“This idiotic thievery is your doing. And you will cease it at once.”
“I could debate over whose doing it is, since you robbed me while I was fighting in Spain to preserve the kingdom, but I’m more interested in what you think you can possibly do to stop me from reclaiming what’s mine.” He took a sip of the coffee. It was too hot, and too strong, but he scarely noticed. “Have me arrested, Dunston. Please. I’ll shout from the prison towers about how you’ve taken from me, and driven me to a life of crime. Papa.”
Dunston clutched his walking stick so hard his knuckles showed white. “You go too far, boy. Your mother granted my family name no favors when she gave it to you. As if she expected me to give it to you.”
Sullivan narrowed his eyes, his own temper closer to breaking than it had been since he’d first returned to England to find his mother’s cottage ransacked and his so-called father bestowing the artworks on his friends and acquaintances. “My guess would be that she didn’t expect you to give me anything; she merely wanted to remind you of your hypocrisy and failed responsibility.”
“You were a mistake. And I will not compromise my family’s standing because your mother decided to name her bastard after me in hopes that I would, what, raise you as my own? Grant you lands? Make you my heir? It’s ridiculous.”
“Tell yourself whatever enables you to sleep at night,” Sullivan shot back. “Just do it elsewhere.”
“First give me your word that you’ll stop thieving. And that you’ll stop hanging about Chalsey House and bothering my son.”
“So Oliver tattled on me, did he?” Sullivan forced a smile, wondering if Dunston realized how close he was to getting hot coffee thrown in his face. “The family hired me. Unlike some, I fulfill my obligations.”
“Then promise me that you won’t try to embarrass my son or my name by bandying about your theory of your parentage. Or by disrupting the lives of my peers, my friends, with your housebreaking.”
Sullivan stalked past Dunston to the front door. “Surely Lord Tilden can fend for himself against a bastard horse breeder,” he retorted. Of course, the marquis hadn’t warned him to stay clear of Isabel; it was ridiculous to consider that he might make a play for her in the first place, with or without noble competition.
“I don’t want to hear the talk. I get enough of the stupidity every time you sell someone a damned horse. I have no idea why your mother didn’t drown you at birth.”
“So I could make your life as miserable as possible right now, I suppose.” He yanked open the door. “I’ll be happy to put a boot to your arse, Marquis.”
“Bah. Keep clear of me and mine, Waring. Mind your damned place before someone does shoot you. I won’t be claiming the corpse for burial.” With a last sniff and a disdainful glare, George Sullivan turned on his heel and left.
Sullivan slammed the door. The satisfying thud reverberated through the house. The soft sound that directly followed it, though, stopped him cold. He whipped around.
Isabel Chalsey stood in the front room doorway, one hand over her mouth and the other over her heart. “Hello, poppet,” he murmured, the heat in his chest traveling downward. “You’ve strayed a bit, haven’t you?”
“I heard a rumor that a thief was shot last night,” she said, her voice breathy. Worry or uncertainty, he wasn’t certain, but he liked the sound.
“You were worried about me?” He left the front door to approach her.
“You were late arriving. The—”
He grabbed her shoulders, pressing her back against the doorframe, and lowered his mouth over hers. Since they’d met he’d made excuses for being around her, for kissing her. Now, though, he had to admit what he couldn’t even conceal—he wanted her. Badly.
Her fingers tangled into his shirt, pulling him closer as she kissed him back hungrily. She sighed against his mouth, her tongue flicking against his, then pushed him back. “We’re not alone,” she managed shakily.
Sullivan took a step backward just as another form came up the hallway behind them. “Sprout,” he grunted, nodding at Douglas Chalsey, then turned his back and strode again into the front room. All the boy needed to do was get a look at the present cut of the jib in his trousers, and the fight would be on.
“You ain’t dead, eh?” Douglas commented. “Saw Dunston’s carriage in the yard, so we went around back.”
