After the Kiss (12 page)

“Don’t thank me yet. And you don’t need to use my full blasted name. Meet me outside in five minutes.”

He stumbled off, calling for Alders and coffee, while she went back to pacing. She’d already dressed for going out-of-doors, so all she could do was wait. And the longer she waited, the more anxious she became.

If something had happened to Sullivan Waring, everyone would probably say he deserved it. He broke into people’s homes, after all. He was the blasted Mayfair Marauder. Keeping his secret was one thing, but now he’d gone too far. What was she supposed to do?

As for her worry, she could tell herself it was just a natural concern for a fellow human being. Yes, that was it. As soon as she saw the stableboys moving the pair of bays into position at the front of the curricle, she snatched up her wrap and hurried for the door.

“My lady, shall I tell Lord and Lady Darshear how long you and Lord Douglas will be gone?” the butler called after her.

“I’m not certain, but it won’t be long.”

She didn’t wait for a reply. Outside, Phipps handed her up beside Douglas, and her brother clucked to the team.

“Thank you for not complaining that this would have been faster on horseback,” she said after a moment, mostly to take her mind off the fact that they were traveling quite swiftly through some rather crowded streets.

“Horseback ain’t an option,” Douglas returned shortly, then whistled at a rag-and-bone man to get his cart out of the way. “And I suppose I needed to come downstairs in the next two or three hours, anyway.”

“Very funny. You’re the one panting after Mr. Waring. I expected you to be awake and waiting for him.”

“You’re anxious enough for both of us.” Douglas glanced at her as he maneuvered through the crowds. “And you’d best stop it.”

“Stop what? Being concerned that someone with whom I’m acquainted might be injured?”

“He ain’t a servant or anything, but he ain’t exactly someone you should be mooning after, either.”

Isabel clubbed him on the shoulder.

“Ow! I’m driving, damn it all!”

“For your information, Douglas,” she said stiffly, refusing to consider anything but her precise words, “I am not mooning after Mr. Waring. He’s a horse breeder. Just because we’ve kissed a few times doesn’t mean—”

“‘
A few times’?
” he repeated. “You said he kissed you once, so he could escape!”

Dash it all
. “Oh, what does it matter?” she retorted. Hopefully volume and violence would overcome logic. “He’s…he’s rather like a…a friend. Aren’t you worried about him?”

“Maybe. A little. I told him to stop his thieving before he put us all into something sticky.”

“You did?”

“I did. And you didn’t need to hit me.”

“Oh, heavens, Douglas. You have so much padding on your shoulders you probably didn’t even feel it.”

He stiffened. “I’ll have you know that this is all the fashion. I’d wager that Tilden pads his shoulders.”

She had no idea whether he did or not. Sullivan didn’t. “How much farther? Where does he live, anyway?”

“He’s got a huge stable, and about three acres. Another mile or so.”

So he’d been riding three miles twice each day to train
Zephyr. That seemed significant, whether he’d been paid to do the work or not. Of course, she’d blackmailed him into it, but from what she’d seen he didn’t seem to do much that he didn’t truly wish to.

And at this moment,
she
truly wished that no one had shot him last night. She wished that very much.

Sullivan winced as he pulled on his boots. The bandage around his thigh held this time, but it was going to play havoc with any riding he did today. And he would be doing a great deal of that, naturally. And that would be after he explained his tardiness to Lady Isabel, though he actually looked forward to that—which was why he’d declined to send one of his men over with a note when he’d realized he would be late.

Hm
. Him, looking forward to a dressing down by an aristocrat. Things had changed over the past few weeks. But it wasn’t necessarily the dressing down he looked forward to; it was seeing her again. She’d been nervous yesterday when he’d suggested that she attempt to ride a more mature horse before she mounted Zephyr, but her reluctance made sense. As did teaching her to ride on a more experienced, sedate
animal. Teaching
her
wasn’t strictly a part of their agreement, but nothing much was, now.

