After the Kiss

by Suzanne Enoch

  “Mama!”

  With a chuckle, her mother sat in the chair by the crackling fireplace. “I was young once,” she commented. “I remember what it was like to admire a fine, fit form and earnest blue eyes.”

  “They’re green,” Isabel corrected, then flushed as she realized her mother was looking at her. “They’re quite distinctive.”

  “Your father told me who Mr. Waring purportedly is. Last night. I suppose he reckoned that with Mr. Waring about and Lord Tilden calling on you, it would be best if I knew their connection. You’re aware of it, too, he said.”

  Isabel nodded.

  “Then you know that for Lord Tilden’s sake you need to keep your distance from Mr. Waring. And for your own sake you need to stop staring at him, through windows or otherwise.”

  “It’s not his fault, you know.”

  “It’s the way of the world. And you, my dear, are very close to making a splendid connection. Don’t ruin it because you feel sympathy for a common horse breeder with a handsome face.”

  A horse breeder and thief, and a well-educated and articulate one, at that. And yes, handsome. Perhaps that was it—the only thing “common” about Sullivan Waring was that everyone else used the term to describe him. Everyone else was so easy to decipher, when she’d barely begun to figure him out.

  “Isabel?”

  “Yes, I know,” she said absently. “But I’m not marrying Oliver. I don’t love him.”

  “You might come to, if you would refrain from antagonizing him by continuing to employ Mr. Waring.”

  “I want to ride a horse. According even to Papa, no one else is as qualified to see to that.”

  “Very well. Then come away from the window and tend to your embroidery.”

  With a last look, she reluctantly did so. Obviously she couldn’t tell her mother that Sullivan had been the one to steal from them and that she’d taken it as her duty to figure out why, and to keep him from doing further misdeeds. She couldn’t say it because it wouldn’t be entirely true. He did fascinate her, and the more everyone told her to stay from him, the more intrigued she became.

  Even if it meant getting close enough to the horse to touch it, she hoped it wouldn’t be raining tomorrow. She had some more questions for Mr. Sullivan Waring. Questions that were fast becoming as important to her as they might be to him.

  Oliver Sullivan, Lord Tilden, shook rain off his coat as he climbed the stairs and made his way down the short hallway on the first floor of Sullivan House. As usual the office door was closed, and he rapped his knuckles against the hard wood.

  “Who is it?” came the low voice inside.

  “Oliver.”

  “Come in.”

  Still shedding his gloves, Oliver pushed down the door handle and walked into the austere, candlelit room. While the figure seated behind the desk hunched over a ledger and continued scribbling figures, he dropped into the chair opposite, slapping his gloves against his thigh.

  “What is it?”

  “I thought you’d like to know that your by-blow is spending better than an hour a day at Chalsey House, training a horse for the chit I’m planning to marry.”

  The pen hit the paper, a glob of ink dripping from the tip to stain the ledger sheet. Pale, washed-out eyes beneath a shock of gray hair finally lifted to regard him. “I do not have a by-blow,” George Sullivan, the Marquis of Dunston, grunted.

  “You’re the only one who thinks that.”

  “Nonsense. Nothing of the sort can be proven, and I won’t have you speaking of such rumors and lies in this house.”

  Oliver drew in a breath. He’d never won one of these arguments, but they did gall the old marquis—and generally that was enough to encourage him to continue. “Very well. Mr. Sullivan Waring is working for the household we both know he robbed less than a sennight ago. I thought you might be interested in having that information, especially considering that he’s managing to strike against your particular friends with impunity.” He pushed to his feet. “Good day, Father.”

  As he closed the office door behind him once more, Oliver had to give Waring a small amount of credit. The bastard had certainly found the most effective way imaginable to aggravate their father—and there wasn’t a damned thing the paterfamilias could do about it unless he cared to admit to his own shortcomings first. And all of London knew he’d never do that.