With a stiff nod, Sullivan went to grab his coat and pull it on. Of course Isabel wouldn’t have come alone; she didn’t even ride. He should have realized. Idiot. “Apologies for being late. It won’t happen again.”
“You are wounded,” Isabel announced.
As Sullivan faced the two Chalseys again, Tibby’s brown eyes were gazing at him critically, her expression halfway between dazed and worried. “I caught a splinter,” he said. A seven-inch splinter buried halfway into his left thigh, but he’d spare them the details. “Let’s be off, shall we?”
“Douglas, would you bring the curricle around to the front?” Isabel asked, her gaze still on Sullivan.
“But I just—”
“Give us a moment, sprout,” Sullivan cut in.
“Well, you might have just said that to begin with,” Douglas grumbled, turning back down the short hallway again.
“Do you often call on your employees at their homes when they’re”—he glanced at the small clock on the mantel—“fifty-two minutes late?”
“I warned you to cease your…nefarious activities, Mr. Waring.”
“And I told you that I wouldn’t. I suggest, therefore, that you have me arrested. Because I’m informing you that I will do it again.”
She gazed at him. “And I do understand why. But—”
“You understand,” he repeated. “You.”
“Yes, me. I overheard your conversation with Lord Dunston,” she said. “Part of it, anyway.”
Damnation. “Then we can add eavesdropping to your list of accomplishments. And housebreaking. You’re steadily becoming…me, I suppose.”
She cocked her head at him. “I wasn’t planning on a robbery. I thought you’d been hurt. I was…I was worried.”
He held himself still. “What makes you think it was me who burgled Levonzy’s home, anyway? His son is my closest friend. It would mean I had no positive qualities at all.”
“A painting was taken.” She took a breath. “Of course I know it was you. I don’t understand why you feel the need to dissemble with me. I certainly know enough to cause you harm even without this latest expedition of yours.”
That was true enough. Slowly Sullivan nodded. “He missed me. Except for the splinter when he blew apart an elm tree.”
“Do you need a physician? I can—”
“I’ve been wounded much worse than this,” he interrupted. “It’s no matter.” Aware that her brother could stomp back in at any moment, he took a step closer to her again. “I appreciate that you came all this way just to make certain I wasn’t dead.”
“I do have twenty pounds invested in you.”
“Now who’s dissembling?”
Isabel took a glance about the small room. “Why don’t you speak like a horse breeder?”
“Because I was raised to be a gentleman. Tutors, school, and of course Continental travel on Bonaparte’s heels.”
“Did your mother expect that Lord Dunston would acknowledge you?”
Obviously she hadn’t heard all of the conversation he’d had with Dunston. If he hadn’t wanted to kiss her again, he would have been considerably less willing to answer. “He made it very clear from the beginning that he would never acknowledge me,” he said quietly. “She wanted me to have the education to do whatever I wished. I’m the one who had no desire to be a parson or a solicitor or bookkeeper.”
“No, I can’t imagine you being sedentary,” she returned thoughtfully. “And I can tell that you enjoy what you’re doing now. And you are quite good at it.”
“Thank you, not that I need your approval.”
She frowned, her fin
e eyebrows lowering. “You may know about horses, but it’s becoming obvious that I confound you.”
He took another step closer, near enough to touch her, to kiss her, again. Then what she’d said dawned on him. “Beg pardon?”
“You kiss me, and then you insult me. You have no idea what you want, do you?”
He grabbed her upper arms again, tugging her up against him. “I know quite well what I want, Isabel. Just be glad that I haven’t taken it, so far.”
She looked up at his face, meeting his gaze squarely. “You still don’t frighten me.”
“I’m not trying to frighten you,” he whispered. “I’m trying to warn you.”
“Because you’re not a gentleman?”
Sullivan shook his head. He wanted her so badly he could taste it. “Not in the least. And I’m happy not to be one.”
“I’m beginning to think that’s what I like about you.”
While he stood as still as he could with her so close to him, she ran her hands up his shoulders and into his hair. Then she pulled his face down to hers and pressed her lips softly against his.
