After the Kiss Page 3

  “What are you going to do about it, since you won’t listen to me and leave London?”

  Sullivan looked at his friend. “I’ll find out what it will take to convince her to keep her pretty mouth shut, and then I’ll finish what I began.”

  “Ah. With the kiss, or with the thefts?”

  “The thefts, Bram.” Sullivan stalked over to the wagon where he kept his equipment and tack, and climbed up to look for his longeing whip. “I don’t give a damn about the kiss.”

  Thankfully Bram had enough wit to refrain from replying to that, and instead he rode off in the direction of Pall Mall. Good. Sullivan didn’t feel like continuing the discussion of his missteps and errors in judgment today. Not when he still couldn’t shake the odd, foggy sensation that had dogged him since he’d turned around to see Lady Isabel Chalsey standing in her foyer this morning.

  He blew out his breath. If he’d threatened her rather than kissed her, if he’d stayed back rather than let her pull off his mask, then even if they had come face-to-face today, even if they’d spoken, she never would have known. He would have been Sullivan James Waring, the most sought-after horse breeder and trainer in the south of England. He never would have tasted her sweet mouth, and she would not have any cause to blackmail him into playing her bloody game, whatever it might be.

  “Mr. Waring?”

  He jumped down from the wagon as a large, well-dressed man with close-set eyes and a weak chin approached. “Lord Massey,” he said, lowering his head briefly and dusting off his trousers. “What can I do for you this morning?”

  “I heard some gossip flying about that you brought Ulysses with you today.”

  “I did, but for a private sale, I’m afraid.” Something else he never would have done if not for that damned chit.

  The viscount’s left eye twitched. “I’d hoped to acquire him, you know.”

  “You and several others, my lord. Unfortunately, the gentleman to whom I’d given first right of refusal decided to take him.”

  “Reconsider. I’ll give you a hundred pounds for him, if you’ll say I had the prior claim.”

  “That’s very generous, but a deal is a deal.”

  “Two hundred pounds.”

  Sullivan kept his expression cool and sympathetic. “Once again, I cannot, my lord. Ulysses is sold.”

  “I won’t take no for—”

  “What I can do, however,” Sullivan cut in, wondering if Massey had any idea how little he liked being bullied or pressured, “is give you first run at Ulysses’ brother, Spartan. I’ll be bringing him in for auction early next month.”

  “Spartan, eh? The sire is Hector?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who’s the dam?”

  “Lilac Pleasure. The sister of Ulysses’ dam, Lavender Pleasure.”

  “I insist on seeing this Spartan before I commit to anything.”

  “Come by my stables at your convenience. Someone will put him through his paces for you.”

  “Very well. The next time you intend to sell one of your prime animals, Waring, I expect to be the first buyer you inform.”

  Sullivan clenched his jaw. The only thing keeping him from demonstrating his own displeasure with Lord Massey was the knowledge that a fortnight ago the viscount’s London house had suffered a break-in. “As Spartan is my next prime animal to be offered for sale, you have been informed before anyone else. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my lord, I have some matters to attend to.”

  The viscount glared at him for a moment. Apparently his desire for a prime blood-horse and for the opportunity to bid on future animals, however, outweighed his anger, because with a curt nod he turned on his heel and headed back to the main auction arena.

  Bloody self-important aristocratic pudding-bag. As though Massey’s parents wearing wedding bands made the viscount less of a bastard than someone whose parents had succumbed to something baser. Sullivan went to find his men to give them instructions for the remainder of the day. If Lady Isabel Chalsey thought he would fall meekly into her little game, she was about to be in for a rather nasty surprise.

  “You purchased a horse?” Lord Douglas Chalsey said skeptically. “You, Tibby?”

  Isabel favored her younger brother with what she hoped was a disdainful glare. “Yes, I purchased a horse, Douglas. Young ladies of quality do ride, you know.”

  The sixteen-year-old circled her again. “Yes, I know. But those chits ain’t frightened of horses. You are.”

  “I am not! And stop prancing around me; you’re making me ill. For your information, Douglas, I’m cautious around large animals, as anyone with any sense should be. I am not afraid of them. I’m not afraid of anything.”