Of course, if it were up to him, he would still be practicing the trot and walk with the mare, and Zephyr would be nowhere close to ridable. Even Isabel’s younger brother had realized that Zephyr’s progress had been…methodical. That was the word Sullivan had used to explain it to Douglas, anyway. Admitting that he’d been stalling in order to have more days with Isabel—that could be fatal to both their reputations.

He limped downstairs to see whether the water he’d hung over the fire had begun boiling yet. Unused as he was to rising so late, he knew a hot cup of American coffee might not help his leg mend more quickly, but it would soothe his temper. His housekeeper, Mrs. Howard, would be in at any moment, and he preferred to have himself and his limp gone by the time she arrived for the day.

Someone rapped on his door. “Mr. Waring? It’s Halliwell.”

“Come in,” he called, nearly burning his finger as he poured the water into a pot. Perhaps he should have waited for Mrs. Howard after all.

“You have a customer, sir. He wanted to know if he could meet you in here.”

Damnation. He was already going to be nearly an hour late to Chalsey House. But he wasn’t nearly well off enough to pass up on meeting a customer. “Send him in, Halliwell. And make certain Achilles is saddled, will you? And Molly, with a sidesaddle.” Molly was a companion mare for his sick or nervous animals—the steadiest, calmest animal he owned. She would be a good first ride for Isabel.

“I’ll see to it.” Halliwell stepped back from the doorway
and motioned whoever stood behind him to enter. “This way, my lord.”

Despite being shot at last evening, Sullivan had begun feeling a bit more charitable toward his supposed betters. They could all thank Isabel Chalsey for more reasonable prices from his stable, though none of them could ever know that. He turned around. “Good morning, my—” His blood froze. “Get out of my home.”

George Sullivan, the Marquis of Dunston, closed the door with the tip of his walking stick. He was probably worried over catching a commoner’s infection if he touched anything. He’d be lucky if he didn’t catch a commoner’s knife blade in his gut. “I’m interested in one of your hunters,” the marquis said, taking off his hat but keeping hold of it and his stick.

“I’m bloody well not selling you anything, and I’m not playing any of your bloody games. Now get out before I toss you out on your damned arse.”

“I only ask that we have a civil discussion, Mr. Waring.”

“Mr…. it’s just the two of us here. Why bother with the pretense?”

Sullivan was surprised that his voice sounded steady. Every muscle clenched, and he held himself still to keep from striking the man—the only man in London who refused to admit that Sullivan Waring was his son. It had been nearly six months since they’d last seen one another, and while he would have liked to say that the old man looked older, or at least remorseful that he’d stolen his own son’s inheritance, Dunston looked as fit and arrogant as he always had.

The marquis didn’t respond, so Sullivan took a reluctant step closer to him. “Get out of my house. I’m not going to say it again.”

“I’m not here for banter, Mr. Waring,” the marquis said in
a low voice, still not moving, and still looking ready for a confrontation.

Sullivan glared at him. Over the years he’d set eyes on the marquis a handful of times, mostly when Sullivan had still lived with his mother and well before he’d decided to fight on the Peninsula. George Sullivan had been a handsome man, though the years had now rounded his gut, and constant disapproval or fear of it had pinched his cheeks and narrowed and shortened his mouth.

“You will stop this thievery at once,” Dunston went on. “I heard that Levonzy shot at you last evening. There’s no logic in risking your life for this…nonsense.”

“Nonsense, is it?” Sullivan returned, resuming the task of making himself some coffee mainly because it enabled him to turn his back on the marquis.

“Yes. It’s absolute nonsense.”

“Not to me, you high-handed arrogant snake. Your kettle is blacker than mine, Marquis.”

As Sullivan faced Dunston again, the marquis’ fair skin had paled even further. “How dare you? You, a bastard horse breeder, calling me—”

“
You
made me a bastard,” Sullivan broke in. “That was none of my doing.”

“This idiotic thievery
is
your doing. And you will cease it at once.”