With a moan he deepened their embrace, lifting her in his arms so their faces were level. His heart pounded against his ribs, and he swore he could feel her fast pulse beneath his fingers. God, this was dangerous, for both of them. Maybe that was part of why being with her was so intoxicating. But even without the difference in their stations she would have mesmerized him. Sweet and cynical, strong and timid, witty and naive, all at the same time.
His front door rattled, and he set Isabel down so quickly she stumbled. With a curse he put out a hand to steady her as the door opened. “Let’s go, Lady Isabel,” he said, turning the caress into a gentlemanly offer of assistance. “Unless you wish me to forgo today’s instruction.”
She swallowed, the skin of her cheeks rosy. “You said it would set Zephyr back to miss a day. So yes, please, let’s be going. I don’t make a habit of tracking down tardy employees, whatever you may think.”
“Or kissing them,” he whispered into her hair as she passed by him.
Isabel wanted him about. So whatever Dunston might warn about staying away from Chalsey House and stepping back from Oliver’s…whatever it was, he would stay, until he either came to his senses or someone did manage to put a ball through him.
Isabel looked over her shoulder again as Douglas turned the curricle onto the Chalsey House drive. A few yards behind them Sullivan rode on his monstrous stallion, another horse in tow. The chestnut mare would be the one he’d decided she needed to ride. And at the moment she felt as apprehensive about speaking with him again as she did about actually sitting on a horse.
When she was with her friends, or dancing at one of the hundred balls scheduled for the Season, she knew how ridiculous it was to even think about kissing the unacknowledged, natural son of the Marquis of Dunston. In his presence, though, she could think of nothing else.
As a child she’d been the one to jump into the lake first, and she’d climbed more trees than either brother, mostly because they’d told her not to. She always got what she wanted, from dresses to beaux. Was that it? Sullivan Waring was something she wasn’t supposed to have? Was that what attracted her?
She glanced back at him again. He swung down from his mount, handing off the reins of both horses to Phipps. Very well, the forbidden fruit aspect was part of the attraction. As was the mystery of him. After seeing him with Lord Dunston, though, she nearly had his puzzle pieced together. And he attracted her even more now than he had before.
He had a better education than some of the men who courted her, or at least he had a better understanding of what he’d learned than a great many others. He spoke his mind, even though their social rankings said that he shouldn’t. And he…understood her fears and her determination as well as her own family.
He looked over at her, and a slight smile touched his sensuous mouth. Her heart beat faster in response. As her father and Phillip emerged from the house, she set the haughty expression back on her face. After all, he was still in her employ. And now he’d stolen from a duke. And as long as she wanted him to continue kissing her, she had no choice but to keep that a secret, as well.
“There you are,” her father said, coming forward to help her down from the carriage. “Whatever you and Barbara found so urgent, I would appreciate more information than ‘I’m leaving for a bit.’”
“Apologies, Papa.” Isabel said, leaning up to kiss him on the cheek.
“I did go along,” Douglas said offhandedly. “I think I could manage to protect Tibby’s virtue.”
Phillip snorted. “You couldn’t even protect your own virtue.”
“I say! That is not—”
“Enough, children. I am off to do my accounts. Pray behave yourselves.”
The viscount returned to the house. Phillip was chatting about something with Sullivan, while Douglas joined them to hang on every word.
“Are you going to ride today, Tibby?” her older brother asked, motioning at the chestnut mare.
Swallowing hard, her hands beginning to shake, she shrugged. “I haven’t decided yet.”
“May I fetch Zephyr for you, Mr. Waring?” Douglas interjected.
“If you can be calm about it,” Sullivan returned.
“I’m always calm.”
Phillip laughed. “You’re frightening me at the moment. But be quick about it, will you? You’ll make us late for our appointment at Hoby’s.”
“Zooks! I forgot.” Douglas hurried off to the stable, Phillip trailing behind him.
“So are you, poppet?”
Isabel turned to face Sullivan. “Am I what?”
