After the Kiss Read online

  As they reached the stable yard, she slowed. A stableboy led a large chestnut gelding about the yard while Phipps, a piece of straw clenched in his teeth, watched critically. As he saw her, the head groom straightened and spat out the straw. “My lady,” he said, tugging at his forelock. “Mr. Waring ain’t arrived yet. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  She’d probably seen more of Phipps over the past day than she had in the previous two years. No wonder he didn’t know what to make of her. “Lady Barbara wanted to see my new mare,” she said.

  “I’ll have her brought right out for you. Delvin!”

  “No, no, that’s not necessary,” Isabel broke in hurriedly, fighting the urge to turn and run. “She’s in her stall?”

  “Aye. Fourth one back on the left.”

  “I remember.” Taking a deep breath, Isabel walked into the stable. She only lagged a step or so behind Barbara, but inside she felt miles away from anyone—except for the two dozen horses blowing and nickering around her. Steady, she told herself. You don’t have to touch any of them or anything.

  “Oh, Tibby, she’s lovely! Might I give her an apple?”

  Forcing a smile, Isabel spotted the apple barrel and dug in to hand one over to her friend. “Certainly.”

  Barbara took it. “Here you go, Zephyr,” she cooed, holding it out and then patting the gray on the nose with her free hand as she took the apple. “With that build and a name like Zephyr, she must run fast as the wind,” Barbara continued. “Promise me that you’ll let me try out her paces once she’s broken.”

  Fast as the wind? Good heavens, what had she gotten herself into? “The—I—”

  “I prefer easing a horse into accepting a saddle rather than breaking its spirit,” a low voice drawled from directly behind Isabel.

  So he’d arrived on time. Isabel turned around to find ice-green eyes regarding her, one of them obscured by the ubiquitous straying lock of light brown hair. “You are very nearly late,” she said, unable to conjure anything more witty than that.

  “I call it being prompt,” he returned. “As you requested…my lady.”

  Barbara made a small choked sound behind her. Belatedly Isabel stepped aside, annoyed—and not for the first time—that she continually had to look up to meet Mr. Waring’s gaze. He had to be at least two inches over six feet.

  When Barbara cleared her throat again, she shook herself. Pay attention, Isabel. “Mr. Waring, Lady Barbara Stanley.”

  He inclined his head. “Lady Barbara.”

  “Mr. Waring. You served with Lord Bramwell Johns on the Peninsula, didn’t you?”

  Isabel hid an annoyed frown. Obviously she should have asked Barbara her questions about Waring.

  “I did.”

  “I’ve heard some of the tales he tells. They called the two of you and Phineas Bromley the Musketeers, did they not?”

  “Among other things.” His tone polite but cool, he shook out the lead line he carried. “If you ladies don’t mind, I have some work to do.”

  “Of course.” Isabel pulled Barbara back, and they watched as Mr. Waring attached the lead line to a buckle on Zephyr’s halter and led her out of the stall.

  As soon as he passed by them, Barbara grabbed her arm. “My goodness he’s handsome,” she whispered, while they followed him at a hopefully safe distance out to the stable yard. “I nearly fainted dead away when I turned around and saw him standing there.”

  “What do you know about him?” Isabel asked in the same low tone, ignoring Barbara’s fluttering. She fluttered a great deal, generally around Phillip.

  “What do you mean, what do I know?”

  “About his background, Barbara. Other than the horses.”

  Barbara eyed her. “You’re not seriously mooning after a horse breeder, are you? I mean, yes, he’s an Adonis, but he’s also practically common.”

  Practically? Isabel took a deep breath. “It’s just that my brothers are mad over him,” she said carefully, “and I’d like to know why they think he’s such a diamond.”

  Her friend leaned closer. “All I know is that he’s the natural son of some aristocrat or other. The father never acknowledged him, so the rest of us can’t very well do so.”

  Hm. That explained some things. He certainly had a noble bearing about him. And his conversation wasn’t that of a poor stableboy, by any means. “You don’t know who the father is? Was?”

  Barbara shook her head. “If I’d known how handsome he was, I might have listened more closely to the gossip.” She giggled again, apparently forgetting that she’d just chastised Isabel for mooning over him—not that she was, for heaven’s sake.