“I could debate over whose doing it is, since you robbed me while I was fighting in Spain to preserve the kingdom, but I’m more interested in what you think you can possibly do to stop me from reclaiming what’s mine.” He took a sip of the coffee. It was too hot, and too strong, but he scarely noticed. “Have me arrested, Dunston. Please. I’ll shout from the prison towers about how you’ve taken from me, and driven me to a life of crime. Papa.”

Dunston clutched his walking stick so hard his knuckles showed white. “You go too far, boy. Your mother granted my family name no favors when she gave it to you. As if she expected me to give it to you.”

Sullivan narrowed his eyes, his own temper closer to breaking than it had been since he’d first returned to England to find his mother’s cottage ransacked and his so-called father bestowing the artworks on his friends and acquaintances. “My guess would be that she didn’t expect you to give me anything; she merely wanted to remind you of your hypocrisy and failed responsibility.”

“You were a mistake. And I will not compromise my family’s standing because your mother decided to name her bastard after me in hopes that I would, what, raise you as my own? Grant you lands? Make you my heir? It’s ridiculous.”

“Tell yourself whatever enables you to sleep at night,” Sullivan shot back. “Just do it elsewhere.”

“First give me your word that you’ll stop thieving. And that you’ll stop hanging about Chalsey House and bothering my son.”

“So Oliver tattled on me, did he?” Sullivan forced a smile, wondering if Dunston realized how close he was to getting hot coffee thrown in his face. “The family hired me. Unlike some, I fulfill my obligations.”

“Then promise me that you won’t try to embarrass my son or my name by bandying about your theory of your parentage. Or by disrupting the lives of my peers, my friends, with your housebreaking.”

Sullivan stalked past Dunston to the front door. “Surely Lord Tilden can fend for himself against a bastard horse breeder,” he retorted. Of course, the marquis hadn’t warned him to stay clear of Isabel; it was ridiculous to consider that
he might make a play for her in the first place, with or without noble competition.

“I don’t want to hear the talk. I get enough of the stupidity every time you sell someone a damned horse. I have no idea why your mother didn’t drown you at birth.”

“So I could make your life as miserable as possible right now, I suppose.” He yanked open the door. “I’ll be happy to put a boot to your arse, Marquis.”

“Bah. Keep clear of me and mine, Waring. Mind your damned place before someone does shoot you. I won’t be claiming the corpse for burial.” With a last sniff and a disdainful glare, George Sullivan turned on his heel and left.

Sullivan slammed the door. The satisfying thud reverberated through the house. The soft sound that directly followed it, though, stopped him cold. He whipped around.

Isabel Chalsey stood in the front room doorway, one hand over her mouth and the other over her heart. “Hello, poppet,” he murmured, the heat in his chest traveling downward. “You’ve strayed a bit, haven’t you?”

“I heard a rumor that a thief was shot last night,” she said, her voice breathy. Worry or uncertainty, he wasn’t certain, but he liked the sound.

“You were worried about me?” He left the front door to approach her.

“You were late arriving. The—”

He grabbed her shoulders, pressing her back against the doorframe, and lowered his mouth over hers. Since they’d met he’d made excuses for being around her, for kissing her. Now, though, he had to admit what he couldn’t even conceal—he wanted her. Badly.

Her fingers tangled into his shirt, pulling him closer as she kissed him back hungrily. She sighed against his mouth,
her tongue flicking against his, then pushed him back. “We’re not alone,” she managed shakily.

Sullivan took a step backward just as another form came up the hallway behind them. “Sprout,” he grunted, nodding at Douglas Chalsey, then turned his back and strode again into the front room. All the boy needed to do was get a look at the present cut of the jib in his trousers, and the fight would be on.

“You ain’t dead, eh?” Douglas commented. “Saw Dunston’s carriage in the yard, so we went around back.”

With a stiff nod, Sullivan went to grab his coat and pull it on. Of course Isabel wouldn’t have come alone; she didn’t even ride. He should have realized.
Idiot
. “Apologies for being late. It won’t happen again.”

“You are wounded,” Isabel announced.

As Sullivan faced the two Chalseys again, Tibby’s brown eyes were gazing at him critically, her expression halfway between dazed and worried. “I caught a splinter,” he said. A seven-inch splinter buried halfway into his left thigh, but he’d spare them the details. “Let’s be off, shall we?”

