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.
Finally he heard the good nights, and the front door opening and closing. His heart began to beat faster—not with apprehension, but with anticipation. He might be a nonentity to the rest of good Society, but he hadn’t become one to Isabel. Not yet, anyway.
Returning to his shelter behind the wardrobe, he waited as footsteps and voices began trailing up the stairs. It seemed like hours before Isabel and her maid entered her room, closing the door behind them. Soft citrus spun into the air, and he went hard.
“Shall I lay out your morning dress, my lady?” the maid asked, as she helped Isabel unbutton the back of her stunning gown.
Sullivan saw her glance toward the wardrobe, and he deliberately moved, putting a finger over his lips. Isabel gasped.
“What is it, my lady?”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Isabel said hurriedly. “A yawn. Penny, you may go. I’ll see to the rest myself.”
“But your gown—”
“I’ll manage. Thank you. I’m just frightfully tired.”
The maid dipped a curtsy. “Very well, my lady. Shall I wake you at nine o’clock again?”
“Yes. That will be fine. Good night.”
“Good night, Lady Isabel.”
As soon as the door closed, she stalked up to Sullivan. “What the devil are you doing in my bedchamber?” she hissed.
“That wasn’t the reception I was hoping for,” he said dryly, unable to resist reaching out to stroke her bare throat with his fingers.
“Does this mean you decided against robbing Fairchild House after all?”
“No. The painting’s safe in my house.”
“Sulli—”
“I just wanted to make certain that nothing happened to you after I left. That no one had any idea I was there.” Running his fingers down her arm, he took her hand. “Are you well?”
“Yes. Oliver knows something, but he didn’t accuse anyone of anything. Apparently several ladies saw his skill in dancing with me, and were interested in claiming the last waltz of the evening.”
He drew her hand up to his lips, kissing her knuckles. He felt her fingers tremble beneath his, and smiled a little. “Good.”
“He’ll know tomorrow that you burgled Fairchild’s house. And he’ll know for certain that it was you I waltzed with.”
Sullivan felt his smile fade. “If he asks directly, you have to tell him that you thought he was the tiger, being mysterious. I doubt he’ll press the issue. He can’t, without admitting I bested him.”
“‘Bested him,’” she repeated. “Please tell me that I’m not some sort of prize in a tug-of-war.”
“You’re not.” Yes, it had crossed his mind, but not any longer.
“Humph.” Isabel pulled her hand free and turned her back on him. “Undo my dress.”
“As you wish,” he murmured, shifting her long blonde hair over her shoulder so he could reach the row of buttons running down her back. As he opened each one, he kissed the skin he’d bared. “Does this mean I’m to stay?” he asked between kisses.
“I haven’t decided yet,” she returned, her voice breathy and not quite controlled. “You did dance rather well tonight.”
“Thank you. So did you. It made me wish that wings were fashionable riding attire.”
He wanted to ask her what interesting things Oliver had said to her when he
finally appeared, but that would be a sure way to get him thrown out the window, and it was a good twenty feet to the very prickly-looking rosebushes below. Aside from that, he wasn’t entirely certain that he did want to know whether she found Lord Tilden’s attentions flattering, or whether she would accept when he offered for her. Because he would offer for her; Sullivan was certain of that.
“Perhaps this will help to persuade you,” he said aloud, slipping the dress forward over her shoulders, letting his hands drift down to graze her breasts. He lingered there, circling his fingertips closer and closer until he pinched her nipples lightly between thumb and forefinger.
She gasped, sagging back against his chest as he continued his ministrations. It fascinated him, that she could be so sought-after as a wife and yet he was the first one inside her bed, inside her body. She fascinated him, probably too much. A sane man, even a heathen such as he, would have thought twice—or thrice—about bedding a young lady in her father’s own house.
He’d had only one thought, and it had been a constant one almost since he’d first kissed her. And even last night in the stable hadn’t been enough. Not nearly. In fact, that had only made his yearning for her worse.
