After the Kiss Page 5

  “Are you going to stand way over there the entire time?” he asked, echoing her own thoughts.

  Reluctantly she returned to his side. However unsettled both he and the horse made her, taking a position of weakness now would never do. Especially not, she sensed, with him. “I believe you owe me an explanation,” she said.

  Instead of answering, he motioned to one of the stableboys. The fellow came forward immediately, handing over a long-handled whip with a short, tasseled leather on the end. Mr. Waring glanced at her, the end of the whip swaying back and forth, snakelike, in his right hand. “You might want to move to my left,” he said, letting out the lead line.

  “Are you attempting to threaten me with that?” she grated, beginning to suspect that she might be in over her head. This was not a simple secret, like knowing that someone was infatuated with someone else. This was a large, strong, mobile secret that kissed and threatened and intrigued.

  “I’m training your mare, which is what you employed me to do. Back up.”

  “I will n—”

  He clucked his tongue. “Walk on.” With that he flicked Zephyr’s near back leg, feather-light, with the whip.

  Snorting, the mare danced sideways and then began a forward walk in a wide circle around them, as far away as she could get with the lead line. Quickly Isabel took a step back, keeping herself just behind Waring’s left shoulder as he pivoted to keep the mare directly in front of him.

  “Well, this is impressive,” she said after a moment. “In no time I shall be too dizzy to defend myself.”

  “Whoa.” He flicked the whip forward to touch Zephyr’s chest, and she stopped. “You do it, then,” he said, offering Isabel the rope and the whip.

  “That is your job. I’m merely wondering why you want me to stand here, spinning.”

  “Walk on.” With another flick the mare walked forward again. “What are your intentions?”

  Isabel gazed at his handsome profile, admitting to herself that if he’d been a pock-faced drunkard, he would be in gaol already. “What are your intentions?”

  “No business of yours.”

  She took a deep breath, feeling as though she were about to take her first step onto a very rickety bridge strung across a very deep chasm. “I hold your freedom, if not your life, in my hands, Mr. Waring. You will be civil to me, and you will do as I ask—which includes answering any and all questions I put to you. Is that clear?”

  He turned his head to look full at her, his green eyes hard and cold as ice. “As you wish, my lady,” he half growled. “May I please ask what you intend to do with me, though, when you’re finished playing this little game?”

  A thrill ran through her. Power. She’d never held anyone’s life at her mercy, and had never thought to do so. Goodness. “I haven’t decided yet.”

  Slowly he nodded. “You’d best do so, because my patience runs only so deep. And you aren’t the only one capable of making plans.”

  “Are you certain it’s wise to give me an ultimatum?” she asked.

  “Hm.”

  “‘Hm’? What is that supposed to mean?”

  A muscle in his jaw twitched. “It means that I think you have no idea what you’re doing. You saw me, so you feel as though you can’t simply walk the other way, but I kissed you and you liked it, so you don’t wish to send me to the hangman.”

  Her cheeks heated, though she wasn’t entirely certain whether it was because of embarrassment or frustration. If he continued to understand her that clearly, she didn’t stand a chance of keeping him beneath her thumb until she’d wrung all of the excitement out of the situation. “I did not like your kiss,” she hissed. “It was such a poor effort that I felt sorry for you. My compassion, however, is swiftly being overwhelmed by—”

  “You felt sorry for me?” he repeated. “If you feel sorry for anything, it should be that I was forced to kiss you at all.”

  Isabel raised her arm, her fist clenched. “You will not—”

  “Be cautious, my lady,” he murmured. “We do have an audience.”

  She glanced toward the stable, where half the servants employed there seemed to be gawking at both of them. No, not at both of them, she amended. At him. At the famous Mr. Sullivan Waring. “I think you’re the one who has no clue how to proceed,” she said in as steady a voice as she could manage. “A true thief and blackguard would have slit my throat. You’re training my mare.”

  “Whoa,” he said again, and Zephyr came to a stop. “Just for my edification,” he said quietly, something that sounded like humor softening his voice, “are you actually complaining that I didn’t kill you night before last?”