“Douglas, would you bring the curricle around to the front?” Isabel asked, her gaze still on Sullivan.

“But I just—”

“Give us a moment, sprout,” Sullivan cut in.

“Well, you might have just said that to begin with,” Douglas grumbled, turning back down the short hallway again.

“Do you often call on your employees at their homes when they’re”—he glanced at the small clock on the mantel—“fifty-two minutes late?”

“I warned you to cease your…nefarious activities, Mr. Waring.”

“And I told you that I wouldn’t. I suggest, therefore, that you have me arrested. Because I’m informing you that I will do it again.”

She gazed at him. “And I do understand why. But—”

“You understand,” he repeated. “You.”

“Yes, me. I overheard your conversation with Lord Dunston,” she said. “Part of it, anyway.”

Damnation
. “Then we can add eavesdropping to your list of accomplishments. And housebreaking. You’re steadily becoming…me, I suppose.”

She cocked her head at him. “I wasn’t planning on a robbery. I thought you’d been hurt. I was…I was worried.”

He held himself still. “What makes you think it was me who burgled Levonzy’s home, anyway? His son is my closest friend. It would mean I had no positive qualities at all.”

“A painting was taken.” She took a breath. “Of course I know it was you. I don’t understand why you feel the need to dissemble with me. I certainly know enough to cause you harm even without this latest expedition of yours.”

That was true enough. Slowly Sullivan nodded. “He missed me. Except for the splinter when he blew apart an elm tree.”

“Do you need a physician? I can—”

“I’ve been wounded much worse than this,” he interrupted. “It’s no matter.” Aware that her brother could stomp back in at any moment, he took a step closer to her again. “I appreciate that you came all this way just to make certain I wasn’t dead.”

“I do have twenty pounds invested in you.”

“Now who’s dissembling?”

Isabel took a glance about the small room. “Why don’t you speak like a horse breeder?”

“Because I was raised to be a gentleman. Tutors, school, and of course Continental travel on Bonaparte’s heels.”

“Did your mother expect that Lord Dunston would acknowledge you?”

Obviously she
hadn’t
heard all of the conversation he’d had with Dunston. If he hadn’t wanted to kiss her again, he would have been considerably less willing to answer. “He made it very clear from the beginning that he would never acknowledge me,” he said quietly. “She wanted me to have the education to do whatever I wished. I’m the one who had no desire to be a parson or a solicitor or bookkeeper.”

“No, I can’t imagine you being sedentary,” she returned thoughtfully. “And I can tell that you enjoy what you’re doing now. And you are quite good at it.”

“Thank you, not that I need your approval.”

She frowned, her fine eyebrows lowering. “You may know about horses, but it’s becoming obvious that I confound you.”

He took another step closer, near enough to touch her, to kiss her, again. Then what she’d said dawned on him. “Beg pardon?”

“You kiss me, and then you insult me. You have no idea what you want, do you?”

He grabbed her upper arms again, tugging her up against him. “I know quite well what I want, Isabel. Just be glad that I haven’t taken it, so far.”

She looked up at his face, meeting his gaze squarely. “You still don’t frighten me.”

“I’m not trying to frighten you,” he whispered. “I’m trying to warn you.”

“Because you’re not a gentleman?”

Sullivan shook his head. He wanted her so badly he could taste it. “Not in the least. And I’m happy not to be one.”

“I’m beginning to think that’s what I like about you.”

While he stood as still as he could with her so close to
him, she ran her hands up his shoulders and into his hair. Then she pulled his face down to hers and pressed her lips softly against his.

With a moan he deepened their embrace, lifting her in his arms so their faces were level. His heart pounded against his ribs, and he swore he could feel her fast pulse beneath his fingers. God, this was dangerous, for both of them. Maybe that was part of why being with her was so intoxicating. But even without the difference in their stations she would have mesmerized him. Sweet and cynical, strong and timid, witty and naive, all at the same time.