“You’re playing games too, Antonia.”
“No . . .” she breathed in horror before she realized he couldn’t have discovered her identity. He knew more than he should, mostly through her fault. But he couldn’t know everything.
“What else would you call this masquerade? You’re a beautiful young woman, yet you dress like a damned grandmother.”
He guided his horse closer, so her chestnut sidled nervously once more. “You act like you’ve never known a man’s touch, yet you come alive in my arms. Who’s been kissing you, Antonia? I’ll swear I’m not the first man who has.”
She feared her face would go up in flames, it was so hot. Somewhere she found the will to fight. So far, he’d had everything his own way. “It was a natural reaction to your tawdry skills.”
He laughed softly. “Oh, cruel.”
“I want you to go back to London.” She knew she wasted her time. She’d told him to go away before and it hadn’t done her a morsel of good.
“If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.” His tone turned silky. “I must say your charge is considerably nicer to me than you are. She positively glowed when she saw me yesterday. A man has his vanity. Perhaps I’m better devoting my attentions to Miss Demarest than her duenna.”
Her hands bunched on the reins, causing the horse to shift again. “Don’t threaten me, Ranelaw.”
He still smiled lazily at her. “Or you’ll what? Biff me with the poker again?”
“Not if I’ve got a pistol handy.”
His lids lowered so his dark lashes shadowed his cheekbones. “You know, for another kiss, the risk might be worth it.”
“Touch me again and I’ll kill you,” she said in a low, throbbing voice. She was angry at him and angry at herself that no matter how she tried, she couldn’t wean herself of this perilous weakness for him.
Devil take him, he laughed once more. “Just how do you intend to fulfill that threat, my sweet? I don’t recall you fighting too hard last time.”
To her bitter shame, he spoke the truth. She could see he awaited some coy denial that only confirmed her susceptibility. Well, he’d wait until Hades froze over.
“You’re spoiling my morning, Lord Ranelaw,” she said coldly, and spurred her horse into a bounding gallop along the path. She bent low over her mount’s neck and let the wind whip away her scalding tears.
Chapter Seven
His hunting instincts alert, Ranelaw watched Miss Smith career headlong through the trees. The surprisingly expensive and diabolically becoming riding habit fitted more closely than her usual clothing. He had no trouble discerning the magnificent body his hands had explored—too briefly—during those turbulent moments last week.
Since that revelatory evening in her bedroom, she’d gathered her defenses. Perhaps he should have fucked her. She wouldn’t be so insolent then.
He mightn’t be quite so frustrated either.
She’d left him wanting her, and somehow wanting her made every other woman unappealing. They all seemed absurdly . . . uncomplicated and docile.
Whereas with each meeting, Miss Smith proved more interesting. Who would guess the dowdy chaperone was a spectacular horsewoman? The chestnut was temperamental, yet she controlled the animal with hardly a thought, and she’d galloped away as sure in the saddle as a young Amazon.
He should let the baggage go. He’d made his point, asserted his advantage, confirmed the fragility of her barriers against him. Strategy insisted he leave her to stew on his intentions. Strategy insisted he return to Pelham Place and further last night’s progress with the Demarest chit. She’d been considerably more forthcoming than in London. If he pressed his interest, he’d have her on her back before she left Surrey. Perhaps even by week’s end.
By riding helter-skelter into the thick woodland, Miss Smith left her chick unprotected. This was exactly the moment to pursue Cassandra Demarest.
Thick woodland. . .
His revenge must wait. He mightn’t get another chance to corner the intriguing Antonia away from prying eyes.
With a heady surge of anticipation, he spurred his horse into a gallop.
Ranelaw easily caught up with Miss Smith. His horse was bigger and swifter and he wasn’t riding sidesaddle.
She shot him a glance like blue lightning from under her stylish beaver hat and urged her mount to a faster pace. As they thundered into a clearing, he lunged over to grab her horse’s bridle and drag the beast to a heaving stop. He wanted to seduce Antonia but he had no intention of chasing her to Timbuctoo for the privilege. He spoke softly to her horse, calming it. With animals and women, he always had a magical touch. Although so far, this particular woman resisted his fabled charm.
Most of the time. . .