  This conversation was supposed to be her method of gaining information about him and his motives. Instead she’d walked into an argument when she couldn’t seem to manage even to get the last word. At the same time, she was learning some things about him. He didn’t talk like a horse breeder, for example. Grooms didn’t use words like “edification.”

  “You may think we’re at an impasse,” she countered slowly, reflecting that she couldn’t even recall the last time a man had challenged anything she’d said, “but you’re here this morning, and you’ll be back this afternoon. And you’ll come here tomorrow and the day after and the day after that, until I say otherwise.”

  His jaw clenched again. “For now, my lady.”

  “Keep working Zephyr. I feel the need for a glass of lemonade. I’ll return shortly.”

  “I wait with bated breath, my lady. Zephyr, walk on.”

  “Yes, do continue.” Before she became embroiled in another argument or he could come back with yet another retort, Isabel turned and headed for the house. Having to time her departure around the circling Zephyr left her looking a little less stately than she would have preferred, but she kept her chin up and marched.

  Once she made it through the kitchen door she closed the hard oak and leaned back against it, fanning her hand in front of her face. That had gone nothing like she’d imagined. Their encounter was supposed to be harder on him than on her, but he didn’t look as though she’d ruffled a single blasted horse-breeding feather. Men smiled at her and agreed with her, barely requiring any mental effort at all on her part. Who did this blasted fellow think he was?

  A kitchen maid hurried up, curtsying. “May I fetch you something, my lady?”

  “A glass of lemonade, if you please.” It was a pity that ladies didn’t drink whiskey at nine o’clock in the morning, because she felt in need of some.

  Sullivan kept his eyes on the mare, but most of his attention remained on the young lady disappearing into Chalsey House. He hadn’t precisely intimidated her into keeping her silence, but he supposed he had an excuse of sorts. Threatening women under any circumstances didn’t sit well with him. And he couldn’t justify righting the wrongs done to one woman by wronging another. Particularly one who, other than being a member of a family who’d acquired a painting, had nothing to do with this.

  Yes, she had a sharp tongue—God, she had a sharp tongue—and she seemed perfectly content to use her knowledge to turn him into little better than her slave. At the same time, he’d begun to think that she had no intention of sharing his secret with anyone, much less the authorities. Why she’d decided to keep her silence, he had no idea, except that she seemed to enjoy holding her knowledge over him. Given that nothing was as changeable as the mind of a female, the wisest thing to do would seem to be to exit her so-called service while he had the chance. If any gossip about his involvement in the thefts began, Bram would hear of it and give him enough time to leave London.

  He halted Zephyr again and turned her in the opposite direction. His plan to make himself scarce from Chalsey House meant that he wouldn’t be available to continue the mare’s training. In itself that was nothing, but all he had these days was his reputation. If he abandoned the training, Phipps or someone would finish it, and probably would do it entirely adequately. But word would get out that he’d been paid for something an
d he hadn’t delivered. A small thing, yes, but he knew better than anyone that small things could add up to very large ones.

  “Damnation,” he muttered, and Zephyr flicked her ears in his direction. Why in God’s name had he kissed Isabel Chalsey in the first place? Idiocy. Pure idiocy. And he needed to leave here before he ended up dangling at the end of a hangman’s noose. He motioned for one of the grooms to approach. “That’s enough for this morning,” he decided, handing the lead line and whip over.

  “That’s hardly worth twenty pounds,” Lady Isabel’s cool voice came from behind him.

  Sullivan stopped. “You, what’s your name?” he asked the groom.

  The man actually blushed. “Delvin, Mr. Waring, sir.”

  “Delvin, hand me the lead back, will you?”

  Once he had Zephyr back in hand, he patted the gray mare on the nose and then walked her toward Lady Isabel. “Here,” he said, offering her the lead.

  She backed away as she had before. “If you’re trying to tell me that she’s been saddle-trained in twenty minutes, I shall call you a liar to your face,” she said, half her attention on the horse.

