After the Kiss (8 page)

“I expect an answer, Mr. Waring.”

This was why he should have been cold and distant and threatening toward her from the beginning, instead of kissing the chit and fleeing without his mask. And just five minutes ago he’d sworn he would never harm her. Being the villain of the piece, if that was what he’d become, should have been easier. “Up, Zephyr. Trot.” Urging Zephyr into a trot, he pivoted in a circle, Isabel keeping pace behind him.

“I can find out, you know,” she continued. “I imagine Oliver will know who—”

“She’s my mother,” he bit out. “And don’t threaten me with Oliver Sullivan unless you want me to put a knife through him.”

“He’s your brother!”

“We allegedly share a sire. He’s not my brother.”

For a moment she kept silent, and he thought perhaps he’d finally managed to frighten her into leaving him be. He waited, but she didn’t back away. Well, well. Unless a horse was involved, apparently nothing scared her at all. Even him.

“Your mother is a painter, then,” she continued finally.

“
Was
a painter,” he corrected. “She died a year ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I.” He changed the tension on the lead line. “Walk on,” he instructed, tickling at the mare’s foreleg. With a hopping step she stopped, then continued forward again at a walk. “Good girl,” he murmured. Not bad at all for a first attempt.

“And so your father truly is Lord Dunston.”

Damnation
. She was like a hound with a bone. “Leave it be,” he said aloud.

“No. I’m deciphering you.”

Sullivan glanced over his shoulder at her. “I think that would be a great deal of effort for very little reward.”

“Are you older or younger than Oliver?”

“Do you ever mind your own business?”

“You are my business. I’m blackmailing you, remember?”

Good God
. He sighed, his amusement growing nearly to match his annoyance. “I’m eight months younger.”

“You must hate them,” she said quietly. “Growing up knowing—”

He snorted. “Until five months ago they barely crossed my mind.”

“Why is that? I mean, obviously Lord Dunston hasn’t acknowledged you. So—”

“Whoa, Zephyr.” Keeping the mare standing and half angry at himself for still not wanting Isabel to be frightened, he stalked up to her. “My secrets for yours,” he murmured.

Isabel backed up a step. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“I don’t have any secrets.” She folded her arms. “Except for the one I’m keeping on your behalf.”

“And you’re enjoying that one, aren’t you?”

Her cheeks darkened. “I beg your pardon?”

“People who don’t like secrets don’t keep them, and they certainly don’t explore them.”

“I—”

“If you manage to touch Zephyr tomorrow,” he interrupted, knowing he’d already won the point, “I’ll tell you something about myself. The more progress you make with her, the more you’ll discover about me.”

She glared at him, her gaze slipping to the mare and back again. “What if the information, as you said, isn’t worth the trouble?”

“That’s for you to decide, I suppose.”

“I could make you tell me everything right now,” she continued, assuming the defiant stance she’d tried with him before.

“Not unless I let you.” In most instances he could read people as easily as he did horses. Her, he hadn’t quite figured out yet, but he was fairly confident about this. “You could try, of course. But that would mean giving up your hold over me, Isabel. And I think we both know you don’t wish to do that.”

As she pursed her lips, Sullivan’s gaze lowered to her mouth. Abruptly he wondered whether Oliver had ever kissed her. Swift anger and frustration swept up his spine, and he clenched his jaw against it. She was a marquis’ daughter. What Oliver had or hadn’t done didn’t signify, because Oliver Sullivan was within his rights to pursue her. Sullivan Waring was the one training her horse.

“Get back to your work, then. And it’s still
Lady
Isabel,” she said, walking over to stand where both of her brothers now watched. Apparently, then, she’d come to the same realization. A well-respected horse breeder he might be, but he was still ankle-deep in horse shit.

Fine. What the devil did he care, anyway, as long as she kept her silence about his nocturnal visit here earlier in the week? “As you wish.” With a word and a flick of the whip he started Zephyr forward again. He didn’t care. Not one bloody bit. And if she never approached a horse again, he would still have done what he’d been hired to do. Nothing less, and not one damned thing more.

Twenty minutes later he led Zephyr back into the stable. Turning down the multiple offers from the stableboys, he fed and watered the mare himself. At his own stables he had employees to take on mundane tasks like this one, but he’d
found that nothing was more conducive to contemplative thought than feeding and brushing down a horse.

“Do you paint?”

He flinched, she was so close behind him. To conceal the motion, he ran the brush through Zephyr’s mane again. “Of course I paint,” he said, keeping his back to the young woman who should have been his nemesis except for the fact that he liked her—even with her poor taste in beaux. “Every evening between mucking out the stables and mending saddles.”

“You don’t muck out anything. And I asked you a civil question. Pray give me a civil answer.”