Pushing the gown down past her waist, he lowered his hand to her stomach, and then farther, slipping his fingers through her curls and pressing up against her. God, she was damp for him. Forcibly turning her to face him, he bent his head down to kiss her.
She opened her mouth to him, her tongue flitting between his teeth and making him groan. Isabel slipped her hands beneath his jacket, pushing the heavy thing off his shoulders. He shrugged his arms out of it and dropped it to the floor. “Poppet,” he murmured against her mouth, sliding his arms around the swell of her hips and pulling her up against him.
In his arms she seemed so fragile, but she had more courage than some soldiers he’d known. In order to keep him under her control she’d chosen what had probably been for her the most terrifying course she could imagine. And today she’d ridden a horse in Hyde Park.
Isabel pulled his shirt free, her warm fingers gliding up his chest, bare skin against bare skin. His cock strained at his trousers, the ache painful and welcome at the same time. He yanked his shirt off over his head so he could resume kissing her.
“I wasn’t worried about me, you know,” Isabel muttered, going to work on his trousers. “I just didn’t want you to get in any more trouble.”
“Me get into trouble?” he repeated, lifting her in his arms to carry her to the bed. “You are trouble, Isabel.”
Sullivan sat on the edge of her bed so he could remove his boots. Both they and he seemed incongruous in a bedchamber filled with lace pillows and bed hangings, and yellow and pink flowers and clippings of French gowns from the latest fashion plates.
“What are you looking at?” she asked, sitting up behind him. Her hands exploring the muscles of his back and shoulders made him shudder.
“Your perfect life,” he admitted quietly, mindful that her younger brother had the room next to hers. “I truly don’t belong here.”
“But you are here,” she returned, pulling at him until he gave in and lay back. “And if I’d asked you to go when I saw you lurking in the corner, you would have.”
“I wasn’t lurking.” He looked up at her. “And are you so certain I would have left?”
“From the moment you broke into this house,” she answered, leaning down over him and kissing his chest with a feather-light touch that stole the air from his lungs, “you’ve left me half mad with annoyance and frustration, but you’ve also been the most…intuitive and honest man I’ve ever met.”
The compliment made him smile. “You neglected to mention lust. I think that’s persuaded you more than anything else.”
“It has not.”
“Are you certain?” He lifted his head, taking one of her breasts in his mouth.
She moaned, the splayed fingers of her hands digging into his chest. God, he wanted her. But it wasn’t just that. He liked conversing with her. And dancing with her. A few of her peers might be polite to him, but if they conversed at all, it was about horses. With her, he could chat—and argue—about anything. He liked arguing with her.
Sullivan finished removing his trousers and went back to kissing her. Whatever his body craved, simply putting her on her back and rutting wouldn’t do. He might not be a gentleman, but he wasn’t an animal, either.
“Sullivan,” she murmured shakily, jumping as he trailed his hand up the inside of her thighs, “may I touch you?”
She was touching him. For a moment he frowned, before he realized where her gaze was. “Please do.”
He steeled himself, leaning back on his elbows, as her hesitant fingers stroked his cock, then wrapped around it. It would have been easy to let go right then, but he gritted his jaw and fought against it as she explored him.
“This feels good, doesn’t it?” she whispered, her voice growing huskier. She stroked along his length again.
“Yes, it does,” he grated, trying to keep his eyes from rolling back into his head. He reached down to take her hands, pulling her away from him. “Time for another riding lesson, Isabel.”
“Wha—Oh,” she returned, her eyes widening. “Show me.”
Guiding her right leg over his hips until she straddled him, Sullivan sat up to kiss her again. Then he put his hands on her slim hips and pulled her down, watching as his member slid slowly up inside her. Her warm, tight heat engulfed him, and he moaned again. “Isabel.”