  Douglas made a rude sound. With his usual impeccable timing their father Harry, the Marquis of Darshear, appeared at the top of the front steps and descended to cuff his youngest offspring on the back of the head.

  “Having manners means toward everyone, Douglas,” he intoned, and kissed Isabel on the cheek. “Even your sister.”

  “For someone who’s not afraid of anything, she screamed loud enough at that bit of burlap in her bed.”

  “You made it look like a snake,” she protested, wishing the men in her family would make themselves scarce until after her horse arrived. She wanted a moment to speak with Mr. Sullivan Waring in private about who could threaten whom. “You even painted eyes on it.”

  Her younger brother laughed. “You’re such a girl.” Sometime over the winter he’d surpassed her in height, and he apparently thought that made him invincible, silly boy. “And you were the one who tried to cow me first,” he continued, “when you said you were going to write a book about how to commit a murder.”

  She’d forgotten about that. It might have come in handy today. “You said reptiles were going to devour me.”

  “Children, please. If you’ll recall, Douglas,” her father said, checking the time on his pocket watch, “while you were fast asleep last night your sister frightened away a thief. I hardly call that a demonstration of cowardice.”

  “Yes, well, if I’d come across the Mayfair Marauder, I would have put a ball in him or run him through.” Douglas assumed a boxing pose.

  Isabel doubted that. Mr. Waring had several inches even on Phillip, and he seemed supremely…capable. Looking from one brother down the drive to the other, for a moment she was glad that she’d been the one to stumble across the thief, giving him the option of delivering a kiss rather than a ball.

  “Our brave girl did precisely the right thing,” the marquis countered, “and I’ll not hear otherwise. Now tell me again why your brother is pacing the street like a hound waiting for his master.”

  She mustered a smile. “He’s smitten with his new stallion. We’re expecting a delivery at any moment now.”

  “Ah, your brother and his cattle. I should have known.”

  Phillip obviously heard them talking, because the earl returned up the head of the short drive to join them. “He’s not just any horse, Father,” he said, grinning as he had been for the past two hours.

  “That’s right,” Douglas piped up. “He’s a thoroughbred.”

  “What stable?” the marquis asked.

  “Sullivan Waring’s.”

  Her father looked impressed. “You must have paid a pretty penny, then.”

  “A hundred and twenty quid for the two animals and training for Tibby’s mare.” He leaned closer. “Training from Waring himself. Our Isabel’s quite the negotiator.”

  Douglas grabbed her arm, making her jump. “You never said!” he exclaimed. “Sullivan Waring’s coming here?”

  She shook herself free. “For heaven’s sake, Douglas. Yes, a horse breeder’s coming here to deliver the horses we purchased from him.”

  “I thought chits knew all the good gossip,” her younger brother said with a grin. “Sullivan Waring ain’t just a horse breeder, though he’s a lion at that. He’s supposedly the by-blow of—”

  “Quiet. He’s here,” Phillip inter
rupted, sprinting for the entrance of the drive again.

  Mr. Waring clattered up the drive, riding a spectacular black stallion, Ulysses and Zephyr in tow. In her admittedly unschooled opinion, Isabel thought Phillip had purchased the second-best stallion in Waring’s stable. Beautiful as the horses were, though, her gaze drifted to Sullivan Waring, his chestnut hair shot with gold, his easy, confident seat in the saddle, and the expression in his ice-green eyes as they flicked across her face and traveled on to her father.

  “Lord Darshear,” he said, giving a brief nod as he dismounted.

  “Mr. Waring. What splendid animals.”

  “Thank you.” Waring glanced at Isabel again. “I do ask that you speak with your daughter, my lord. Zephyr is a fine mare, but not fit for a novice.”

  Shaking herself, Isabel stepped forward. “It’s your task to make her so, I believe. That is what I paid you for.”

  “Isabel,” her father chastised sharply, surprising her. “Mr. Waring, is Zephyr a dangerous animal?”

