After the Kiss Page 16

  It still could be perfect, she told herself. The trouble could all just be in her head, because she knew the truth of why she’d embraced Sullivan. And that was because she hadn’t been able not to.

  It had begun as a game, but it wasn’t anything near that any longer. It was wrong, and forbidden—and all the more tantalizing because of it. Like Juliet and Romeo, except that this Romeo wasn’t from a hated rival family. He would have been acceptable, except for the niggling fact that his father had been married to someone other than his mother. And his father wouldn’t claim him. From what she’d overheard this morning, Lord Dunston would never acknowledge Sullivan as his own son.

  “Isabel?”

  She shook herself. From her mother’s tone, it wasn’t the first time she’d spoken. For heaven’s sake, she was about to attend the grandest ball so far this Season. She could dwell on her unfortunate obsession with Sullivan Waring later. “Yes?”

  “What in the world has you so distracted?” the marchioness asked.

  “I rode a horse today,” she improvised. “I’d like to brag about myself, but everyone would just think me odd.”

  “We don’t,” Phillip supplied, giving her a very brotherly smile. “No odder than usual, anyway.”

  “Oh, thank you very much.”

  “Phillip,” their mother chastised. “We’re proud of you, Tibby.”

  “Very proud,” her father echoed. “In fact, I was thinking we might purchase that chestnut mare for you. Or I’m certain Mr. Waring wouldn’t mind a trade, her for Zephyr. And then when you’re more comfortable later on, we’ll get you a younger, more spirited animal.”

  “No!”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Realizing she’d spoken far too stridently, Isabel sat forward to take her father’s hand. “If I give up Zephyr, it’s the same as saying that I can’t accomplish this. And I truly want to be able to ride her.”

  “Very well. So long as you’re willing to continue to put in the work that is required.”

  “I am.”

  Thank goodness he’d given in. Because giving up Zephyr would mean giving up Sullivan. He might be bad for her, but she absolutely wasn’t prepared to let him go. Not yet. Not even if it was selfish, and not even if it meant a great deal more trouble.

  As the coach rocked to a halt, a yellow-liveried footman hurried up to pull open the door and assist their party to the ground. Once again Isabel banished Sullivan Waring from her thoughts. She could dwell on him later, in her dreams.

  Phillip offered his arm, and with a smile she wrapped her fingers around his dark sleeve. Tonight there would be three waltzes, a quantity almost unheard of at any one event. Did Sullivan dance? Did he know the waltz? He’d been raised as a gentleman, he’d said, but the waltz was just becoming more popular than scandalous in London. Of course, he’d spent time in Europe where it had begun, so perhaps he did know it.

  On the other hand, what did it signify? They would never dance together, because he would never be invited to any soiree, much less the Fordham ball. Pay attention, ninny, she reminded herself, stepping forward with her parents and older brother.

  The butler announced her family, and they strolled together into the largest of the conjoined ballrooms at Fordham House. “What a sad crush,” her mother exclaimed happily, and Isabel nodded in agreement.

  She caught sight of Eloise Rampling halfway across the room and waved, but her friend turned and scampered off in the opposite direction. Considering that she could barely see her own hand in the crowd, she didn’t know how anyone was supposed to find a particular person and hold a conversation. Still, that seed of uneasiness in her chest stirred a little.

  “Relent a bit, will you?” Phillip complained. “Before you break my arm off, preferably.”

  She hurriedly loosened her grip. “Apologies.”

  He chuckled. “No worries.” Unexpectedly he put his hand over hers. “Are you certain something’s not bothering you?” he asked more quietly. “I wish I’d been there to see you ride. I hope you’re not ang—”

  “I didn’t expect a parade or a royal decree, Phillip,” she broke in, putting the smile back on her own face. “Nothing’s troubling me. Truly.”

  “Very well.” He looked past her shoulder. “There’s Barbara, then. Must I stand by you? She makes me nervous.”

  “Only because she wants to marry you.”

  “Yes, that’s it precisely.”

  She released his arm. “Go, then, you coward.”