He showed her, up and down, up and down, while he lifted his hips to meet her. She learned quickly, and he gave in to the pleasure of it all, thrusting up into her, teasing at her breasts until she gasped and climaxed. Sullivan wrapped his arms around her back, twisting them until he was on top and she lay on her back looking up at him. Harder and faster, deeper he pushed and retreated, until he felt himself crossing the edge.
At the last moment he left her, holding her tightly against him as he came. They lay tangled together for a long moment until he could breath again. Then he rose and went to find one of her pretty monogrammed kerchiefs so they could clean themselves.
As he lay down again beside her, she slipped her head onto his shoulder and he curled an arm around her. “Sullivan,” she whispered, her breathing still hard and her pulse fast under his fingers, “you feel very good.”
He chuckled quietly. “So do you, poppet.”
Too good, in fact. For Lucifer’s sake, he nearly hadn’t left her. He would have risked ruining the remainder of her life simply because he could barely stand the thought of not…finishing with her. Him. The child of exactly such a mistake.
“Oliver escorted us home tonight,” she said after a moment, her fingers absently roaming his chest. “He finds every way he can to ask whether you’ve been here or not without actually mentioning you. It was almost ridiculous tonight, the way he couldn’t ask why I told him I’d already waltzed with a tiger.”
“That’s because according to the Sullivan family, I don’t exist,” he returned. “It makes it difficult for him to not tolerate me publicly.”
“He’s been very nice to me. I know you detest him, and I don’t like the way he talks to you and about you, but when you consider it, neither of you are to blame for anything.”
Except for hiring thugs to beat him, but that was a private matter to be settled just between Oliver and him. “Perhaps not for the beginning of it,” he said aloud, “but for our actions since we became old enough to know better, yes, we can be blamed.”
“You have reasons for your anger. Both of you. I understand that. But you needn’t make things so difficult for yourselves, or for one another.”
“How else would you have us—me—behave?”
“With more tolerance.”
“Tolerance doesn’t erase sins, Isabel.”
She might have thought he referred to the burglaries, but he could be blamed for much worse than that. He’d made a possibly fatal misstep; he
’d begun to fall very hard for the daughter of a nobleman.
Chapter 19
Isabel gazed out her window into the dim predawn darkness. “How in the world did you get in here?” she asked. “Someone surely would have seen you coming through the front doors last night.”
Sullivan came up behind her, his warm hand sliding down beneath her robe to cup one breast. Sighing unsteadily, she leaned back against his chest. Four hours. She’d never felt as decadent, or as sated, in her life. And his touch still made her tremble.
“I swung down from the roof,” he said matter-of-factly, leaning down to brush his lips against the nape of her neck.
Oh, goodness. “You won’t be able to leave that way.”
“Thinking about how to get rid of me already?”
Thankfully he didn’t sound annoyed. “It’s nearly daylight,” she returned. “I think we both know what’ll happen if you’re seen here with me.”
“Yes. A convent or life in the country for you, and transportation or a hanging for me, most likely.”
“Not for this,” she protested, reaching around to knock him on the hip. “You would only lose your livelihood because no one would ever purchase a horse from you again.”
“Perhaps I should just jump out the window and be done with it, then.”
Through the trees down below she made out a milk cart rattling down the street. Some of the servants were likely already awake, then. “I’ll check the hallway; you follow me.”
“No. I’ll manage. Get back in bed, poppet.” Turning her to face him, he kissed her softly on the lips.
“Sulli—”
“I’ll see you in”—he pulled out a battered pocket watch—“five hours.”
He released her, starting for the door. Isabel felt abruptly cold, inside and out. She followed him, grabbing his wrist, and he stopped.
“What is it?”
“May I ask you a question?”
Sullivan nodded, his elegant brow lowering.
“If…if circumstances were different, would you still…” She trailed off, not certain how to ask the question, and even less sure she wanted to hear the answer. She seemed to be careening straight toward disaster, though, and the more she knew about the path ahead, the better. Hopefully. “Would you still like me?” she finished.
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