After the Kiss (5 page)

“I’d rather go back to where she commanded you to do as she says. There’s a bit of the devil in that chit, I think.” He sent Sullivan a dark smile. “Much more interesting than I’d previously thought.”

Sullivan frowned. “Oh, no, you don’t. Stay away from her.”

Bram faced him full on, his expression surprisingly serious. “You like her?”

“I’m more likely to strangle her. I just don’t want you cluttering up this mess even further.” From the way his heart thudded, the question was more complex than that, but he wasn’t about to contemplate the answer in front of Bram. He still needed to explain to himself how he could wish to be rid of someone and want to spar with her and to hear her moans of pleasure all at the same time.

“Then stop asking me questions about her. And
you
stay away from her. Because I do know everything.” Bram picked up his riding gloves and headed for the door. “Isabel Chalsey is more…complicated than you realize.”

That sounded intriguing. Sullivan pushed to his feet and followed Bramwell down the hallway. “Complicated? How? And how is it that you know she’s complicated when you didn’t know about her Machiavellian bent?”

“No. This is a conversation that can bring about nothing good for me, and I therefore refuse to engage.” At the foot of the stairs Bram paused to collect his hat. “I’m going out now. Stay if you wish, but I’m going to see the duke, and I doubt you’ll want to be here when I return.”

The duke
. That meant the Duke of Levonzy, Bram’s father. Sullivan eyed his friend. Bram and Levonzy. The least congenial pairing since King Arthur and Mordred. “Do you wish me to be here when you return?”

“I don’t need my hand held, Sully.” Bram glanced over. “You’re going back to the Chalseys’ this afternoon?”

“At three o’clock sharp,” Sullivan grunted.
That damned chit.

“I’ve an obligation tonight, but I should be finished by midnight. If you want to meet at Jezebel’s after that, send over a note.”

Hm.
Why he would need a drink more than Bram, Sullivan had no idea, but he nodded. “I’ll let you know. And I still have the sticky feeling that you know something you’re not telling me.”

“I could fill books with my knowledge.”

“But who would publish it? I have nothing to do with your kind unless they’re in the market for a horse, Bram. If you know something, tell me.”

“No. Some things are better discovered than divulged. For the one with the information
and
the one learning it. Hibble, is my mount saddled?”

The butler nodded. “It is, my lord.” He pulled open the front door.

Sullivan stood where he was for a moment, his eyes narrowed as he tried to decide whether it would be worth the frustration of trying to figure out what the devil Bram wasn’t telling him. Considering that he had two prospective buyers to meet and sacks of feed to purchase before he returned to Chalsey House, his time would be better spent elsewhere.

He descended the front steps and took Achilles’ reins, swinging back up into the saddle. “Don’t shoot anyone,” he said as Bram headed west and he turned north toward home.

“I’ll give you the same advice,” Bramwell drawled with a brief grin, tipping his hat as he rode toward Grosvenor Square.

Sullivan’s own smile was more grim as he dodged the myriad carts and carriages and wagons north of Mayfair. It disappeared completely as he remembered that he’d neglected to ask Bram whether he’d had any luck tracking down the next painting. So now he had another reason to be wary of Lady Isabel Chalsey, as if he needed one. She was damned distracting.

As the barouche rolled to a stop on Chalsey House’s short drive and a footman hurried out the front door to greet it, Isabel took the hand of the young lady seated beside her. “Thank you so much for bringing me home, Barbara. Once Mama sets foot in Mrs. Wrangley’s Dress Shop, only a biblical flood could persuade her to leave.”

“Nonsense,” Lady Barbara Stanley said, her typical smile, together with her blonde ringlets and sky-blue eyes, making her look positively angelic. “You saved me from dancing with that horribly fetid Lord Arnton last week. We aren’t even close to being even.”

Isabel chuckled. “He does smell of sheep, doesn’t he?”

“Very dirty ones.” Standing, Barbara accepted the footman’s gloved hand as she stepped to the ground. “And as long as I’m here, I want to see this new horse of yours.”