Sullivan picked up the bucket and brush and left the stall, latching it behind him. “Is that an order, my lady?”

“If…if I were to give you an order, it would be for you to kiss me again.”

His heart thudding, he faced her. “What?”

“You heard me, Mr. Waring.”

The color in her cheeks had deepened, her breathing fast despite her haughty expression. With a quick glance about to make certain no one else was inside the stable, he dropped the bucket. She jumped at the sound. Sullivan ignored that, instead pulling off his heavy work gloves one by one and tossing them over the bucket’s lip.

He’d been wanting to touch her all morning. Striding forward, he placed his palms on her smooth cheeks, tilted her face up, and closed his mouth over hers.

She tasted of tea and toast. Nothing had ever intoxicated him so much in his entire life. Her hands tangled into the front of his shirt, tugging him closer, drowning him in sensation. He teased her lips apart, plunging deeper into her softness and warmth.

Her moan jolted him back to himself. Breathing hard,
Sullivan tore his mouth from hers. They were standing in the middle of a bloody stable, for God’s sake. Her family’s stable. Anyone might have seen them. And then he would discover that there were worse things than being caught stealing from aristocrats. Namely, stealing their daughter’s virtues.

Untangling her hands from his shirt, he stepped back. “I hope that met with your satisfaction, my lady,” he managed, his voice rough around the edges. All of him felt rough and raw at the edges. He wanted to wipe a hand across his mouth, but he’d have to scrub much harder than that to rid himself of his craving for her.

Isabel cleared her throat. “That was much better than the last time, anyway,” she said, her voice as unsteady as his.

The last time had been nothing to sneeze at. He met her gaze. “I’m glad to be of service, my lady.”

Isabel expected to see Oliver Sullivan at social gatherings. He was a viscount and the legitimate son and heir apparent of the Marquis of Dunston. Even if he hadn’t been in pursuit of her over the past weeks, they traveled in the same circles.

Both he and his family were well liked and well respected, with the Sullivans frequently held up as a fine example of how aristocratic families should conduct themselves. Lord Dunston was heralded for his gentlemanly ways and his perfect devotion to his wife, Margaret.

She liked Oliver, with his charm and deference and confident presence. Goodness knew, though, that she’d been pursued by wife-hunting men since her debut, and honestly she didn’t feel any more for him than she did any of the others. In the usual course of events he would probably propose to her in a few weeks, and she would thank him for his kind
consideration and tell him she didn’t plan to marry until she turned one-and-twenty.

The appearance of Sullivan Waring in her life made everything…different. Not only was Mr. Waring unexpected, but his presence made a lie of certain things she’d taken as truths. The Sullivans weren’t the perfect portrait they showed the world. And she, who loved and admired her parents and her brothers, could conceal and lie on the behalf of a criminal, imperfect stranger. She could kiss him, and want to kiss him again—even knowing that he brought trouble and chaos with him.

And she’d never enjoyed her life as much as she had in the few days since she’d stumbled across him. But it was more than that. Larger, more significant things were afoot, and even if it was by accident, she felt a part of it. And she liked that, as well. Perhaps that was why she’d begun to want so badly to figure it all out.

“You look very serious, Tibby,” her father said as he strolled into the morning room to collect some of his correspondence.

“I was just thinking,” she returned, blinking and trying to pull her wandering thoughts back in.

“About anything in particular?”

“How well do you know Lord Dunston?”

“Quite well, as you’re already aware.” He frowned. “Is this about Oliver? Or Mr. Waring? That’s something you shouldn’t concern yourself with.”

“I don’t know what it’s about, precisely,” she admitted. “I’m just trying to reconcile what I thought I knew with what I
do
know now.”

“Ah. Well, everyone makes mistakes, I suppose. I’ve yet to meet anyone who can boast of absolute perfection.”

She smiled. “Except me, of course.”

“Well, of course. I reckoned that went without saying.” Planting a kiss on her forehead, he headed out the door again.

“Papa, why would Lord Dunston not acknowledge that he had another son? It would have made things so much easier on Sullivan. On Mr. Waring, I mean.”

“It’s more complicated than a matter of ease. There’s integrity and family obligation, lines of inheritance…” He trailed off. “To be blunt, Dunston is not the first nobleman to produce offspring born on the wrong side of the blanket. He’s prided himself on the way he’s lived his life. Should he be punished for making one mistake?”

A mistake. She hardly counted fathering a child on the same level as stubbing one’s toe. Especially when Dunston held himself up as a paragon of propriety and integrity. She didn’t say any of that aloud, though. Her father didn’t want to explain it any further, and she suspected that she wouldn’t like his answers, anyway. Not when she’d put herself in the middle of a matter of very questionable legality.

