After the Kiss (15 page)

Isabel blanched. “That’s nonsense!” For a long moment she stared at Barbara while she tried to pull her scattered, half-panicked thoughts together. “No one will believe her,” she finally said. “I have a great many friends here tonight. They’ll know that I wouldn’t do such a thing.”

“Tibby…”

Barbara’s look reflected everything that Isabel was already thinking. Rumors. All she could do to defend herself was deny them, and that only brought them more credence. Ignoring them was equally useless. But at least that way had a little dignity to it. And she did have friends. She knew she did. Barbara was a friend, and she didn’t believe the rumors. There had to be others. She’d grown up with these people. And for heaven’s sake, as long as her virtue remained intact, who the devil had a right to care if she had become friends with a horse breeder?

“Let’s go back inside,” she decided.

“But—”

“It’s just Eloise, spreading a nasty rumor. I have as much chance of being believed as she does. And I have truth on my side.” And hopefully enough resolve to refrain from doing physical injury to her former friend.

“Very well,” Barbara said with clear reluctance. “Unless you think you might prefer just to return home and wait for something else to distract everyone’s attention.”

That was probably a very wise idea. But the thought of running was supremely distasteful. All right, so she’d kissed him, and so she wanted to kiss him several more times—that was not why the rumors were flying. What Eloise had seen had been innocent. Relatively.

Before they left the alcove, she hugged her friend. “Thank you for telling me.”

“Yes, well, I only hope I’m wrong about how busy Eloise has been.”

As soon as they reentered the main room, Isabel knew that Barbara hadn’t been wrong. Eloise had been very busy, indeed. Everyone seemed to be looking at her, and not in the usual friendly, smiling way they generally did.
Oh, dear
. She needed to inform her parents and Phillip before someone else did.

She found them by the dessert table, her father talking with her brother, and her mother looking a bit…bewildered. “Mama,” she said, taking the marchioness’s hand.

“Tibby, there you are. So who’s filled your dance card tonight?”

“No one. That’s—”

“Oh, please. Don’t jest ab—”

“Mama, listen to me.” Isabel motioned her family closer, and told them what Barbara had told her. By the time she finished her brief dissertation, her mother’s face had paled, while Phillip and her father both looked ready to throttle someone.

“This is ridiculous,” Phillip snarled.

“So far I haven’t heard anything,” the marchioness said a little shakily. “Perhaps you exaggerate, Barbara.”

To her credit, Barbara still stood close by them, though her pleasant smile looked more and more strained. “I think you would be the last people to hear. That’s the way rumors work, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is,” Phillip said grimly. Then his expression eased, and he held out his hand. “Lady Barbara, if you’re not spoken for, may I have the next dance?”

This time Barbara blushed. “Of course you may.”

Phillip glanced at Isabel. “And I want the dance after that with you. Save it for me.”

She smiled, grateful. “I don’t think that’ll be a problem, but it’s yours.”

While Phillip and Barbara headed for the crowded dance floor, Isabel marked her dance card, putting Phillip’s name beside the country dance which would take place next. Otherwise, the card was empty. Empty. At the Fordham ball. A low shiver ran through her.

“This is ridiculous,” Lord Darshear hissed. “Where is Eloise’s family? I’m going to have a word with her father.”

“Lord Rampling never attends these events,” Isabel contributed. Of course she knew that; until today she and Eloise had been friends. Good friends. Or so she’d thought.

“What about her mother? Where’s Lady Rampling?” her mother put in, her own expression going grimmer as every moment passed without a single gentleman approaching them. “I have a few things I’d like to say to Martha.”

Isabel shook her head. “This is just silliness. Don’t make it any worse than it is, Mama. I’ll go find Eloise and tell her to stop it.”

It took several minutes to convince her parents to stay where they were and not begin an all-out attack on every gossip in the house, but finally she slipped away and went looking for Eloise Rampling. She found her friend surrounded by other young people, and squared her shoulders.

“Eloise?”

The petite brunette jumped. “Oh, Tibby. I thought you
might have decided not to attend tonight, so you could spend the time with your stableboy.”