  Though the words sounded defiant enough, Sullivan heard the quaver in her voice. He tilted his head at her. “You are afraid of horses, aren’t you?” he asked more quietly. “It’s not just an affectation.”

  “I’m wary of them,” she countered.

  “Given your wariness, then,” he continued, wondering what, precisely was driving him to continue, “you chose an odd means of…pursuing your suspicions of me. Horses being my profession, after all.”

  “I couldn’t very well hire you to teach me to play the pianoforte, now could I?”

  “Whatever your ulterior motives, it’s a shame to own such a fine animal and not use her as she was meant to be used.”

  “You said you were going to sell her for brood.”

  “She has a very good lineage. Frankly, that’s why she’s worth more in the pasture than under a saddle.”

  “She was worth more that way,” Lady Isabel corrected.

  “She still is, if you’re not going to ride her.” He took a breath. “Let me purchase her back from you, and we’ll be rid of one another.”

  Narrowing her eyes, she took a long, deliberate drink of the glass of lemonade she held in one hand. “You may well wish to be rid of me, Mr. Waring, but you stole from me, and—”

  “From your home. Not from you.”

  “—and you kissed me,” she continued, as though he hadn’t spoken. “Without my permission. I am not finished with you yet. And so what time will you come by this afternoon for another training session?”

  When hell freezes over. “Is three o’clock acceptable?” he said aloud. “I don’t wish to interfere with your social calendar.”

  She nodded briskly. “I expect you to be prompt.”

  “And I expect that you’ll eventually ride this horse.” He patted the mare on the nose again.

  “That is beside the point. Be here at three o’clock.”

  His jaw was already clenched so tightly that it ached. He knew precisely what he wanted to say to Lady Isabel Chalsey, and what he wanted to do with her, but as long as she held his freedom in her hands, he didn’t dare. So instead he swept her a bow. “As you wish.”

  Turning, he intentionally put Zephyr between them, pretending not to see Lady Isabel back away again. Her fear of horses intrigued him more than he cared to admit. She concealed it fairly well, but from her family’s and her own statements it seemed more than a simple girlishness.

  He’d long ago learned the perils of curiosity. And yet he already knew he would be stopping by Lord Bramwell Johns’s home to see if he could discover more about her. If anyone had any information, it would be Bram. And besides, he had four more paintings to reacquire before he was finished. The more information he had about Isabel Chalsey, the better off he would be. She might own him at the moment, but he could dig his fingers in, as well.

  “How the devil should I know?” Bram said, eyeing himself in his dressing mirror.

  “You know everything.” Sullivan shifted in the deep windowsill of Bramwell’s bedchamber. “That’s what you keep saying, anyway.”

  “I’d rather go back to where she commanded you to do as she says. There’s a bit of the devil in that chit, I think.” He sent Sullivan a dark smile. “Much more interesting than I’d previously thought.”

  Sullivan frowned. “Oh, no, you don’t. Stay away from her.”

  Bram faced him full on, his expression surprisingly serious. “You like her?”

  “I’m more likely to strangle her. I just don’t want you cluttering up this mess even further.” From the way his heart thudded, the question was more complex than that, but he wasn’t about to contemplate the answer in front of Bram. He still needed to explain to himself how he could wish to be rid of someone and want to spar with her and to hear her moans of pleasure all at the same time.

  “Then stop asking me questions about her. And you stay away from her. Because I do know everything.” Bram picked up his riding gloves and headed for the door. “Isabel Chalsey is more…complicated than you realize.”

  That sounded intriguing. Sullivan pushed to his feet and followed Bramwell down the hallway. “Complicated? How? And how is it that you know she’s complicated when you didn’t know about her Machiavellian bent?”

  “No. This is a conversation that can bring about nothing good for me, and I therefore refuse to engage.” At the foot of the stairs Bram paused to collect his hat. “I’m going out now. Stay if you wish, but I’m going to see the duke, and I doubt you’ll want to be here when I return.”