  “Thank you.” With a jaunty grin, her brother strode into the crowd.

  “Was that Lord Chalsey?” Barbara asked, joining her in the crush.

  “Yes. He saw an old friend from university and ran off.” Isabel took in her friend’s blue and yellow silk gown. “That’s the material you chose at Mrs. Wrangley’s, isn’t it? Oh, it’s lovely.”

  Barbara curtsied. “Thank you.” With a quick glance around, she took Isabel’s hand and tugged her toward one of the dozen doorways. “Come with me,” she said in a lower voice. “I need to talk to you.”

  Isabel frowned, then swiftly smoothed away the expression. “What’s going on?” she asked, allowing herself to be pulled along. “You haven’t found someone to replace Phillip, have you?”

  They finally found a quiet alcove, and Barbara sank against the far wall. “It’s Eloise,” she whispered.

  “What’s happened? Is she well?”

  “She’s been talking. To everyone. About you lusting after a stableboy.”

  Isabel’s heart rattled and froze. “Oh, no.”

  “Yes. I told her to stop it, but she—”

  “You were whispering with her all afternoon, Barbara,” she interrupted, scowling. “You might have said something to me before now.”

  “I was attempting to make a jest of the whole thing. I thought she must have understood that you would never think of such a thing.”

  But she was thinking of such a thing. Isabel blinked. “You still should have told me.”

  “I know, I know. But I’m telling you now. You need to say something.”

  “What would I say?”

  “That you certainly have no designs on a stableboy, or that Oliver’s stolen your heart and you felt…pity for Mr. Waring.”

  “He’s not a stableboy.” Nor had Oliver stolen her heart. The Sullivan family, legitimate or otherwise, had only one thief who interested her.

  “Yes, but—”

  “He’s not,” Isabel insisted. “I know that’s probably what Oliver wants everyone to think, but Sullivan Waring is a very well respected horse breeder. And he helped me ride a horse. Why shouldn’t I have thanked him?”

  “I don’t think you should be worrying about the definition of Mr. Waring’s employment,” Barbara returned, her own frown deepening. “He’s a by-blow with no confirmed parentage, and Eloise is whispering to everyone that you’ve…been with him.”

  Isabel blanched. “That’s nonsense!” For a long moment she stared at Barbara while she tried to pull her scattered, half-panicked thoughts together. “No one will believe her,” she finally said. “I have a great many friends here tonight. They’ll know that I wouldn’t do such a thing.”

  “Tibby…”

  Barbara’s look reflected everything that Isabel was already thinking. Rumors. All she could do to defend herself was deny them, and that only brought them more credence. Ignoring them was equally useless. But at least that way had a little dignity to it. And she did have friends. She knew she did. Barbara was a friend, and she didn’t believe the rumors. There had to be others. She’d grown up with these people. And for heaven’s sake, as long as her virtue remained intact, who the devil had a right to care if she had become friends with a horse breeder?

  “Let’s go back inside,” she decided.

  “But—”

  “It’s just Eloise, spreading a nasty rumor. I have as much chance of being believed as she does. And I have truth on my side.” And hopefully enough resolve to refrain fr
om doing physical injury to her former friend.

  “Very well,” Barbara said with clear reluctance. “Unless you think you might prefer just to return home and wait for something else to distract everyone’s attention.”

  That was probably a very wise idea. But the thought of running was supremely distasteful. All right, so she’d kissed him, and so she wanted to kiss him several more times—that was not why the rumors were flying. What Eloise had seen had been innocent. Relatively.

  Before they left the alcove, she hugged her friend. “Thank you for telling me.”

  “Yes, well, I only hope I’m wrong about how busy Eloise has been.”

  As soon as they reentered the main room, Isabel knew that Barbara hadn’t been wrong. Eloise had been very busy, indeed. Everyone seemed to be looking at her, and not in the usual friendly, smiling way they generally did. Oh, dear. She needed to inform her parents and Phillip before someone else did.

  She found them by the dessert table, her father talking with her brother, and her mother looking a bit…bewildered. “Mama,” she said, taking the marchioness’s hand.