A low snicker of laughter sounded around them. It took every ounce of control Isabel possessed to keep from bloodying her friend’s pert upturned nose. “I’m sorry, Eloise,” she said slowly, racing to keep her mind ahead of the pace of her words, “but are you talking about when I tripped in the stable yard today and Mr. Sullivan Waring kept me from falling on my face in the mud? I suppose that might sound romantic, but actually I was just grateful not to have ruined my gown.”

That garnered a few more chuckles, less nasty this time. Was this how it was for Sullivan, when he had dealings with her kind? If so, she understood now why he didn’t like the aristocracy. She wasn’t fond of them herself at the moment, and she was one of them.

“I heard a rumor,” a low voice drawled behind her, and she stiffened. Keeping her expression light and easy, she turned around. And blinked.

“Lord Bramwell?”

The tall, black-haired, black-clothed duke’s son sketched a lazy, elegant bow. “Someone told me that Lady Isabel Chalsey is the finest, most elegant dancer in attendance tonight. Would you care to oblige my curiosity?” He held out his hand to her.

“Now?”

He glanced over his shoulder at the exuberant crowd of dancers. “I have to test your mettle before I commit to requesting a waltz.”

The notorious Lord Bramwell Lowry Johns seemed to be performing a rescue. Dipping in a curtsy and doing everything she could to keep the gratitude and relief from showing on her face, she clasped his fingers. “You are very wise, my
lord,” she said aloud as they walked over to join the other dancers.

“So I keep telling everyone.”

“And you have quite excellent instincts,” she observed, timing her comments to the moments when the dance brought them together.

“Yes, well, an angry little birdie mentioned that you might be in need of an ally tonight.”

She turned and nearly missed a step. Sullivan had arranged this? She wished she dared ask that question aloud, but being overheard speaking about him certainly wouldn’t improve matters for her, or for him. But he’d thought of her, and he’d sent help. Unlikely help, but help indeed.

“It’s still very nice of you,” she said as they joined hands and circled again.

Lord Bramwell gave her a dark smile that unsettled her a little. “I’m not the least bit nice. I enjoy having people owe me favors. Now you owe me one.”

“I—”

“And I’m about to make it two favors. Stay away from the angry bird, Isabel. He’s on a path with no safe haven in sight. And you don’t want to be there when pheasant season begins.”

A shiver ran through her again. “Have you told him that?”

“He knew when he began this that it wouldn’t end well.”

“What if…” She hesitated. Why in the world should she trust this man? Even as she asked the question of herself, though, she knew the answer. She trusted him because Sullivan trusted him. “What if I can convince him to leave this path?”

Eyes black as pitch assessed her. “Someone is going to
lose,” he said finally, joining in the applause as the dance ended. Then he placed her hand over his arm while they looked for her parents. “Stand close to him, and it will very likely be you.”

“Where will you stand?”

He shrugged. “I’m a shifty, self-serving sort of fellow. I suppose it depends where the greatest benefit to me lies.”

As he smiled and handed her off, Isabel didn’t know whether she believed him about that or not. He did have a very changeable reputation. But he’d made an appearance, and he’d helped her tonight. As for—

“Isabel, there you are,” Oliver said, nodding at her parents as he reached her side. “I hope I haven’t arrived too late to secure a place on your dance card.”

Hm
. Perhaps now that Lord Bramwell had smiled on her, everything wasn’t as lost as she’d begun to fear. “You may have your pick, Oliver.”

“Then I choose the first waltz.”

“It’s yours.”

Phillip returned to claim her for the next dance, and she did finally end with an adequate complement of partners. It hadn’t been easy, though, and it wasn’t something she looked forward to encountering ever again.

And charming as she tried to be, Lord Bramwell’s words kept running through her mind. Because he’d been very correct about Sullivan. Mr. Waring was headed toward a very bad carriage wreck. And she’d already lived through one of those. She wasn’t certain she could face another.

Sullivan stifled a yawn. He generally enjoyed the early mornings, and particularly those when he attended Tattersall’s horse market, but this morning he would rather have arrived early at Chalsey House. Bram hadn’t bothered to return after the ball to report on Isabel’s reception there, and he’d tossed and turned all night imagining her ruination.

