After the Kiss (18 page)

“You are too lenient, Harry. Indulging Tibby in her high spirits is one thing. Allowing this to continue is not doing her—or us—any favors. Especially when she’s being courted by Oliver Sullivan.”

“I know that, Helen,” he said more sharply. “But stepping in when no intervention is required could set her against us. And then who will she turn to?”

The marchioness frowned. “Very well. But we are all going to keep a very close eye on this. You may admire him, but that doesn’t make him acceptable.”

“I know. Once Tibby’s able to ride, he’ll be gone. And she’ll be able to indulge in something new, and life will go on as it should.”

“I hope you’re correct. But I will not just ignore things until then.”

“Nor will I.”

Isabel rushed into the house to scribble out a note to Barbara Stanley, canceling their luncheon. A few weeks ago the thought that she would favor riding a horse over luncheon and shopping with Barbara would have both amused and frightened her.

But her cancellation today actually had nothing to do with horses at all. It was the fact that she would be spending a part of the day with Sullivan. There would probably be more rumors, but after last night, she couldn’t bring herself to care. Not now. After all, people would carry those blasted tales whether she behaved or not.

“Ready?” he asked, guiding Molly up to the mounting block as Isabel rejoined him in the stable yard.

Of course, riding was actually involved. Squaring her shoulders, she stepped onto the block and held out her hand. “Ready,” she said, grateful that she sounded steadier than she felt.

Sullivan placed her hand on his shoulder, and cupped his own hands for her to step into. Muscles flexed beneath her fingers as he boosted her up into the sidesaddle. For a moment, as she settled herself and looked down at his upturned face, at that stray hair across one green eye, she wanted to lean down and kiss him. And she didn’t care who might see it.

Abruptly he cleared his throat and looked away. “You remember how to hold the reins, yes?”

She took a breath. “Yes.”

He showed her a short line, which he buckled to Molly’s bridle. “I’ll be holding this from beside you, so you’re not going anywhere you don’t want to be.”

Isabel nodded, gathering the reins in her hands as he’d shown her. Beside her Sullivan climbed into the saddle of the massive black Achilles, while beyond him Delvin the groom mounted another of the family’s horses.
Drat
. She supposed she had to have a chaperon, though, even when the ride wasn’t a social occasion.

“Stay well back, Delvin,” Sullivan said on the tail of her thoughts. “Molly’s as calm as they come, but I don’t want anybody galloping up on us unawares.”

Delvin touched his forelock. “Aye, Mr. Waring.”

With an encouraging smile, Sullivan nudged Achilles in the ribs. “Let’s go,” he said. “Tell Molly to walk.”

Trying to keep her hands from shaking, Isabel flicked the reins. “Walk on, girl,” she instructed, making her voice as friendly as she could.

They started off, and she didn’t fall out of the saddle. “Good girl, Molly,” she whispered, patting the mare on the neck.

On his own, Sullivan probably would have been trotting or cantering or standing in the saddle as he rode up the street toward Hyde Park, but she couldn’t believe she was on horseback in the first place. Walking at a very sedate pace was adventure enough. For a moment Mary’s screams echoed in her mind, and her hands tightened on the reins. That couldn’t happen today. Today the horse would do as
she
said. She wouldn’t let it be otherwise. Sullivan wouldn’t allow it to be otherwise.

A milk cart rattled by, and she tensed again. “Watch Molly’s ears if you’re not certain how she’ll react,” Sullivan’s low drawl came from three feet away. “See? She heard my voice, then went back to listening for your commands.”

“Yes.”

“If you catch her listening to something else more than to you, remind her that you’re there.”

Isabel nodded. “I’m being silly, I know.”

“No, you’re not. You’re being very brave.”

“Oh, please.”

The expression on his lean, handsome face remained serious. “I’m not teasing. You have a very good reason for your fear. All I can do is point out the ways you can prevent another accident from happening. You’re the one who’s decided to make the effort of learning.”

She smiled. She couldn’t help it. “Thank you, Sullivan.”

Smiling back softly, he inclined his head. “You’re welcome, Isabel.”