  An interesting way of gaining revenge, and one he might have chosen himself if he’d ever been as stupid and trusting as Sullivan Waring had obviously been in giving the protection of his property over to someone else while he traipsed across the Peninsula. But stupid and trusting were two things Oliver would never be. Especially where his possessions were concerned. Lady Isabel Chalsey in particular.

  Chapter 9

  As Isabel walked outside into the breezy morning sunlight, she nearly wished for rain again.

  Yes, she had questions for Mr. Waring and a mystery to decipher. Aside from that, no one had been burgled since he’d begun working for her, so perhaps keeping him employed was enough to remove him from further temptation, which would be enough reason for her to continue to blackmail him into remaining. But how she’d ended up promising to make friends with a very large animal, she had no idea. Sullivan Waring was clearly a devious fellow.

  “Do you wish it had continued to rain?” he said, appearing from the direction of the stable, Zephyr on the lead line behind him.

  That had to be a guess. He couldn’t possibly know her that well already. And she was supposed to be making the observations. Not him. “Nonsense. And please run Zephyr about a little before you approach me with her.”

  He nodded. “As you wish.”

  From his amused expression, she realized he’d intended to do that anyway, but it couldn’t hurt to remind him that she made the rules in this game and that he’d best play along. Shivering, she closed her eyes for a moment. She didn’t have to do it. She could go back inside the house or deny that she’d ever mentioned approaching that horse.

  They would both know that she was lying, though, and if she’d lied about that, she might have lied about being willing to have Mr. Waring arrested. And then she could expect disaster. She—her knowledge—might very well be his only incentive to stay out of people’s houses, after all.

  And so she kept her hands clasped hard behind her back and watched Zephyr gallop and hop about and toss her head while Sullivan stood calmly at the other end of the lead line, keeping it free of tangles and letting her do as she pleased. Finally he drew her in and patted her on the withers, then whispered something in her ear and led her across the stable yard to where Isabel made her feet remain in place and not hurry her away to safety.

  “What did you tell her?” Isabel asked, seeking for anything to keep her mind off what she was about to do. “To kick me?”

  Sullivan shifted his grip from the rope to the harness, as he’d done the other day. “I told her to behave herself.”

  Isabel forced a smile. “You’re a very unusual thief.”

  “And you are a very unusual blackmailer.”

  “Have you known many with which to compare me?”

  His lips curved. “Not one. And you?”

  “Not one.” Isabel shook herself. “So do you think Zephyr will listen to you?”

  “Yes. Even if she doesn’t, I promise that you will be perfectly safe.”

  That seemed a bold statement, but since she badly wanted it to be true, she didn’t dispute it. “Very well.”

  “Stand behind me.”

  “I don’t need—”

  “I am apparently your slave,” he interrupted, grinning in a way that touched his ice-green eyes and made her heart skitter, “but I know horses better than you do. Stand behind me.”

  “Oh, very well,” she grumbled. Actually, having his tall, lean body between her and the horse seemed a fairly good idea.

  Moving behind him as she had the other day, she grabbed a handful of his shirt to keep him from escaping.
/>   “Can you put your hand over mine again, just as before?”

  “Yes.” Oh dear, oh dear. She should be asking him questions and demanding answers, but all she could see was the large gray flank in front of her.

  “Do it, then.”

  “I will. In a minute.”

  “I was in Spain, wounded, when I received word that my mother had died of a fever,” he said unexpectedly, his voice low and intimate. “I’d already missed her funeral, so I remained with my unit. She had several good friends who’d promised to look after her concerns, and when she became ill she’d also arranged for them to take over supervision of mine, so there didn’t seem to be any reason for me to return to England immediately.”

  As he spoke, he reached back with his free hand and took hers. She knew he was only trying to distract her, but listening to him finally giving her some of the answers she’d wanted was certainly easier than thinking about the horse just in front of her. “But you did return to England, obviously.”