A light fog blended ground with sky, the stables and auction pens gray and gloomy despite the flurry of men and horses around them. He listened for anything interesting, but most of the men about the paddocks at this hour were stableboys and grooms, and even if there was any good
ton
gossip to be had, they probably wouldn’t have it. Not yet, anyway.

One of his sale animals came up behind him in the holding pen to nuzzle his shoulder. “You want an apple already?”
he asked, digging one out of his pocket as he turned around. “Here you go, Ariadne.”

The pretty chestnut mare nickered, taking the fruit from his hand and munching down on it. If people were as easy to decipher as horses, he could have been king by now, he reflected with a short grin, patting Ariadne on the neck.

The shovel handle caught him in the back of the knees, sending him to the ground almost before he realized he’d been struck. Instinctively Sullivan rolled sideways, grabbing the sturdy railing of the pen to help him to his feet again. Four men advanced on him, none of them familiar, and all of them armed with shovels.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said darkly, crouching, the old battle lust stirring his blood. “Apparently we have a disagreement. Care to tell me what it is?”

“You need to learn to keep to your own kind, boy,” the largest of them growled, swinging the shovel at him.

Sullivan blocked it with his forearm, closing in to deliver a hard jab to his attacker’s throat. With a gurgle the fellow dropped. Grabbing the shovel out of the man’s hand, Sullivan swept the second cove’s legs out from under him. A shovel slammed across his back, stunning him. He swung again as he stumbled forward, connecting with someone’s arm. A handle cracked across the side of his head, and he went down into the dirt.

Damnation. Where the devil were his own lads? Rolling over onto his back, he blocked another blow and slammed the head of the shovel into someone’s gut. As he scrambled to his feet, he caught sight of a figure standing at the corner of the stable building. With a grim smile Oliver Sullivan ducked out of sight.

The attack abruptly made sense—though the knowledge didn’t make it any less painful. He struck out again, whip
ping sideways to catch one of them with his elbow. They might be hired ruffians, but he’d been a soldier for four of the past five years. The gouge in his thigh ached, but he ignored it.

They’d obviously come to hurt him, but had they come to kill him? He didn’t think so, or that first blow would have been to the back of his head rather than to his legs. But he didn’t have any promise of money keeping
him
from using lethal force. And ever since he’d returned home he’d been spoiling for a good fight.

A hard fist met his shoulder, and he staggered back a step, throwing another punch in response. This would have been so much more satisfying if Oliver had stayed to fight his own battle. But with his half-brother gone and himself outnumbered four to one—

“Is whatever he’s paying you worth a cracked skull?” he panted.

Two of them grabbed him, shoving him back against the hard wooden railings of the pen. “Depends on whose skull’s being cracked,” the first one rasped, then reared back his fist and punched. Everything went blurry, until another fist connected with his chin. Then the gray morning went black.

He opened his eyes to someone shaking his shoulder. Striking out, his fist connected. The sound of a surprised yelp echoed around the yard.

“Mr. Waring! For God’s sake!”

Sullivan blinked hard. “Damnation, Halliwell, help me up.”

“We chased those brigands away,” his groom said, as he lifted one shoulder and Samuel pulled him up by the other. “For a moment we thought they’d murdered you.”

“No, they just wanted to give me a message.” Gingerly he shook dirt and straw out of his clothes and touched one hand
to his bruised jaw. His skull and ribs hurt, as well, but none of the fellows who’d attacked him would be dancing tonight, either. If he had anyone to tell about the incident, they’d be fairly easy to identify.

“Lord Massey’s back at our wagon, asking after Spartan,” Samuel informed him, retrieving the gloves Sullivan had dropped and returning them.

So a little beating and then back to business. Considering his mood toward Massey’s kind at the moment, the viscount was not going to like how much Spartan was going to cost him. And as for Oliver…

Sullivan clenched his fists. Obviously this was because of Isabel. Walking over to a water barrel, he dunked his head. The cold water shocked away his grogginess, and he stepped back and shook out his hair.