Drat
. Barbara wanted to see the mare, but given the time
of afternoon, that would also very likely mean seeing the trainer. And the best part of a secret was not sharing—well, the best part of
this
secret was keeping those green eyes looking only at her.

Then again, maybe Barbara could tell her something about her new obsession. All her judiciously worded questions to her family had gotten her were more pronouncements of Mr. Waring’s genius with horses and some head-shaking. It was as if everyone knew something, and no one meant to tell her what it might be.

As they walked through the house to the stable yard, Barbara wrapped her fingers around Isabel’s arm. “You don’t think your brother might be about, do you?”

Isabel stifled a sigh. Once Phillip chose a bride and married, she wondered whether she would have half as many female friends as she did now. At least a quarter of the current group seemed to have become acquainted with her merely as a way to gain an introduction to Earl Chalsey, and even the ones of whose friendship she felt assured seemed rather enamored of him. “He’s gone out with some of his friends today,” she supplied, “unless you’re referring to Douglas. I’m certain
he’s
about somewhere.”

Barbara laughed, so the answer was apparently self-explanatory. Yes, Phillip had another admirer. She’d stopped telling him about his conquests, because it only gave him a big head. A bigger one than he already had.

As they reached the stable yard, she slowed. A stableboy led a large chestnut gelding about the yard while Phipps, a piece of straw clenched in his teeth, watched critically. As he saw her, the head groom straightened and spat out the straw. “My lady,” he said, tugging at his forelock. “Mr. Waring ain’t arrived yet. Is there anything I can do for you?”

She’d probably seen more of Phipps over the past day than
she had in the previous two years. No wonder he didn’t know what to make of her. “Lady Barbara wanted to see my new mare,” she said.

“I’ll have her brought right out for you. Delvin!”

“No, no, that’s not necessary,” Isabel broke in hurriedly, fighting the urge to turn and run. “She’s in her stall?”

“Aye. Fourth one back on the left.”

“I remember.” Taking a deep breath, Isabel walked into the stable. She only lagged a step or so behind Barbara, but inside she felt miles away from anyone—except for the two dozen horses blowing and nickering around her.
Steady
, she told herself.
You don’t have to touch any of them or anything.

“Oh, Tibby, she’s lovely! Might I give her an apple?”

Forcing a smile, Isabel spotted the apple barrel and dug in to hand one over to her friend. “Certainly.”

Barbara took it. “Here you go, Zephyr,” she cooed, holding it out and then patting the gray on the nose with her free hand as she took the apple. “With that build and a name like Zephyr, she must run fast as the wind,” Barbara continued. “Promise me that you’ll let me try out her paces once she’s broken.”

Fast as the wind? Good heavens, what had she gotten herself into?
“The—I—”

“I prefer easing a horse into accepting a saddle rather than breaking its spirit,” a low voice drawled from directly behind Isabel.

So he’d arrived on time. Isabel turned around to find ice-green eyes regarding her, one of them obscured by the ubiquitous straying lock of light brown hair. “You are very nearly late,” she said, unable to conjure anything more witty than that.

“I call it being prompt,” he returned. “As you requested…my lady.”

Barbara made a small choked sound behind her. Belatedly Isabel stepped aside, annoyed—and not for the first time—that she continually had to look up to meet Mr. Waring’s gaze. He had to be at least two inches over six feet.

When Barbara cleared her throat again, she shook herself.
Pay attention, Isabel
. “Mr. Waring, Lady Barbara Stanley.”

He inclined his head. “Lady Barbara.”

“Mr. Waring. You served with Lord Bramwell Johns on the Peninsula, didn’t you?”

Isabel hid an annoyed frown. Obviously she should have asked Barbara her questions about Waring.

“I did.”

“I’ve heard some of the tales he tells. They called the two of you and Phineas Bromley the Musketeers, did they not?”

“Among other things.” His tone polite but cool, he shook out the lead line he carried. “If you ladies don’t mind, I have some work to do.”

“Of course.” Isabel pulled Barbara back, and they watched as Mr. Waring attached the lead line to a buckle on Zephyr’s halter and led her out of the stall.