  “Tibby, there you are. So who’s filled your dance card tonight?”

  “No one. That’s—”

  “Oh, please. Don’t jest ab—”

  “Mama, listen to me.” Isabel motioned her family closer, and told them what Barbara had told her. By the time she finished her brief dissertation, her mother’s face had paled, while Phillip and her father both looked ready to throttle someone.

  “This is ridiculous,” Phillip snarled.

  “So far I haven’t heard anything,” the marchioness said a little shakily. “Perhaps you exaggerate, Barbara.”

  To her credit, Barbara still stood close by them, though her pleasant smile looked more and more strained. “I think you would be the last people to hear. That’s the way rumors work, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is,” Phillip said grimly. Then his expression eased, and he held out his hand. “Lady Barbara, if you’re not spoken for, may I have the next dance?”

  This time Barbara blushed. “Of course you may.”

  Phillip glanced at Isabel. “And I want the dance after that with you. Save it for me.”

  She smiled, grateful. “I don’t think that’ll be a problem, but it’s yours.”

  While Phillip and Barbara headed for the crowded dance floor, Isabel marked her dance card, putting Phillip’s name beside the country dance which would take place next. Otherwise, the card was empty. Empty. At the Fordham ball. A low shiver ran through her.

  “This is ridiculous,” Lord Darshear hissed. “Where is Eloise’s family? I’m going to have a word with her father.”

  “Lord Rampling never attends these events,” Isabel contributed. Of course she knew that; until today she and Eloise had been friends. Good friends. Or so she’d thought.

  “What about her mother? Where’s Lady Rampling?” her mother put in, her own expression going grimmer as every moment passed without a single gentleman approaching them. “I have a few things I’d like to say to Martha.”

  Isabel shook her head. “This is just silliness. Don’t make it any worse than it is, Mama. I’ll go find Eloise and tell her to stop it.”

  It took several minutes to convince her parents to stay where they were and not begin an all-out attack on every gossip in the house, but finally she slipped away and went looking for Eloise Rampling. She found her friend surrounded by other young people, and squared her shoulders.

  “Eloise?”

  The petite brunette jumped. “Oh, Tibby. I thought you might have decided not to attend tonight, so you could spend the time with your stableboy.”

  A low snicker of laughter sounded around them. It took every ounce of control Isabel possessed to keep from bloodying her friend’s pert upturned nose. “I’m sorry, Eloise,” she said slowly, racing to keep her mind ahead of the pace of her words, “but are you talking about when I tripped in the stable yard today and Mr. Sullivan Waring kept me from falling on my face in the mud? I suppose that might sound romantic, but actually I was just grateful not to have ruined my gown.”

  That garnered a few more chuckles, less nasty this time. Was this how it was for Sullivan, when he had dealings with her kind? If so, she understood now why he didn’t like the aristocracy. She wasn’t fond of them herself at the moment, and she was one of them.

  “I heard a rumor,” a low voice drawled behind her, and she stiffened. Keeping her expression light and easy, she turned around. And blinked.

  “Lord Bramwell?”

  The tall, black-haired, black-clothed duke’s son sketched a lazy, elegant bow. “Someone told me that Lady Isabel Chalsey is the finest, most elegant dancer in attendance tonight. Would you care to oblige my curiosity?” He held out his hand to her.

  “Now?”

  He glanced over his shoulder at the exuberant crowd of dancers. “I have to test your mettle before I commit to requesting a waltz.”

  The notorious Lord Bramwell Lowry Johns seemed to be performing a rescue. Dipping in a curtsy and doing everything she could to keep the gratitude and relief from showing on her face, she clasped his fingers. “You are very wise, my lord,” she said aloud as they walked over to join the other dancers.

  “So I keep telling everyone.”

  “And you have quite excellent instincts,” she observed, timing her comments to the moments when the dance brought them together.

  “Yes, well, an angry little birdie mentioned that you might be in need of an ally tonight.”