As they stepped onto the Hyde Park trail, she couldn’t help glancing about to see who else might be visiting. Carriages seemed to be everywhere, and without any difficulty she spotted at least a dozen riders she knew by sight, if not by name. And they would all see her riding with Sullivan Waring.

So there would be more rumors. Except that this time
they would all be true. And if Sullivan was caught breaking into another house tonight…Oh, she didn’t want to ruin this moment. In fact, she wanted a thousand more like it. But she couldn’t. “May I ask you a favor?” she began, knowing she was heading straight for disaster.

“What is it?”

“Don’t break into anyone’s home tonight.”

His jaw clenched. “Isabel—”

“You see all those people looking at us?” she broke in. “I don’t mind that they know we’re…friends. I don’t even think I care what rumors they might conjure. But do you know what will happen to you—to me, now—if you’re discovered? Or if you’re hurt?” Her voice caught.

“‘Friends,’” he repeated darkly. “Back to that again, are we?”

Oh, dear
. “Are you going to leave me here if I say yes?”

Lips tightening, he shook his head. “I won’t leave you stranded, regardless.”

“Then yes, I think we are becoming friends. And as a friend, I’m asking you to please stop risking your freedom and your life to—”

“And
your
reputation.”

“Yes, mine, too.”

“Selfish.”

Men and their vendettas
. “
You’re
selfish,” she retorted, warming to the argument. “And you can’t even see it, can you? I had no idea that that painting Oliver gave us actually belonged to someone else. Who are you trying to hurt?”

“No one,” he said stiffly. “I want what’s mine. If I attempted to get it legally, you know I would lose.”

She eyed him. “You’re trying to hurt Lord Dunston. Your father.”

“Do not call him th—”

“And then there’s me,” she pressed, unwilling to begin a fight over how much his father influenced Sullivan’s life, whether he would acknowledge that or not. “Last night has consequences for me, whether you…took precautions or not.”

“You came to me. Don’t blame me for the loss of your virginity, Isabel.”

Her cheeks warmed. “I don’t mean that. For heaven’s sake. You are in my life, Sullivan, and I like having you there. Generally.”

“Ah. I’ll do as I please, then. As will you, I expect.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He jerked on the reins, and Achilles whinnied and stopped. Belatedly she halted Molly, as well, before she reached the end of the short lead line. “I don’t understand why you’re trying to protect Lord Fairchild,” he half growled. “He has something that belongs to me. And he’d be happy as anyone else to spread nasty rumors about you.”

Fairchild? That was his next burglary? “I’m not trying to defend him. I’m saying he may not be aware that he’s done anything wrong. And I’m asking you not to endanger yourself. Besides, you can’t rob him tonight. He and Lady Fairchild are holding a masquerade ball.”

“I’m aware of that. You’re attending, I presume?”

“Sullivan, don’t do this.”

He looked at her for a long moment. “Would you listen to
my
guidance in
your
life? Would you bid Tilden good day and good riddance if I asked you to?”

Oh, goodness. He was jealous
. A thrill ran down her spine. “I—”

“We obviously come from two different places, and have two different lives, Isabel. I want another night with you. More than one. But we don’t belong together. In daylight
you’re my employer. And don’t think I haven’t noticed you looking about to see whether any of your acquaintances have seen us together.” He drew a breath. “I should stay away from you. You make me forget things I should always remember.”

“Sullivan, I don’t care about rumors,” she said, pain stabbing into her heart as she realized that if she couldn’t bring him to his senses she might very well never see him again after today. “I called us friends, and we are.”

“I don’t want to be your friend.” He looked away. “Not just your friend. It’s not enough.”

“But you—”

“You’ll be riding Zephyr by the end of the week. After that, you won’t have need of my ‘friendship’ any longer. That will be safer—better—for both of us.”

He clucked at Achilles, and the horses started off again. And abruptly the most significant event of the day was not that she was riding a horse, but that within a week’s time she would see the last of Sullivan Waring. He was right: Friendship might be part of it, but it wasn’t enough. And she had no idea how it could ever be more. Whether she wanted it to be was an even more complicated question.