As soon as he passed by them, Barbara grabbed her arm. “My goodness he’s handsome,” she whispered, while they followed him at a hopefully safe distance out to the stable yard. “I nearly fainted dead away when I turned around and saw him standing there.”

“What do you know about him?” Isabel asked in the same low tone, ignoring Barbara’s fluttering. She fluttered a great deal, generally around Phillip.

“What do you mean, what do I know?”

“About his background, Barbara. Other than the horses.”

Barbara eyed her. “You’re not seriously mooning after a horse breeder, are you? I mean, yes, he’s an Adonis, but he’s also practically common.”

Practically?
Isabel took a deep breath. “It’s just that my brothers are mad over him,” she said carefully, “and I’d like to know why they think he’s such a diamond.”

Her friend leaned closer. “All I know is that he’s the natural son of some aristocrat or other. The father never acknowledged him, so the rest of us can’t very well do so.”

Hm. That explained some things. He certainly had a noble bearing about him. And his conversation wasn’t that of a poor stableboy, by any means. “You don’t know who the father is? Was?”

Barbara shook her head. “If I’d known how handsome he was, I might have listened more closely to the gossip.” She giggled again, apparently forgetting that she’d just chastised Isabel for mooning over him—not that she was, for heaven’s sake.

Isabel turned her attention back to Mr. Waring. He seemed completely oblivious to them as he once more put Zephyr through the lessons of stopping and going on command. Even to her unschooled, skeptical gaze it seemed the mare was responding much more quickly and with less prompting than she had needed this morning. It was impressive, but not very comforting.

Isabel could describe Mr. Sullivan Waring in much the same way. Yes, he looked very fine, and capable, but she wouldn’t wish to turn her back to him. Of course, when he’d kissed her they’d been face-to-face, so she couldn’t trust him overly much from that direction, either.

“Your butler said I might find you out here,” a male voice drawled from the direction of the drive.

As she started to turn around, she noticed the oddest thing—easy, confident Mr. Waring dropped the lead line. A single heartbeat later he bent and picked it up again as if nothing had happened. Nothing except that his face, the part
she could make out with his back half turned, had gone gray. Instinctively she took a step toward him to make certain he was well, but a hand closed over her shoulder before she could take a second step.

“I know you weren’t expecting me till seven,” Oliver, Lord Tilden, said, smiling as she faced him, “but I couldn’t resist the chance to stop by.” The viscount’s light brown hair, cut and styled in the very latest fashion, glinted almost bronze in the sunlight, his green eyes meeting hers warmly.

His light brown hair and green eyes. And the high cheekbones and patrician jaw. Isabel’s heart stopped beating, then thudded into a fierce tattoo.
Oh, no. What had she tangled herself into?
“Oliver Sullivan,” she said aloud, unable to keep her voice from quavering over that last bit.

Oliver lifted an eyebrow. “Oliver James Sullivan, if we’re being formal,” he drawled. “Are we being formal, Lady Isabel Jane Chalsey?”

She forced a chuckle. “Heavens, no. It’s just that you did surprise me.”

“Tibby was showing me her new mare,” Barbara put in with the most wretched timing ever. “Isn’t she lovely?”

“Oh, we can ogle Zephyr later,” Isabel countered, knowing she was rushing her speech and unable to stop herself. “For now, come inside and tell me about your day, Oliver. Phillip told me that you and your father took breakfast with Prinny.”

“We did, yesterday.”

As she hauled him by the arm, striding back to the house, scarcely daring to breathe, Oliver glanced over his shoulder. He looked again, then stopped so abruptly that he nearly pulled her to the ground. Pushing her hand off his arm, he walked back toward Zephyr and her trainer.

“Come, Oliver,” she said to his broad back. “Shall I have Cook bake us some biscuits?”

He visibly shook himself, stopping again. “Yes. Certainly. Let’s go inside. You can’t find it pleasant out here amid the stableboys and the filth in the yard.”

