Tempting the Wolf (14 page)

“Then English inventions have advanced even further than I ken,” he countered.

She blinked, then laughed when she caught his meaning. “I do not mean she is a machine,” she said. “Indeed, I believe she is flesh and blood, I am only saying she would not appreciate a man of your…” Skimming him with her lazy eyes, she let her attention rest on his crotch for a moment. “Charms.”

He gave her a smile, though the expression felt somewhat tight. Which was foolish indeed, for there was little he enjoyed more than blatant sexual flattery. “And why is that me lady?” he asked.

“She is…” She shrugged and shook her head at the same time, a feat that seemed almost more than she could manage in her current state. If he were a gentleman he would offer to fetch her less potent libations. He did not. “Odd,” she finished.

“Odd?” he repeated.

“Have you not noticed?” She drank again. “There’s something almost…” She faked a shiver. “Unearthly about her.”

“I’ve na noticed.” It was a lie, of course, but he doubted she meant the words as he did.

She leaned close in conspiratorial zeal. “That’s because you’re a man.”

” ‘Tis glad I am ye think so.”

She chuckled low in her throat. “Oh, I do indeed,” she said, “but like all men, you are entranced by a pretty face and a comely figure.”

“I would like to argue but I fear it would only make me sound addlepated.”

She grinned lopsidedly. “It is said she has never willingly touched another living soul.”

“Ye jest.”

” ‘Tis true,” she vowed.

“Her husband must have been sore disappointed.”

Her brows rose sharply. “Not so disappointed as when she killed him, I’d wager.”

Something clutched at his heart. O’Banyon squeezed his hands to fists. “I dunna mean to find fault, me lady,” he said, “but ‘tis such rumors what—”

“Surely you knew—he died the day after their nuptials.” She peered at him over the edge of her glass. “The day after she inherited his considerable fortune.”

He eased his hands open, calming himself. “I was told he was quite aged.”

She laughed. “So you’ve been asking about her have you? I’m not surprised. But did you know that the old man’s natural heir was left with nothing?”

“He had a son?”

“Still does, I would assume Edgar by name. He was left destitute. Not a copper farthing to his name. She inherited everything. Even the ancestral home.”

“I dunna think—”

“Well maybe you don’t, Sir O’Banyon. But it’s true. Ask anyone. Ask
her
. The estate she inhabits in gay Paris should have gone to the old man’s rightful heir.”

“Then why did it na?”

She shrugged. Her shoulders were pearly white and all but bare above the gathered bodice of her cherry-blossom gown. Her bosoms were plump and fetchingly displayed. O’Banyon could not possibly have cared less.

“Because she bewitched him,” she said.

He remained very still, keeping his ancient instincts at bay. All was well. Surely Hiltsglen was right. The age of darkness was behind them. Black magic was a thing from years long past. “Would the crown na interfere with such a transfer?” he asked, keeping his voice steady.

“It is said that she hexed the emperor himself.”

“Methinks—”

“Mrs. Murray,” called a gentleman, hurrying toward them. He was dressed in a frock coat and buff trousers and teetered dangerously on pink high-heeled shoes. O’Banyon did his best not to stare. “Will you not grace us with a song? You’ve such a lovely voice.”

“Why thank you ever so, Lord Gibbons,” she replied, turning away and spreading her fingers across the expanse of her carefully exposed breasts. “I am deeply flattered and shall be with you shortly.” She smiled at the speaker, then at O’Banyon. Lord Gibbons bowed and wobbled off.

“Honestly,” she said, lowering her voice to its usual husky timbre, “my singing is far from singular. But my other qualities…“She squeezed her arms together. Her impressive bosom swelled forth. “Are quite spectacular. Won’t you come and…” She flexed again. “Watch me sing?”

He forced a smile. “I fear ye would doubt me true sex if I did na,” he said and watched as she turned away, laughing.

But he was already listening to another conversation.

“… Thursday next,” said Lady Trulane. She stood between the baroness of Hendershire and Antoinette—the countess of Colline, the white lady, the enchantress. Was she also a murderer, casting dark spells under a waxing moon, floating about her garden like an ethereal ghost?

“You must come, Amelia,” Lady Trulane continued, addressing the baroness. “The waters’ miraculous powers are extolled as far as Dhaka. Why the naib nazim, Hashmat Jang, requested a barrel imported for his bad knees. Bath may be just what you need.”