Lord Darshear took a step back into the room. “It’s the way of the world, my dear. And I hope you are still going driving with Oliver; obviously he’s blameless in this, whatever you might think of Dunston at the moment.”

“I am going driving with Oliver,” she affirmed with another smile, nodding.

“Good. I wouldn’t have Mr. Waring here, except that he has an unparalleled reputation with horses and you said you wished to learn to ride. There is no one in England better qualified to perform that task.”

“Thank you, Papa.”

Once her father left the room again, Isabel resumed her sightless gaze out the window. No, none of this was Oliver’s fault. He’d only been eight months old at the time of Sullivan’s
birth. But neither was it Sullivan’s fault. And yet the two of them obviously viewed one another as mortal enemies.

As a fellow member of the aristocracy, she should be sympathizing with Oliver. But though she wondered why Lord Tilden hadn’t arranged for Sullivan’s arrest when he obviously knew the identity of the Mayfair Marauder, her curiosity and growing concern were with Sullivan.

But the animosity between the two men meant she probably shouldn’t have asked—ordered—Sullivan to kiss her. But she had, and he had, and her heart thudded every time she thought about it.
My goodness.
The first time, she’d been frightened and titillated. That kiss, though, had more than likely been meant merely to surprise her into silence while he escaped into the night. This kiss she’d wanted. She’d been thinking about it for four days. And he hadn’t disappointed.

Down the hallway the front door opened, and at the sound of Oliver’s voice she stood to summon her maid. A moment later Oliver appeared in the morning room doorway. “Good morning, Isabel,” he said, smiling. “You should always wear green; it’s very fetching on you.”

She curtsied, glad she’d managed to arrange for him to visit while Sullivan was elsewhere. “Thank you, Oliver, though I think after a time I’d begin to feel a bit like moss.”

“But you’d look precious as emeralds.”

After they went out to the drive and he helped her and then her maid into his curricle, they set off for Hyde Park. Sullivan would be back at three o’clock for Zephyr’s afternoon training, but she should be home well before then.

Her father had said she needed to show an active interest in the horse’s training if she expected to keep Zephyr, and that provided a good excuse to keep an eye on Mr. Waring. Was that an excuse, though? Because it had begun to seem that keeping an eye on the mare’s trainer had less to do with
him being the Mayfair Marauder, and more to do with him being interesting and dangerous and…different than anyone else she’d ever met. And her very own secret.

“I’d like to ask you a favor,” Oliver said, guiding them onto the park’s main path.

She shook herself.
Pay attention.
“Of course.”

“I know a fellow who trained a winner at the Derby two years ago. Will you accept my counsel and use him to continue your mare’s training?”

Abrupt annoyance hit her, but she forced herself to take a moment to consider her answer. She disliked being told what to do, politely or not, but she also knew that she wasn’t aware of all the details of Sullivan’s life and activities and so needed to tread carefully. “I paid an additional fee for Mr. Waring’s services,” she said with her usual charming smile. “And my father and brother approve the results thus far.”

“Tom Barrett is perfectly competent,” Oliver insisted. “And I will see to any additional expenses.”

With a breath she shook her head. “I don’t wish to ride a racehorse.” Just the thought made her shudder. “It’s a business arrangement, Oliver. Nothing more.” Nor did she want to be obligated to Oliver, because that could come back to haunt her later.

But her connection to Sullivan was more than just a business arrangement. She just couldn’t tell anyone else about it. Not about the thievery—and certainly not about the kisses. The first would ruin Sullivan Waring, while the second would destroy them both.

“I don’t like him hanging about you,” Oliver said in the middle of her ruminations.

“He’s hanging about the stable; not me.”

Oliver pulled the bay team to a halt and faced her. “Don’t
trust him, Isabel. I’m begging you. He’s ruthless and underhanded. And common, whatever he might say.”

Her annoyance deepened. “For heaven’s sake, Oliver, Mr. Waring doesn’t say anything, except to the horses. You’re acting as though you’re jealous or some such thing. It doesn’t become you.”

He snorted. “Jealous? Of a bastard horse breeder? I think not.” He clucked to the team and they started off again. “I merely pity any proper female who might cross his path unawares.”

She drew a breath. As determined as she was to decipher Sullivan, Oliver would likely be a splendid source of information. If she attempted it, she would have to be careful to avoid letting the viscount know
she’d
realized that Mr. Waring was the thief who’d been tormenting the residents of Mayfair. It wasn’t only the need for caution that made her hesitate, though. Whatever Oliver told her about Sullivan would be bad. According to her uncovering-of-mysteries plan, she needed to hear it. But did she truly want to know?

“Oliver, since Mr. Waring is in my family’s employ, I would appreciate if you would elaborate on your concerns about him.”