  All she needed was for her father to release Sullivan Waring from his obligation to remain close by; then the thief could vanish to God knew where, robbing willy-nilly. Even worse, she wouldn’t know why. Because while she adored a good mystery or a good secret, she hated when one was kept from her. Especially one that had kissed her.

  “No, Zephyr is fairly levelheaded,” the horse breeder interrupted, as though she hadn’t been speaking. “She’s been raised for breeding, however. I’ve never done more than put her on a lead.”

  With a frown her father looked over at Isabel. “I have to agree with Mr. Waring, then, Tibby. For your first mount, you should have an older, more gently bred mare who’s well experienced at carrying a novice rider.”

  Isabel lifted her chin. “I want Zephyr,” she said, using the same tone she’d favored when she’d been twelve and had wanted a particular new hat. But damnation, she seemed to be the only one who knew what this fellow was doing, and she had apparently developed an obsession to find out how and why. That silly craving she had for drama and excitement again. He looked to provide a great deal of it for her.

  “Tibby,” Phillip seconded, grimacing at her, “be reasonable.”

  “I am being reasonable,” she said. “You’ve all three been bragging about Mr. Waring’s skill with horses. I’m certain he will sufficiently train Zephyr so that I will be perfectly safe riding her.” She deliberately turned to gaze at Waring. “Isn’t that so, Mr. Waring?”

  He gave a stiff nod. “Of course, Lady Isabel.”

  She smiled brightly. “Because if anything should happen to me, you would be blamed for it.”

  Well, that had perhaps been a bit straightforward, but she didn’t know how else to convince him to stay close by until…until she’d figured out why he fascinated her so. For heaven’s sake, she’d never blackmailed anyone before. It frightened and excited her all at the same time. And that seemed more significant than turning him over to the authorities. At least for now.

  Phillip led the group of people and horses around the house to the stable at the back. At six-and-twenty her older brother could at times be almost comically stoic, but today with his flushed cheeks and quick smile he looked more like a boy tasting hard candy for the first time than he did the oldest male offspring of a marquis. As for Douglas, the teen pranced in a circle around Waring with such enthusiasm that if he’d been a puppy he likely would have wet himself.

  As they reached the stable she grabbed Douglas’s arm and hauled him a short distance from their so-called guest, her admiring family, and the growing crowd of grooms and stableboys. “What were—”

  “Fiend seize it, Tibby, let me go,” he grumbled.

  “What were you saying about Mr. Waring?” she insisted, keeping her voice low and yanking on her brother’s sleeve to keep his wandering attention.

  “I said he’s the primest horse breeder in England. Now let go before I miss something he says.”

  “No. Not that,” she returned, ignoring his protest. “You started to say that he was reputedly someone’s by-blow. Whose?”

  “I just got clubbed in the head for being impolite. I’m not talking to my own damned sister about bastards.”

  Stifling a growl, Isabel grabbed his left ear. “Talk!”

  Douglas howled and twisted away from her. “Amazon!”

  “Coward!”

  “Isabel!” her father said sharply. “If you expect me to allow you to ride this animal, you first need to prove that you will devote your time and attention to doing it properly.”

  With an irritated sigh she stopped pinching Douglas and returned to her father’s side. “Apologies,” she said stiffly, to him rather than to Waring. “What did I miss?”

  “How to saddle a stallion.”

  “I hardly think that’s my concern, then.”

  “You need to know how to handle an animal.”

  For a second she couldn’t figure out whether her father was referring to Ulysses or to Waring. The men, though, were obviously enraptured, and she was the only one who knew that Waring was anything other than what he claimed. He finished buckling the girth on Ulysses’ saddle, then offered his cupped hands to Phillip. “Remember, Lord Chalsey,” he said, as her brother swung into the saddle, “he’s trained as a hunter, so he’s got a sensitive mouth. If you even think about turning, he’ll turn.”

  Since Phillip generally acted as though he knew everything, Isabel was deeply surprised when he only took the reins and nodded. Waring stepped back, ending up directly beside her, while her brother walked Ulysses about the stable yard and said admiring things.