O’Banyon made his way across the room, keeping his strides steady, though he longed to rush even as he longed to escape. He would be a fool indeed to cross paths with a sorceress yet again. Had he not learned his lessons many ages past? Had he not paid the price?

But he was being foolishly skittish. The golden lady of Inglewaer had been known for her dark seductions, while the white countess was… Well… she wasn’t truly known a’tall. Indeed, she seemed to keep herself carefully distant even as she stood well within reach. ‘Twas a distance he could not seem to accept.

“In Dublin,” he said, approaching the cluster of friends with feigned casualness. “We too have a marvelous cure for any sort of ailment.”

“Oh?” said Lady Hendershire, turning to him with a smile. She was small and young and congenial.

Lady Trulane’s dog growled low in its throat. She patted it soundly. “And what is that?” she asked.

“Whisky,” O’Banyon said and raised his glass in a silent salute.

The women laughed in unison.

“I believe I’ve heard of it,” said the elder of the two.

“There be times when we use it as a kind of preventative medicine,” he added, “lest there be trouble brewing.”

Lady Colline turned her gaze from O’Banyon to the baroness, her expression serene. If his presence disturbed her calm the least whit, she did not show it in her eyes. “And what troubles you, Amelia?”

From some distance away, Mrs. Murray began a deep-throated rendition of a song O’Banyon could not quite identify. The sound was husky and pleasing, or would have been, had he not been absorbed by the merest breath the countess took. God help him.

“Nothing really,” answered Lady Hendershire. “I simply… Well…” The girl skipped her gaze to O’Banyon and away, blushing prettily. “It’s simply that… Well, my Edward and I do so long for children.”

“Oh.” The countess went silent, but did not turn toward O’Banyon. He wondered if she were embarrassed by the topic of birth and breeding, if, beneath her bonny, well-polished exterior, she was squirming at his nearness. “Well, I would not worry. It is yet early,” she said. “You’ve been married such a short while. Less than six months, isn’t it?”

“Five months and three days.”

“Long enough,” said Lady Trulane. “Why, the princess of Kohary conceived on the very day of her wedding.” She scowled. “Or so her father would have us believe.”

“We do so hope for children,” Amelia mourned again.

“Yes, but surely you can wait another few… minutes?” said the countess.

The others chuckled and nodded agreement.

” ‘Tis not a laughing matter,” said Amelia, though she was, in fact, laughing herself. “There might be any number of complications that I’ve no idea of. I think I
shall
take the waters. I’ll speak to my Edward this very eve about it.”

“How grand,” said Trulane, stroking her glaring pet. “We shall have quite a merry time I’m certain. And what of you, countess? Might you like to accompany us?”

It seemed as if O’Banyon could sense her drawing back the instant they turned toward her, could watch her recoil even though she didn’t move. Couldn’t the others feel it? Didn’t they realize her fragile uncertainty? “Thank you,” she said, “but I think not. Though I’ve heard the waters are a marvel.”

“You’ve heard?” asked Lady Hendershire.

“You mean to say you’ve not been?” gasped the aging baroness.

“I fear I’ve not had the opportunity.”

“Well, you must come. You must. When I was in Byelorussia, Wit-Rusland, as the Dutch call it, I spent many lovely hours hiking with Mr. Todar Kramer, the great architect of Minsk.” She fell silent for an instant, shaking her head. “He was quite an amazing man—could tie seventeen different types of knots. Seventeen. Astounding really. But be that as it may, on one particularly grueling hike I slipped on the mountainside and sprained my ankle.
Madame Truheart
, said Mr. Kramer. He always called me Truheart. I’ve no idea why. He said,
You must return to Bath and soak up those wondrous waters
. And so I did, and in all honesty, my ankle did not heal one whit until—”

“Yes indeed,” agreed Mr. Winters, strolling up to join the conversation. “And when I was exploring the moon with the deputy of Istanbul just this past week, I injured my wrist something grievous. ‘Twas a right bugger to heal. Until my marvelous visit to Bath.”

There was stunned silence followed by laughter.

“Can I surmise you’ve not been there either?” asked Lady Trulane wryly.

“In actuality I have,” admitted Winters. “But I’ve been wanting to tell the moon story for quite some time. ‘Tis not an easy jest to wedge into a conversation.”