  The duke. That meant the Duke of Levonzy, Bram’s father. Sullivan eyed his friend. Bram and Levonzy. The least congenial pairing since King Arthur and Mordred. “Do you wish me to be here when you return?”

  “I don’t need my hand held, Sully.” Bram glanced over. “You’re going back to the Chalseys’ this afternoon?”

  “At three o’clock sharp,” Sullivan grunted. That damned chit.

  “I’ve an obligation tonight, but I should be finished by midnight. If you want to meet at Jezebel’s after that, send over a note.”

  Hm. Why he would need a drink more than Bram, Sullivan had no idea, but he nodded. “I’ll let you know. And I still have the sticky feeling that you know something you’re not telling me.”

  “I could fill books with my knowledge.”

  “But who would publish it? I have nothing to do with your kind unless they’re in the market for a horse, Bram. If you know something, tell me.”

  “No. Some things are better discovered than divulged. For the one with the information and the one learning it. Hibble, is my mount saddled?”

  The butler nodded. “It is, my lord.” He pulled open the front door.

  Sullivan stood where he was for a moment, his eyes narrowed as he tried to decide whether it would be worth the frustration of trying to figure out what the devil Bram wasn’t telling him. Considering that he had two prospective buyers to meet and sacks of feed to purchase before he returned to Chalsey House, his time would be better spent elsewhere.

  He descended the front steps and took Achilles’ reins, swinging back up into the saddle. “Don’t shoot anyone,” he said as Bram headed west and he turned north toward home.

  “I’ll give you the same advice,” Bramwell drawled with a brief grin, tipping his hat as he rode toward Grosvenor Square.

  Sullivan’s own smile was more grim as he dodged the myriad carts and carriages and wagons north of Mayfair. It disappeared completely as he remembered that he’d neglected to ask Bram whether he’d had any luck tracking down the next painting. So now he had another reason to be wary of Lady Isabel Chalsey, as if he needed one. She was damned distracting.

  Chapter 5

  As the barouche rolled to a stop on Chalsey House’s short drive and a footman hurried out the front door to greet it, Isabel took the hand of the young lady seated besid
e her. “Thank you so much for bringing me home, Barbara. Once Mama sets foot in Mrs. Wrangley’s Dress Shop, only a biblical flood could persuade her to leave.”

  “Nonsense,” Lady Barbara Stanley said, her typical smile, together with her blonde ringlets and sky-blue eyes, making her look positively angelic. “You saved me from dancing with that horribly fetid Lord Arnton last week. We aren’t even close to being even.”

  Isabel chuckled. “He does smell of sheep, doesn’t he?”

  “Very dirty ones.” Standing, Barbara accepted the footman’s gloved hand as she stepped to the ground. “And as long as I’m here, I want to see this new horse of yours.”

  Drat. Barbara wanted to see the mare, but given the time of afternoon, that would also very likely mean seeing the trainer. And the best part of a secret was not sharing—well, the best part of this secret was keeping those green eyes looking only at her.

  Then again, maybe Barbara could tell her something about her new obsession. All her judiciously worded questions to her family had gotten her were more pronouncements of Mr. Waring’s genius with horses and some head-shaking. It was as if everyone knew something, and no one meant to tell her what it might be.

  As they walked through the house to the stable yard, Barbara wrapped her fingers around Isabel’s arm. “You don’t think your brother might be about, do you?”

  Isabel stifled a sigh. Once Phillip chose a bride and married, she wondered whether she would have half as many female friends as she did now. At least a quarter of the current group seemed to have become acquainted with her merely as a way to gain an introduction to Earl Chalsey, and even the ones of whose friendship she felt assured seemed rather enamored of him. “He’s gone out with some of his friends today,” she supplied, “unless you’re referring to Douglas. I’m certain he’s about somewhere.”

  Barbara laughed, so the answer was apparently self-explanatory. Yes, Phillip had another admirer. She’d stopped telling him about his conquests, because it only gave him a big head. A bigger one than he already had.