The idea of dressing as a butterfly had seemed a brilliant one. In practice, however, Isabel was beginning to realize that the costume had certain flaws. For one thing, the opalescent wings had nearly knocked the glass of Madeira out of her mother’s hand, and now she was faced with Eloise Rampling, who’d dressed as a yellow butterfly.

Personally she preferred the deep blues and purples she’d chosen, and the swirls of makeup in the same color that glittered on her cheeks. Tonight she felt free and exotic, and even with the curious, sly looks she’d been receiving, enough gentlemen seemed taken by her that her dance card was nearly full.

She’d saved an early waltz at Oliver’s request, and she smiled when she saw him in his tiger’s half-mask making his way over through the crowd. “Good evening,” she said. “You look very striking.”

He’d worn black with an orange waistcoat, sleek black leather gloves adding to his rather predatory appearance. It was quite…enticing, actually, and for a moment she felt guilty that she found Sullivan’s half-brother attractive.

He inclined his head and held out his hand for her dance card. “Tilden’s carriage suffered a broken wheel,” Sullivan’s low voice came, “and he won’t be attending until much later.”

She blanched. Thankful that the streaks of color across her face would cover her loss of composure, she gripped Sullivan’s black-clothed arm. “What are you doing?” she whispered fiercely.

“Claiming a waltz,” he said, writing
Tiger
beside the dance and then handing the card back to her. “I see you’ve saved one for me.”

“But—”

He took her hand, squeezing her fingers lightly as he bowed over it. “I wanted to see you somewhere other than the stable. Tell me to leave, and I’ll make myself scarce.”

“How did you know Oliver would be dressed as a tiger?”

Sullivan gave a short smile. “I have my sources.”

“Have you…retrieved anything yet?”

“Not yet. Later.”

He meant to dance with her and then go steal a painting. Being caught out at either activity could be deadly, and so she would never admit to him that she felt just the slightest bit excited by it all. “Are you trying to be discovered?” she asked instead.

“Not tonight.”

“Oliver,” her brother said, coming forward to shake his hand. “I should have opted for a more dangerous beast, I think.”

“Nonsense, Phillip,” Isabel put in, so Sullivan wouldn’t
have to do more than smile beneath the half-mask, “a stag is very majestic.”

“The antlers are blasted heavy. I’ll grant you that.”

The music for the waltz began, and Sullivan held out his gloved hand to her. “Excuse us, Phillip,” Isabel said, and clasped the waiting fingers.

They walked over to the large, crowded dance floor, and Sullivan slid an arm around her waist. She was just about to ask him whether he actually knew how to waltz when he swung her gracefully into the dance.

Oh, yes, he could waltz. He moved like a natural athlete, with the same easy grace he showed in the stable yard. From behind the orange and black half-mask, pale green eyes glittered at her.

“You are insane,” she whispered. “Completely mad.”

“As you know, I’m fairly comfortable with wearing a mask.”

“You’re surrounded by dozens of the people you’ve stolen from. What if I decide to turn you in?”

“That won’t happen, poppet,” he returned.

“And how do you know that?”

“Because you’re a bit mad, yourself. You are dancing with a horse breeder.” He gave his brief smile. “Should I dance with anyone else this evening?”

“I think that could be exceedingly dangerous.” Besides, she didn’t want him dancing with any other ladies. He’d come to dance with her.

“You had no trouble finding partners for this evening?” Sullivan asked. “Your dance card looked full.”

“Nearly so. But my dance card is my concern. Not yours.”

“I could dispute that, but this waltz is too brief, as it is.”

He drew her subtly closer. All she would have to do was
lean up just a little, and she could kiss him. Everyone would think it was Oliver, so Sullivan would be safe, but she would still be ruined. She sighed.

“Penny for your thoughts, Tibby,” Sullivan murmured.

“I was just thinking that I’d like to kiss you right now.”

Sullivan lost a step, and they nearly stumbled. “Lucifer, Tibby.”

She grinned. It felt powerful, to know that she could unsettle this man. Heaven knew he unsettled her, but in a way she was very much coming to enjoy. “What if my dance card had been empty?”

“I would have danced with you.”