“Going to ride today.”
“Oh.” She shrugged, clasping her hands behind her back so he wouldn’t see them tremble.
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Have you ever sat in a saddle?”
“No.”
“Well, let’s begin with that, shall we?” Sullivan started for the stable and motioned for her to join him.
“I’m still giving the orders, you know,” she stated. As distracted as she felt by his mere presence, it wouldn’t do for him to think he could now order her about just because they’d kissed several times.
He stopped. “What shall we do now, then, Lady Isabel?”
Isabel lifted her chin. “Take me to the stable, so I might learn about sitting on a horse.”
“As you wish.”
Chapter 13
“What’s to keep it from rolling over on me?” Isabel asked skeptically, nudging the tipped-over barrel with one toe.
“I will.” Sullivan squatted in front of it, a knee on either side. “It’s perfectly safe.”
He’d placed her sidesaddle over the barrel and cinched it securely to the rotund middle, but however strong and capable he appeared, she had her doubts that he’d be able to keep her from landing on her backside the moment she sat down. Isabel eyed him again. “This looks very silly.”
“But it’s low to the ground, and it won’t walk off with you.” He tilted his head, that gold-shot strand of hair obscuring one green eye. “Why are you protesting? It’s a hollow hunk of wood and metal. And no one else is going to say anything.”
She grimaced. “Very well. You have a point.” Gathering her skirts, she sidled up to the barrel and awkwardly sat, looping one knee around the saddle’s cantle. “I’m not precisely dressed for this.”
“You did it well, though.”
“Oh, please. As you pointed out, it’s a hunk of wood.”
A quick smile softened his mouth as he crouched, gazing up at her. Goodness, she wanted to kiss him. Phipps and several of the other stableboys continued to meander about the stable, though, so she didn’t dare. And not being able to made her want to even more.
“Do you feel secure?”
“You’re not going to spin me about, are you?”
“No.”
“Then yes, I feel fairly secure.”
“Good.
” He looked away. “Phipps, hand me a bridle, will you?” The head groom brought one over, and using a free hand Sullivan draped it over his own shoulders and then handed her the reins. “The height’s a bit off, but it’s fairly close. You hold them in whichever hand you’re more comfortable, and without wrapping them around anything, run the ends through your other hand, in case you lose them.”
“‘Lose them’?” she repeated, shivering.
“It’s not likely to happen, but I don’t want you to be surprised if it does.”
With a tight nod she held the reins as he instructed, loosening her fists a little when he pointed out that the cow the bridle had been made from was already deceased. She knew he was trying to set her at ease, and she appreciated it, but they both knew that sitting on a barrel was an ocean apart from sitting on a horse.
Using a surprising amount of patience and understanding, he showed her how to turn an animal, how to hold on if things became rough, and how to exert her will on a stubborn mount. All the while he had a bridle draped over his head, demonstrating as he spoke. Her heart did several odd flip-flops. She couldn’t imagine anyone else in her acquaintance, employee or not, being as patient or thorough, or willing to look so silly for her benefit.
“May I ask you a question?”
Sullivan stopped tugging against the reins. “You seem to, whether I want you to or not.”
“I know I asked you before, but do you paint?”
He blew out his breath. “I used to sketch sometimes. Not for years, though.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not skilled enough to be able to make a living at it, and I can’t afford to be idle.” He shifted, a quick grimace crossing his lean face. “I think it’s either time for you to attempt riding an actual horse, or for me to take Zephyr out for some work.”
Grabbing on to his shoulder, she carefully stood again. Even crouching as he was, he felt solid as a rock beneath her fingers. No padding there; just hard, well-earned muscle. She swallowed, reluctantly releasing him. “Perhaps I could mount while the horse is in its stall,” she suggested.
Pulling off the bridle, he straightened, looming over her. “No,” he returned, carefully stretching out his left leg. “If she fidgets, you could end with a crushed leg. And then you wouldn’t be able to dance.”
After the Kiss Page 14