Oliver considered him a threat? A rival? That was interesting, since Isabel and her parents would be foolish to let her dally with a horse breeder, even one of unacknowledged aristocratic lineage, when a viscount was panting after her. Oliver seemed to be worried about something, though. And it wasn’t a business rivalry, for damned certain.

For the moment he pushed back his anger. Riding Tilden down and beating him might give him some satisfaction, but it would also end with him in shackles. It was too soon for that, since he still had three paintings left to reclaim, three more opportunities to dig at Dunston’s hypocrisy.

Even with that in mind, he couldn’t help thinking about Isabel. He knew she liked him; from the moment she’d begun ordering him about he’d known that. But did she like him enough to threaten Oliver’s pursuit of her? Apparently so.

“Mr. Waring?”

He blinked. “Yes. I’ll go see to Massey. Halliwell, you have the papers for the other three animals?”

“I do, sir.”

“Good. After I sell Spartan I’ll need to go see to Zephyr’s morning training. Take Hector out when you return and run him. He’s to go off to Lord Esquille’s tomorrow, and I don’t want him trampling Esquille’s mares when he’s supposed to feel romantic.”

“Yes, sir. Do you want an escort?”

“What?” He noted Halliwell’s look, and touched the bruise on his chin. “No. They did what they came to do. They won’t be back.” At least not until he did something else about which Oliver could disapprove.

“I have to say, Phillip, I wasn’t terribly enthusiastic to have Lord Bramwell Johns here as one of your dinner guests last month, but perhaps I’ve underestimated his character.” Lady Darshear deftly changed the thread color of her embroidery and continued sewing. “If he hadn’t danced with Tibby last night, she might have had a difficult evening. We all might have.”

“It’s all frip and folly anyway,” Douglas put in, setting aside the book on horse breeding he’d found after Isabel had set it aside. “How can people be angry that we hired Sullivan Waring? Everyone wants to hire Waring.”

Isabel gave an indignant snort—or at least she hoped it sounded more indignant than panicked. “They’re not angry. They think they’ve found some good gossip, that I’m mooning over Waring or something, simply because I hugged him after he helped me ride a horse.”

“You should have been more careful, Tibby,” Phillip commented. “Especially with Oliver Sullivan hanging about.”

“You were happy as a kitten with twine when I hired Mr. Waring,” Isabel shot back, “and
you
were the one who knew of his connection to Oliver.”

“There is no connection, officially.”

“Don’t tangle the circumstances any more than they already are, Phillip. Sullivan
is
Dunston’s son, whatever anyone’s willing to say about it publicly.” Seeing the look her parents sent one another, Isabel swallowed. “So the entire thing’s just ridiculous. And I’m certain it won’t be more than a day before someone else does something more scandalous than thank someone for their help, and everyone will forget my…whatever it is we’re calling it. Act of gratitude, I suppose.”

“You do have a point,” her father noted. “But please be cautious. There’s no sense in giving even a rumor teeth.”

“People are still stupid.”

“As a whole, I tend to agree,” the marquis returned. “And for your own sake, my sweet one, pray keep that in mind.”

“Oh, I will.”

She would definitely keep it in mind. Whether it changed her actions, though, was another matter entirely. Last evening had been a rather eye-opening experience.

The butler came into the morning room and sketched a bow. “My lord, Mr. Waring is here. You asked to be informed.”

The marquis winced, then pushed to his feet. “So I did. Excuse me a moment, everyone.”

Her heart skipping a beat, Isabel practically leapt to her feet, as well. “What do you want with Mr. Waring?”

His wince deepened into a pained expression. “I want a word with him, Tibby. None of your concern.”

“I paid him to accomplish a task for me,” she pressed, following him as he exited the room. “I expect him to finish it.”

“At the expense of your reputation?”

“I won’t embrace him again,” she said, knowing full well that she was lying. Nothing else seemed to matter where
Sullivan Waring was concerned; nothing but being able to be in his presence. “For heaven’s sake.”

“I know you like to have your way, Isabel,” her father countered, continuing down the hallway, “but I suggest you choose your excitement more wisely. We’ll find someone else to finish Zephyr’s training.”