Zephyr’s lead line flicked up sharply. Abruptly the mare was galloping—and straight at them. Fear stabbing down her spine, Isabel gasped. Oliver hurriedly moved backward, belatedly pulling her with him. A foot short of where they’d been standing, the mare danced to a halt. A second later, Mr. Waring had his hand around one of the straps of her harness.

“You need to learn to control your animal, Waring,” Oliver growled. “Apologize.”

“That’s not necessary,” Isabel managed, forcing air into her lungs. As she looked up at Mr. Waring, his gaze was on her.

“I apologize if I frightened you, my lady,” he said in his deep voice. “That was not my intention.”

Her jaw clenched as hard as her fingers were around Oliver’s arm, she nodded. “Let’s go in.” She needed to get inside, before she became completely hysterical. The charging horse, what she’d just realized about Sullivan Waring, the obvious anger between the two men with her somehow in the middle of it all…“Please, let’s go inside.”

“Of course, my dear.” Putting a protective arm around her shoulders, Oliver guided them to the house while Barbara followed behind.

For the second time within forty-eight hours of meeting Mr. Sullivan Waring—or the third time, counting the incident of the kiss—Isabel wanted something very strong to drink. What the devil had she gotten herself into?

Sullivan watched the trio disappear into the house. Oliver fucking Sullivan. In pursuit of sharp-tongued, witty Isabel.
“Damnation,” he growled. Zephyr shifted uneasily beside him.

So that was what Bram hadn’t told him, that bloody, black-hearted snake. Gradually he became aware again of the noise around him, the bustle of the stable yard, and the muttering and gesturing of the group of servants by the door.

He wasn’t one of them. Squaring his shoulders, he loosened his grip on Zephyr and gave her a handful of oats from his pocket. As he returned her to position in the middle of the yard, he glanced over his shoulder at the large house again. He wasn’t one of them, either.

If he had been one of them, they never would have dared to rob him blind while he was away at war. At least now he knew why the Chalseys had ended up with one of his mother’s paintings. Undoubtedly it had been a gift from dear Oliver.

Where did all of this leave him? From her expression before he’d frightened the daylights out of her, Isabel had realized that Sullivan had significance as a name, and why. He frowned as he started Zephyr around at a walk again. However surprised and annoyed he’d been, he shouldn’t have sent the mare charging like that. No matter that he’d had the lead line in hand the entire time. Lady Isabel’s fear was obvious and real, and he already knew that. But like the animal Oliver claimed he was, he’d gotten angry and reacted, unmindful of the consequences.

So Oliver Sullivan, Viscount Tilden, was in pursuit of Lady Isabel Chalsey. And yet she hadn’t recognized him despite his reputedly close resemblance to his half-brother. And yet even with a beau she’d decided to play this little game of mousetrap with him. And yet when she’d realized who he must be she’d tried to get Oliver into the house rather
than sitting back and allowing or encouraging a confrontation as her peers had been known to do.

Hm. So Lady Isabel continued to baffle him, which meant she was still dangerous. But if he’d needed any additional incentive to remain in the employ of Isabel Chalsey, Oliver’s appearance had just provided it. Any chance to get in a blow against that arrogant lickspittle was simply too good to pass by. And he’d never been all that successful at resisting temptation, anyway.

He worked Zephyr for another thirty minutes, until he could sense the mare’s growing comfort with and confidence in the two commands she’d learned. He could have proceeded more quickly, but Zephyr needed to be as calm and steady and gentle-paced as he could make her. Especially after what he’d done earlier.

When they’d finished for the afternoon he put the mare up himself, measuring out her grain and hay and brushing her out as she ate. As he worked, the mare’s ears flicked at him and then away. A moment later he scented the light tang of citrus, and something he couldn’t put a name to swirled down his spine.

“You’re still here,” Isabel said without preamble.

He kept brushing. “Do you want me to go?”

“I want you to face me when I’m speaking to you.”

Sullivan dropped the brush into its bucket and turned around. “As you wish, my lady,” he forced out, folding his arms and knowing it wasn’t her fault that he felt scraped raw this afternoon.