“I should think it obvious,” he returned. “Where does a nobody acquire the funds necessary to begin a thoroughbred horse-breeding establishment?”

Through hard work,
she immediately thought, but of course couldn’t say that aloud. Some people needed to work for a living, but not nobles. “Do you think he took money from someone?” she asked, careful not to mention Mayfair or marauding.

“I wouldn’t put anything past him. What do you expect of someone with whom no one wishes to associate except for business?”

“But his work is well respected by nearly everyone.”

“Ha. You’ll notice that
I
don’t own a horse from Waring Stables.”

Hm.
She wondered whether that had been his decision, or Sullivan’s. “If you suspect him of illegal doings, why haven’t you reported him to the authorities?”

He blew out his breath. “There are some things a gentleman doesn’t do,” he returned with a scowl. “I prefer to think that if given enough rope, a scoundrel will hang himself.”

Hang.
She’d threatened Sullivan with that, but when Oliver said it, she realized that not only would the viscount be perfectly content to see it happen, but it was a real possibility. Sullivan Waring could hang. Oliver, despite his stated intention to stay back and observe, could easily see that it
would
happen. And if she wanted otherwise, she’d best have a reason.

After all, he’d known Sullivan Waring for a great deal of time longer than she had. If she’d heard Oliver’s opinion of Sullivan before she’d stumbled across him burgling her house, she probably would have turned him in to the authorities without hesitation. It would have been foolish not to. Now, however, what had been complicated before was so tangled she could barely see the spider for the web.

She needed to learn more of those secrets kept by Sullivan Waring. And her best chance to do that would be while she trusted him to keep her safe as she put her hands on a horse.

“Samuel, I need you to deliver Hector to Lord Brewster this morning,” Sullivan said, as he finished saddling Achilles. “And remind him that he’s signed a contract. He has a fortnight. And whether any of his mares produce or not, he owes us a hundred quid.”

The groom nodded. “Subtle or straightforward, sir?”

Sullivan grinned. “Subtle. Brewster’s never tried to cheat me before. I just don’t want any nasty surprises later.” Thunder boomed across the meadow, and he glanced through the open stable doors. “Tell him if the weather puts Hector off, we’ll give him another day gratis.”

“I’ll see to it.”

“Good. I’ll be back in under two hours. Before you leave, have Halliwell bring in the pair of bays for Gilroy. I want them dry and brushed down when he comes to take possession.”

“No worries.”

There were half a hundred other things he needed to attend to, but as he swung into the saddle and sent Achilles off at a trot toward Mayfair, foremost in his mind was seeing Isabel. Odd, that in such a relatively short time she’d become such a central piece of his life. Of course, much of that was because she insisted on blackmailing him, even though by now they both had a fair idea that she wasn’t going to have him carted off to gaol.

Yesterday afternoon she’d kept her distance, but he had the feeling that that was more because of her younger brother’s presence than because she didn’t want to kiss him again. He definitely wanted to kiss her again. And that wasn’t all he wanted of her.

Unfortunately, whatever his feelings toward the aristocracy in general, ruining pretty young things of high birth had never appealed to him—and especially not when this one actually interested him. He’d had his share of ladies of the peerage, ones who had their eyes open and on occasion rings on their fingers, but he’d never found them to be more enticing than any other chit in the world.

It amused him that the ladies and the more horse-wise
men of the
ton
practically worshipped his skill with and knowledge of the animals—unless Dunston or Tilden or any of the other Sullivans were about. Then he became invisible. A shame he couldn’t take that act to the fair.

Or rather, it had amused him until his return from the Peninsula. Since then it had served only to remind him of the hypocrisy and conceit of the people with whom he did business. There were exceptions—Bram, for example, and Viscount Quence, Phin Bromley’s older brother. And Isabel Chalsey.

That last one was probably an illusion on his part, but she’d kissed him twice now. And the second time had been her idea, and it had been after she’d realized that he and Oliver Sullivan were half-brothers.

Thunder boomed again. Achilles hopped sideways, neighing, but Sullivan reined him in, patting him on the neck. “It’s only noise, boy,” he said soothingly.

The clouds let loose. A gray curtain of cold and wet closed around him. And over him.

“Noise and rain,” he amended, pulling his hat lower over his eyes and holding his greatcoat closed with one hand. “Bloody bracing, don’t you think, lad?”

When he reached Chalsey House he was soaked to his bones. At least he’d arrived at ten o’clock sharp—prompt once again. The stable yard drained well, but it was still muddy. Ah, well. The horses didn’t mind, and the devil knew he’d trudged through worse. For her future rider’s sake he wanted Zephyr accustomed to varying terrain, anyway.