“You said Sullivan Waring was the best.”

“The best is not worth another night like the last one. You were devastated.”

“I was not devastated. I was angry. I’m
still
angry. I thought better of Eloise. And everyone else who whispered about me. Ridiculous. All of them.”

“You say that now, but I doubt you’ll feel the same if no one comes to your rescue next time.”

She wasn’t so certain about that. There were worse things she could imagine, and this was one of them. Her fingers shaking, something like panic tightening her chest, Isabel reached out to put a hand on her father’s shoulder. “I am nearly twenty years old, Papa,” she said, her voice mostly steady, “and I am perfectly capable of working with Mr. Waring.”

“Isa—”

“Leave it be, Papa,” she insisted. “I’ll take care of it.”

For a long moment he looked at her, the deep brown eyes beneath his straight brows serious. “Then do so, Tibby. Because of who he is, people notice him. And because of who he isn’t, you need to watch your step in his presence. Even more carefully now. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I do. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another riding lesson this morning.”

Her father obviously thought that was a very bad idea, and the logical part of her agreed. The other part, the one that had apparently taken control of her actions over the past
several weeks, was hard-pressed not to run out to the stable yard. When had this happened? And why couldn’t she seem to listen to sense, even from herself?

Assuming a civilized walk and smoothing her skirts, she left the house. The stable yard was filled with its usual quotient of horses and grooms, but at first glance she didn’t see Sullivan. Not at second glance, either.

“Phipps,” she said, spying the head groom, “I thought Mr. Waring had arrived.”

“He’s in the stable, my lady.” A muscle in his cheek jumped. “You might want to give him a bit of distance this morning.”

“Why is that?”

“I—I couldn’t say, my lady.”

“Then I shall go see for myself.” Drawing her abrupt sense of uneasiness back in around her, Isabel trudged over the soft ground and into the building. She paused in the doorway, then saw his head and shoulders inside Zephyr’s stall. “I see you managed to be prompt this morning, Mr. Waring,” she said, continuing forward and unable to help the grin that touched her mouth.

Sullivan kept his back turned as he fastened a bridle over Zephyr’s harness, and then a lead line to that. “I try to please, Lady Isabel. How was your party last evening?”

She frowned. “Did Lord Bramwell say something to you?”

“No.”

“Well, I know you asked him to dance with me.”

He shifted, fastening a saddle blanket across Zephyr’s back. “I asked him to keep an eye on you. The dancing was his idea.” He paused. “Bram’s a notorious womanizer, you know.”

“Yes, he’s told me that himself.” Isabel put her hands on the board topping the near wall of the tiny enclosure. “Since
you might hear it elsewhere, I’ll tell you that there were a few uncomfortable moments last evening, but they passed quickly.”

“I’m glad, then.”

She slapped her hand on the wood. “Sullivan Waring, look at me when I’m speaking to you.”

His broad shoulders lifted and fell, and then he turned around. “As you wish.”

Isabel gasped. “What happened?”

One of his sleeves was torn at the elbow, and he’d lost a button off his waistcoat. The damage to his clothes was secondary, though, to what she saw on his face.

Sullivan had a deep red scratch across his throat, and a black and blue bruise crossing part of his mouth and the left side of his chin. His left eye was circled by a painful-looking black bruise, and his brown and golden hair looked as though he’d combed it by dragging his fingers through it.

“What happened?” she repeated, reaching over the stall to touch his chin. His skin felt warm before he ducked backward, away from her fingers.

“I had a disagreement.”

“With what, a bear?”

He grinned briefly, wincing as the movement pulled the bruise over his mouth. “Several of them.” Taking the lead line in one hand, he unlatched the stall door with the other. “Do you want to ride Molly today?”

“Not until you tell me who did this to you.”

“I’ll assume that’s a no, then. Come along, Zephyr.”

Taking a deep breath, Isabel folded her arms across her chest and refused to move out of the way. “Answer me.”

Ice-green eyes met hers, then moved away. “I don’t live among tea-drinking dandies, Tibby,” he finally said. “Don’t trouble yourself about it.”