  Isabel studied Sullivan Waring’s profile as he gazed at the big stallion like a proud papa. She would put him somewhere in his late twenties, a few years older than Phillip. He was built like a born horseman, tall and lean, with strong hands and muscular thighs, his light brown hair disheveled from riding hatless. What was he up to? An obviously well-respected horse breeder who broke into homes and burgled them by night? Aside from the fact that he’d kissed her, this didn’t make any sense. Which made for a mystery—something else she enjoyed probably more than she should.

  “What are you up to, my lady?” Waring murmured, sending her a brief sideways glance.

  “I’ll ask the questions, Mr. Waring. And if you wish to remain out of shackles, you’d best do as I say.”

  “To a point, my lady. Don’t push me.”

  She ignored the warning. Or she pretended to; inside, she was quite a bit less certain. “I’ll do as I please,” she said aloud. “And you’ll do as I please, as well, Mr. Marauder.”

  Chapter 3

  Sullivan Waring leaned over the wooden gate of the box stall and absently fed carrots to his mount. Distraction was never safe, even away from legally declared wars and uniformed enemies, but this evening he couldn’t help himself. Achilles nickered as one of the stableboys passed the open doors, a mare in tow. “Sorry, old fellow,” Sullivan murmured, rubbing the black’s nose, “she’s not for you.”

  “Mr. Waring?”

  He shook himself. “Yes, Samuel?”

  The groom shuffled his feet. “Sir, I put the sacks of feed up in the loft, and the pasture troughs are full. If you—”

  “Off with you, then.” Sullivan glanced over his shoulder at the shorter man. “Well done with the mares today. McCray has your pay; you’ll find an extra five quid there. And enjoy your holiday in Bristol.”

  The groom grinned. “Thank you, sir. My boys are beside themselves to see their grandmum again. I’ll be back here bright and early next Tuesday.”

  “I know you will be. Good night.”

  “Good night, Mr. Waring.” With a half salute, Samuel headed out the back door.

  “So now you’re giving employees bonuses and time to visit their relations?” Bramwell Johns drawled from the double doors at the front of the large stable. “People will begin to think you’re…pleasant.”

  “Only until they come to know me.” Declinin
g to admit that he had a soft spot in his heart for families who actually liked one another, Sullivan handed over a last carrot to Achilles and moved away from the stall. “I thought you were going to seduce some chit or other tonight.”

  “Yes, I already did. Then I got bored. It was lamentably easy, really. Morality these days truly gives me pause.”

  Sullivan grinned. “No, it doesn’t. In fact, I’ve a suspicion that you’re the major cause of Society’s decay.” Walking past his friend to the main entrance, he pulled the double doors closed and latched them from the inside.

  “I certainly hope so. I’ve put enough effort into it.”

  “Why are you here, Bram?”

  “I was worried about you, Sully. How was your afternoon with Phillip Chalsey and the chit you kissed?”

  “Say that a bit louder, why don’t you?” Sullivan grunted, lifting a lantern off a hook and heading for the back door. With Samuel gone for the next week, Vincent would be sleeping alone in the stable, and he stepped aside as the small man, a former Derby jockey, entered. “You’re all set, I presume?”

  “Aye, Mr. Waring. Don’t worry about a thing.”

  He couldn’t help worrying. Even with two grooms making rounds all night they’d come close to losing stock from time to time—along with the reputation for having the region’s finest horses came the risk that someone else would want to possess them. Funny, he supposed, that a thief worried about thieves. “Even so,” he said aloud, “I’ll take a turn or two about the place tonight. So don’t shoot until you’re certain it’s not me.”

  Vincent grinned, tugging on his hat. “I’ll do my best, sir.”

  “Does this mean you’re not going to Jezebel’s with me?” Bram asked, following him across the large stable yard toward his small two-story cottage.

  “I thought you had a ball or something tonight.”

  “Almack’s,” his friend returned, in a tone that said that one word should explain everything.

  “Tell me again why you don’t have any friends of your own station?” Sullivan asked, stripping off his rough work jacket as they entered the cottage and hanging it on a peg beside the door.