“Well, you should come also,” she said, though her tone was disapproving as she stroked her sulking hound, “so that you will no longer scoff.”

“But I like to scoff.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

“Oh, you should come,” said the baroness. “And you, Lady Colline. I would dearly love it if you would accompany us. I become overwrought at times, and you have such a soothing effect.”

“That is very kind of you to say, Amelia. But I am really quite busy.”

“What with?” Winters asked. “The harvest? Tending the dairy? Mowing the meadow?”

“Hush now,” Amelia said and laughed as she turned back to the countess. “I know you’ve much to see to. But you must come. You are always so perfectly serene. It seems as though nothing can go wrong if you are near.”

“You expect something to go amiss?” Antoinette’s voice was, as always, perfectly modulated, as dulcet as an evening dove’s, but there was something unsettled in her eyes.

“No. Of course not. And it’s silly I know, but travel makes me tense, and my Edward thinks perhaps that is part of my…” She shifted her gaze shyly to Mr. Winters. “Problem.”

“I would love to. Truly,” said the countess. “But I fear my schedule is such that—”

“Do say you’ll come,” Amelia begged and after a moment Antoinette acquiesced.

“Very well then, if it means such a great deal to you. I shall look forward to it.”

“How delightful. And you must accompany us too,” Amelia said, turning to O’Banyon. “My Edward would dearly love to have another man with which to converse. As much as he adores the company of women, he sometimes misses masculine camaraderie when visiting the waters.”

“I have oft thought Englishmen were peculiar.”

O’Banyon said. “But never more than now. This place called Bath, is it somewhere near the depths of hell?”

“What? No. Whyever—”

“I can think of no other reason he would avoid the exclusive company of the fairer sex.”

“Surely you’ve visited the waters,” said Lady Trulane, but O’Banyon shook his head.

“Then you must do so with us. We leave on Thursday next.”

” ‘Tis kind of ye to ask,” he said. “But I’ve na wish to horn me way into such elegant company.”

“Horn yer way…” She chuckled at his choice of words. “Don’t be absurd. As I once told the czar, a handsome man can never—”

But suddenly the music stopped. Someone gasped from the adjoining room. The house went eerily silent, then, “Is she quite well?”

“Give her room!”

“Mrs. Murray!”

A good score of people rushed toward the music room, most of Antoinette’s party included. The doorway was jammed tight with onlookers.

“Fetch her some water,” ordered an elderly voice. “There’s a good lad.”

“My dear, are you quite well?”

There was a weak murmur. Voices began to pick up, lush at the unexpected excitement.

“Can you sit up?”

Another murmur. More voices chiming in, happy as Christmas to have witnessed such a scene.

“That’s better then.”

A scrawny lad with straw-blond hair pressed past, sloshing water as he went.

“I’m fine,” said Mrs. Murray in her husky strain. “Perfectly fine. How very embarrassing.”

Voices swelled back to full volume.

O’Banyon turned toward the white countess. “I did na ken these house parties would be so exhilarating.”

“Oh yes,” she said. “Once the Regent himself became sick in Lady DeVille’s potted palms. I’ve never seen the
ton
happier.”

He watched her closely. “We are all just moments from becoming the beasts that lurk within.”

“Are we?”

“Except for yer bonny self, of course,” he said. “Tell me, lass, why are ye forever so verra controlled?”

She gave him a cool smile. “Perhaps I don’t care to live in the woods with the rest of the pack.”

“Ahh.” He smiled, for simply being near her made him feel joyously alive. “Then mayhap ye’d agree to ride with me in the open country.”

She drew back slightly. “I’ve no idea how you jumped to such a distant subject, sir.”

“It did indeed take a bit of clever maneuvering,” he said, moving slightly closer, “but the truth is this, lass, you intrigue me like none other.”

“Do I?”

“Aye.”

“And so you hope to win my heart?”

“Nay indeed,” he said. “I wish only to spend enough time with ye so that I may discover your irritating habits and be happy to see ye gone.”

She raised an elegant brow and stared at him in silence, but there was laughter in her eyes. He found that he longed quite fervently to hear it spill from her lips, to see her outlandishly happy. “And how long do you think that might take?”

“That depends entirely on ye, lass. Mayhap we’d best spend a great many hours together so that we might hasten the process.”