  “Yes. Six months ago. As I said, I took a French ball in the shoulder a year ago, but I managed to talk my commanding officer into letting me stay in the field. Then I was wounded again, in the same shoulder. When I next opened my eyes, I was on a ship halfway back to Dover. Bram arranged to sell out my commission—and his—in order to escort me home.”

  “Bram. Lord Bramwell Johns?” She laid her hand on his larger one as he stroked Zephyr’s withers.

  He nodded. “When I could get about, I went to my mother’s cottage to pack up her paintings and bring them to my home. They were gone. All of them. Apparently the property’s owner had decided that since she’d died, all of her things belonged to him. No matter what her last wishes were.”

  As he spoke, his voice became harder and colder. “I think I can guess,” she said carefully, her cheek against his shoulder, “but who owned the property?”

  “Dunston. I have no idea why she continued to live there, but she said she liked the light in the house. If your next question was why she painted as Francesca Perris, she married William Perris when I was three. He died two years after that.”

  “Do you think she retained an affection for the marquis? Perhaps that was why she st—”

  “No,” he returned sharply. “I think it’s more likely she wanted to remind him of his shortcomings at every opportunity. Hence my name.”

  “That seems crueler to you than to your father, if that was her goal.”

  “She had her own opinion of things, I’ll give you that.” He paused. “And look at you,” he continued, his voice softer again.

  Her hand rested beside his on Zephyr’s flank. Isabel’s breath caught. It was the closest she’d been to a horse in eleven years, since she’d been eight. “Goodness,” she breathed, suddenly afraid to move.

  “You can feel the muscles shift under her skin,” he said in the same soothing tone, “and her ribs moving as she breathes.”

  She didn’t know how he understood so well what she felt and what she needed to hear, the small, mundane things that told her this was normal, and simple, and she could do it. But at the moment she felt enormously grateful. Still nervous as anything, but grateful. And proud of herself.

  Slowly she lifted her hand and set it back again. The muscles moved beneath her palm, the fur coarser than she’d thought it would be. She patted Zephyr again.

  “Well done, Tibby,” Sullivan murmured. “See her ears flick? She’s listening for your voice. Say something to her.”

  “Hello, Zephyr,” she ventured, managing to keep her voice steady. “You’re a pretty thing, aren’t you?”

  The mare blew air out of her nose and tossed her head. Isabel jumped, but Sullivan covered her hand with his.

  “She’s saying hello back to you,” he said calmly. “She didn’t try to move away from you, and her ears are up and angled in your direction. She likes you.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “I do know something about horses,” he said, his tone easy.

  So she’d done it. No sense pushing things further and undoing her so-called triumph. Isabel pulled her hand out from under his. “I think that’s good for today,” she said, releasing his shirt and backing away.

  “Do you want to hold the lead line?”

  “No.” She cleared her throat. “Not yet.”

  “Will you stand with me while I send her walking?”

  She nodded. She could do that. At the moment she nearly felt as though she could do anything. With a grin that probably looked as silly as it felt, she followed him into the middle of the stable yard. “Thank you,” she said belatedly.

  “You’re welcome. Walk on, Zephyr.”

  Gazing at his profile, it occurred to her that he’d never teased her about her hesitation around Zephyr. Neither did her own family, ever, but she’d certainly been teased about it by nearly everyone else who approached her on horseback or in a carriage. And yet this man, who was probably more comfortable with horses than anyone else she’d yet encountered, had said nothing.

  “What?” he asked after a moment, glancing sideways at her.

  “Nothing.”

  “No questions about bridles or saddles or the length of lead lines today?”

  “No.”

  She took a breath, wondering why she felt compelled to continue. This was supposed to be about him. But he’d told her some things—some important things—without being asked. It felt like trust, and she wanted to reciprocate.