  She turned and nearly missed a step. Sullivan had arranged this? She wished she dared ask that question aloud, but being overheard speaking about him certainly wouldn’t improve matters for her, or for him. But he’d thought of her, and he’d sent help. Unlikely help, but help indeed.

  “It’s still very nice of you,” she said as they joined hands and circled again.

  Lord Bramwell gave her a dark smile that unsettled her a little. “I’m not the least bit nice. I enjoy having people owe me favors. Now you owe me one.”

  “I—”

  “And I’m about to make it two favors. Stay away from the angry bird, Isabel. He’s on a path with no safe haven in sight. And you don’t want to be there when pheasant season begins.”

  A shiver ran through her again. “Have you told him that?”

  “He knew when he began this that it wouldn’t end well.”

  “What if…” She hesitated. Why in the world should she trust this man? Even as she asked the question of herself, though, she knew the answer. She trusted him because Sullivan trusted him. “What if I can convince him to leave this path?”

  Eyes black as pitch assessed her. “Someone is going to lose,” he said finally, joining in the applause as the dance ended. Then he placed her hand over his arm while they looked for her parents. “Stand close to him, and it will very likely be you.”

  “Where will you stand?”

  He shrugged. “I’m a shifty, self-serving sort of fellow. I suppose it depends where the greatest benefit to me lies.”

  As he smiled and handed her off, Isabel didn’t know whether she believed him about that or not. He did have a very changeable reputation. But he’d made an appearance, and he’d helped her tonight. As for—

  “Isabel, there you are,” Oliver said, nodding at her parents as he reached her side. “I hope I haven’t arrived too late to secure a place on your dance card.”

  Hm. Perhaps now that Lord Bramwell had smiled on her, everything wasn’t as lost as she’d begun to fear. “You may have your pick, Oliver.”

  “Then I choose the first waltz.”

  “It’s yours.”

  Phillip returned to claim her for the next dance, and she did finally end with an adequate complement of partners. It hadn’t been easy, though, and it wasn’t something she looked forward to encountering ever again.

  And charming as she tried to be, Lord Bramwell’s words kept running through her mind. Because he’d been very cor
rect about Sullivan. Mr. Waring was headed toward a very bad carriage wreck. And she’d already lived through one of those. She wasn’t certain she could face another.

  Chapter 15

  Sullivan stifled a yawn. He generally enjoyed the early mornings, and particularly those when he attended Tattersall’s horse market, but this morning he would rather have arrived early at Chalsey House. Bram hadn’t bothered to return after the ball to report on Isabel’s reception there, and he’d tossed and turned all night imagining her ruination.

  A light fog blended ground with sky, the stables and auction pens gray and gloomy despite the flurry of men and horses around them. He listened for anything interesting, but most of the men about the paddocks at this hour were stableboys and grooms, and even if there was any good ton gossip to be had, they probably wouldn’t have it. Not yet, anyway.

  One of his sale animals came up behind him in the holding pen to nuzzle his shoulder. “You want an apple already?” he asked, digging one out of his pocket as he turned around. “Here you go, Ariadne.”

  The pretty chestnut mare nickered, taking the fruit from his hand and munching down on it. If people were as easy to decipher as horses, he could have been king by now, he reflected with a short grin, patting Ariadne on the neck.

  The shovel handle caught him in the back of the knees, sending him to the ground almost before he realized he’d been struck. Instinctively Sullivan rolled sideways, grabbing the sturdy railing of the pen to help him to his feet again. Four men advanced on him, none of them familiar, and all of them armed with shovels.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said darkly, crouching, the old battle lust stirring his blood. “Apparently we have a disagreement. Care to tell me what it is?”

  “You need to learn to keep to your own kind, boy,” the largest of them growled, swinging the shovel at him.

  Sullivan blocked it with his forearm, closing in to deliver a hard jab to his attacker’s throat. With a gurgle the fellow dropped. Grabbing the shovel out of the man’s hand, Sullivan swept the second cove’s legs out from under him. A shovel slammed across his back, stunning him. He swung again as he stumbled forward, connecting with someone’s arm. A handle cracked across the side of his head, and he went down into the dirt.