“And what if it had been full?”

“I would have clubbed someone over the head and danced with you.”

He smiled as he spoke, but considering some of his previous actions, he might very well be serious. As they swayed and turned to the music, she let herself sink into his embrace, following his sure steps and guided by his strong arms. Dancing with him was magnificent. For a moment she allowed herself to pretend that he wasn’t there in secret, that he’d been invited. She would love to dance every dance with him. And if he’d asked to call on her, she would have said yes in an instant.

When she finally glanced away from him, a great many of the other guests were watching. It might have been because they made a striking couple, or it could have been the ridiculous smile she wore because she couldn’t help herself. Either way, two things were very clear: She liked Sullivan Waring very much, and he needed to make an exit before Oliver arrived.

As the dance ended, far too soon, he joined in the applause and then took her hand in his. “I need to go,” he murmured, running his gloved thumb along her palm. “If anyone
aside from Tilden realizes something is amiss, claim ignorance. As far as you know, I’m him.”

She nodded, and with another smile he vanished into the crowd. He needn’t be so concerned about her reputation; aside from that very first kiss, she’d gotten herself into this. And tonight she could have declined to dance with him. She’d wanted to dance with him.

“I say, Lady Butterfly,” a stout boar’s head said, approaching, “I believe this quadrille is mine.”

Isabel held out her hand. “Of course, Mr. Henning. Or Master Boar, rather.”

Francis Henning snorted. “It was only after I arrived here that I realized everyone calling me a boar wasn’t trying to insult me. You know, a boar, or a bore.”

She forced a laugh, hoping she sounded as though she appreciated the rather…silly attempt at humor. At least he wanted to dance. “Then, to avoid trouble, I’ll call you Mr. Henning.”

As the dance began, she glanced about for Sullivan again, but he was gone. He’d begun their acquaintance as a mystery. Unlike any other mystery that had caught her attention, however, the more she discovered about him, the more interesting he became. And the fact that he’d come by tonight to steal a painting seemed secondary. Because he’d also come to dance with her.

Sullivan placed his latest acquisition—reacquisition, rather—on the wall in the small, concealed back room of his cottage. Twelve recovered paintings. Two to go. And then he supposed he could stop, though it seemed a shame to do so when every burglary served as another jab to Dunston’s well-fed gut.

He lifted the lantern, the only light in the room. He’d told
Tibby not to trouble herself over him, and as far as he knew no one in Fairchild House had had the slightest clue that he’d visited them tonight—and right in the middle of a bloody soiree. They would discover the theft in the morning, and whether they blamed it on one of their invited guests or not, shortly thereafter Dunston would hear about it, as well. And he would know who the real culprit happened to be. Good. Threats and beatings, and still he did exactly as he pleased.

Before he left the room he emptied his pockets of the silver card salver, the engraved pocket watch, and the pair of ivory-handled dueling pistols he’d liberated along with the Francesca Waring Perris painting. The trinkets joined the dozens of others he’d acquired, because while he wanted Dunston to know who was behind the thefts, Sullivan preferred that Bow Street did not.

Slinging his coat over his shoulder, he closed and locked the door behind him. His housekeeper made a fair roast, but he didn’t want Mrs. Howard connecting him with several thousands of quid worth of stolen property.

His bedchamber lay upstairs, but it was barely one o’clock in the morning and he didn’t feel ready for sleep. Instead a restless energy coursed through him, as it often did when he managed to commit a burglary and vanish back into the night unscathed. This time it was worse; he’d danced with Isabel. In front of everyone.

In the past he might have sought out one of Society’s female outcasts to keep him company for the remainder of the night. Street whores were too pitiful and desperate to tempt him. But the chits who’d known better, who’d reached too high and fallen, or made the wrong choice in male companionship, those who knew what they were getting into—them he could appreciate.

Tonight, however, he didn’t want some random woman; he wanted Isabel. And at the same time he worried that he would be responsible for making her into one of the fashionable fallen. Tonight had been risky enough. Did he dare make it worse? “Damnation,” he muttered, heading into the front room to rummage about for a bottle of claret and settling for whiskey.