  “My friend Mary and I were walking along the lane at Burling—that’s our family estate—when a man riding by in his phaeton lost the reins. The right-hand horse hit me in the side and knocked me into the ditch. Mary got tangled up with the horses. They…dragged her, kicking and screaming, halfway around the bend. She died.”

  “Whoa, Zephyr.” Sullivan faced her, his face serious and his gaze full of an unexpected compassion. “How old were you?”

  “Eight.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She shrugged, abruptly uncomfortable. “Thank you. It was a long time ago.”

  “Some things are never very far away.”

  Isabel felt her lips curve again. “You’re very wise for a horse breeder.”

  “You are the first to say so.”

  He continued to look at her. Warmth crept up her cheeks. They were standing so close to one another…. Her gaze lowered to his very capable mouth. An illegitimate son of a nobleman. A thief. A man who worked with his hands. Everything a proper young lady was supposed to avoid. And she wanted him to kiss her again.

  “Tibby?” he murmured.

  She shook herself. For goodness’ sake, he’d been calling her by her familiar name yet again despite her demands to the contrary, and now she was nearly touching him. And his half-brother was courting her. Everyone knew that. Including him. “Get back to work, if you please.”

  His smile darkened. “No, some things never are very far away, are they? Walk on, Zephyr.”

  “Don’t try to fault me for merely doing what’s proper, Mr. Waring.”

  “I fault you for choosing to be proper only when it suits you, Lady Isabel,” he retorted, turning his back to her. “Get up, girl.” Zephyr moved into a trot.

  So much for their momentary alliance. “You’re the one who feels wronged by one man and does wrong to dozens of others as a consequence.”

  “I’m getting back what’s mine,” he snapped, no amusement at all remaining in his expression now.

  “By stealing from perfectly innocent people.”

  “No one is perfectly innocent. And don’t think your little games are keeping me from anything. Keep your ear to the wind, poppet. You’ll be hearing something soon.”

  “Pray you don’t hear the iron bars of the gaol locking you away, then, Mr. Waring. And yes, that is a warning.” Before he could respond, she turned on her heel and, avoiding Zephyr, strode back to the house.

  What was she doing, keeping her silence about what she knew? He had a compassionate side, certai
nly, but his selfish, vengeful side clearly surrounded and nearly suffocated the rest of him. And he’d just told her that he meant to rob again.

  “Stupid, stupid,” she muttered, stalking through the kitchen into the main part of the house.

  “What’s stupid?” Douglas asked, leaning over the stair railing to look down at her.

  “Nothing.”

  “Do you think Mr. Waring would let me assist him in training your mare?” he continued, hopping down to the foyer.

  “He doesn’t want you hanging about.”

  “You hang about.”

  “She’s my horse.”

  Her younger brother made a face. “That’s not fair. I’ll just go ask him myself.”

  As he passed her, Isabel grabbed his arm. “Wait a moment.”

  “Tibby, don’t be so selfish. Don’t you know how famous he is among horse people?”

  “No.”

  “Very, very famous. A complete hand. A great gun. All-accompli—”

  “I think you’ve made your point.”

  “Phillip nearly wept when Mr. Waring went off to the Peninsula, and he did it just because Levonzy made Lord Bramwell join the army. Did you know Waring sent letters to his stable weekly, instructing them about feed and breeding? If he’d been killed, the entire stock of English blood-horses might have been doomed to oblivion.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I am not being ridiculous.” He shrugged free of her grip. “And I’m going to learn all that I can while I can. Perhaps I’ll set up my own stable someday.”

  She turned and watched him head down the hallway. Oh, she was going mad. Protecting Sullivan Waring, accusing him, kissing him—she needed advice. From someone she could trust to remain silent. “Douglas?”

  He slowed. “What? He’ll only be here for another thirty minutes.”

  “I need to talk to you about something.”

  “Later, Tibby.”

  “No. Now. Come with me.”

  Reluctantly he turned around and followed her into the morning room. “You’re not going to make me try on hats for you again, are you? Because I ain’t going to—”