying her glass. “I think you are being modest.”

“It seems rather unlikely.”

“I believe the countess may very well be interested in you,” she said, and, reaching out, unbuttoned his shirt.

Uncertainty tangled with worry. Desire growled low in his gut, but it felt strangely off beat, not quite right. “What would make ye believe thus?”

“As it happens, I know women quite well also.”

But the countess was more than a woman. She was light and music and hope bound up in a fragile—

He gritted his teeth and jerked his mind resolutely to the lady beside him. She was handsome and ripe and eager. Just the sort of woman he had admired for as long as he could recall.

“I am intrigued, me lady.”

“As well you should be,” she said and slipped her hand beneath his shirt. “Perhaps…” She eased her fingers across his taut muscles, but no scissor-sharp feelings sliced along his spine. No inexplicable sensations shivered across his skin. Could it be that the age-old curse had truly been broken? That the burning moments he had spent in his natural form while in the throes of passion with the countess had not been a fluke or his imagination o— “If this day goes well… I might introduce you to a few of my… friends.”

She squeezed his nipple. He held his breath, concentrating, but nothing happened, no growling changes, no sharpened senses.

“I am certain any friend of yours would be a friend indeed,” he intoned. Might it be that he could once again find pleasure where he would?

“Indeed.” Slipping to the floor, she settled between his legs, tugged his shirt from his breeches and finished off his buttons. “Sir O’Banyon,” she said, letting her gaze skim his crotch. “You may be the first man of my acquaintance who has not oversold himself.”

Rising on her knees, she lapped her tongue across the muscles of his abdomen.

He sucked a breath between his teeth. “Careful, lass,” he said. “Or ye’ll make me blush.”

She was squeezed between his thighs, her half-bare breasts pressed against the heat of his groin. “I rather doubt you even know how, sir,” she said and wriggled slightly so that her bosom caressed the bare skin above his belt.

Still all seemed well. He was human. He was man, without even that preliminary tingling at the base of his skull. Slipping an arm about her back, he drew her closer, pulled her up.