After he downed half a glass, though, he set it aside again and stood. Then he grabbed his dark thievery coat and left the house. At the least he could reassure himself that Tibby had returned home safely, and that she didn’t have to worry about being ruined in the morning papers. Yes, that was all he wanted. To talk with her again.

Deciding that Achilles had done enough today, he saddled his bay gelding, Paris, and rode into Mayfair. He left the beast at the local public stable, having to awaken the annoyed groom to do it, and went the last half mile on foot. All the way to Chalsey House he debated again whether he should even be there, much less go in to see Isabel.

The lights, however, still flickered inside. Apparently the masquerade ball hadn’t provided enough excitement for the evening. Or it had been so momentous that the Chalseys were still discussing it. And they weren’t alone. As he moved closer, using the shadows of the elm trees lining the street for cover, he caught sight of a pair of carriages stopped on the shallow drive. The Stanley coat of arms would be her friend Barbara and her parents. The other one brought a scowl to his face. Tilden. The late-arriving tiger remained in the hunt, apparently.

The front door opened, letting light flood onto the drive, and he swiftly ducked into the shadows. Lady Barbara, her younger sister, and her parents, together with the members of the Chalsey household, stepped outside to say their good
nights. Sullivan drew a slow breath as he caught sight of Isabel. She still wore her gown of deep blue and violet. Even with her wings detached she looked ethereal, like a figure of mist and twilight, her blonde hair hanging loose in the back and woven with ribbons the same color as her dress. A precious gem among stones. In a better, more perfect world,
his
gem.

Lord Tilden had remained inside; apparently he hadn’t finished with his visit yet. As the family returned to the house, Sullivan closed his eyes. He should leave. He should return home and go to bed, or find some pretty blonde harlot who wouldn’t care which name he called her.

Oliver would continue courting Isabel, wed her, and she’d deliver some plausible excuse for the loss of her virginity. As long as Sullivan Waring’s name wasn’t mentioned as the deflowerer, Tilden probably wouldn’t care. They would have lovely children, young lords and ladies, and he would never set eyes on any of them unless someone came to purchase a prize horse. He’d certainly never be invited to the wedding—not that he would attend. Not that he would ever want to see her given away to someone else.

“Devil take it,” he murmured, and started back toward the north side of the house. He couldn’t have her forever, but he had her now, and would take whatever she was willing to give. That was what he’d been reduced to: scavenging and begging for scraps.

The vine-covered trellis climbing the wall passed by young Douglas’s window rather than his sister’s, but just above that the roof flattened out. Some of his burglary skills had uses he hadn’t imagined before this.

Once up on the roof he moved quietly back until he was crouched five feet above the third window. When he’d first broken in there, Bram had given him a sketch of the entire
house. One could never be too cautious, and he didn’t like being left with only one way in or out. Being caught might cause more humiliation for the Marquis of Dunston, but that couldn’t happen until he’d exhausted every other means of revenge.

Gripping the overhang with his fingers, he hung over the side of the house. Pushing gently against the window with one toe, he felt it give. That made things easier. He wedged the toe of his boot into the opening he’d made, and swung the glass wide open. After that it was a simple matter to let go with one hand until he grabbed the top of the casement and then eased himself into the room. Getting out would be another problem entirely, but at the moment he didn’t care.

The second after he stepped inside her bedchamber the door handle rattled, and he ducked behind the large mahogany wardrobe. Isabel’s maid entered the room. “Who left you open?” she said to the window, closing and latching it before she set out Tibby’s night rail, made down the bed, and stoked the fire in the small fireplace.

Sullivan remained motionless in the corner, glad he’d worn dark colors. The maid left the bedchamber door open as she exited, and after a silent count to ten, he edged away from the wall and toward the hallway.

He could hear them somewhere downstairs, talking and laughing. Tilden’s smooth voice made him clench his jaw, but this was not the time or the place for a brawl, however much he owed Oliver a black eye and a good nose-bloodying. He might win the fight, but he would lose any chance of ever seeing Isabel again. It was more important that everyone seemed to be in good humor; they hadn’t discovered his ruse, then.