  Isabel turned her attention back to Mr. Waring. He seemed completely oblivious to them as he once more put Zephyr through the lessons of stopping and going on command. Even to her unschooled, skeptical gaze it seemed the mare was responding much more quickly and with less prompting than she had needed this morning. It was impressive, but not very comforting.

  Isabel could describe Mr. Sullivan Waring in much the same way. Yes, he looked very fine, and capable, but she wouldn’t wish to turn her back to him. Of course, when he’d kissed her they’d been face-to-face, so she couldn’t trust him overly much from that direction, either.

  “Your butler said I might find you out here,” a male voice drawled from the direction of the drive.

  As she started to turn around, she noticed the oddest thing—easy, confident Mr. Waring dropped the lead line. A single heartbeat later he bent and picked it up again as if nothing had happened. Nothing except that his face, the part she could make out with his back half turned, had gone gray. Instinctively she took a step toward him to make certain he was well, but a hand closed over her shoulder before she could take a second step.

  “I know you weren’t expecting me till seven,” Oliver, Lord Tilden, said, smiling as she faced him, “but I couldn’t resist the chance to stop by.” The viscount’s light brown hair, cut and styled in the very latest fashion, glinted almost bronze in the sunlight, his green eyes meeting hers warmly.

  His light brown hair and green eyes. And the high cheekbones and patrician jaw. Isabel’s heart stopped beating, then thudded into a fierce tattoo. Oh, no. What had she tangled herself into? “Oliver Sullivan,” she said aloud, unable to keep her voice from quavering over that last bit.

  Oliver lifted an eyebrow. “Oliver James Sullivan, if we’re being formal,” he drawled. “Are we being formal, Lady Isabel Jane Chalsey?”

  She forced a chuckle. “Heavens, no. It’s just that you did surprise me.”

  “Tibby was showing me her new mare,” Barbara put in with the most wretched timing ever. “Isn’t she lovely?”

  “Oh, we can ogle Zephyr later,” Isabel countered, knowing she was rushing her speech and unable to stop herself. “For now, come inside and tell me about your day, Oliver. Phillip told me that you and your father took breakfast with Prinny.”

  “We did, yesterday.”

  As she hauled him by the arm, striding back to the house, scarcely daring to breathe, Oliver glanced over his shoulder. He looked again, then stopped so abruptly that he nearly pulled her to the ground. Pushing her hand off his arm, he walked back toward Zephyr and her trainer.

  “Come, Oliver,” she said to his broad back. “Shall I have Cook bake us some biscuits?”

  He visibly shook himself, stopping again. “Yes. Certainly. Let’s go inside. You can’t find it pleasant out here amid the stableboys and the filth in the yard.”

  Zephyr’s lead line flicked up sharply. Abruptly the mare was galloping—and straight at them. Fear stabbing down her spine, Isabel gasped. Oliver hurriedly moved backward, belatedly pulling her with him. A foot short of where they’d been standing, the mare danced to a halt. A second later, Mr. Waring had his hand around one of the straps of her harness.

  “You need to learn to control your animal, Waring,” Oliver growled. “Apologize.”

  “That’s not necessary,” Isabel managed, forcin
g air into her lungs. As she looked up at Mr. Waring, his gaze was on her.

  “I apologize if I frightened you, my lady,” he said in his deep voice. “That was not my intention.”

  Her jaw clenched as hard as her fingers were around Oliver’s arm, she nodded. “Let’s go in.” She needed to get inside, before she became completely hysterical. The charging horse, what she’d just realized about Sullivan Waring, the obvious anger between the two men with her somehow in the middle of it all…“Please, let’s go inside.”

  “Of course, my dear.” Putting a protective arm around her shoulders, Oliver guided them to the house while Barbara followed behind.

  For the second time within forty-eight hours of meeting Mr. Sullivan Waring—or the third time, counting the incident of the kiss—Isabel wanted something very strong to drink. What the devil had she gotten herself into?

  Sullivan watched the trio disappear into the house. Oliver fucking Sullivan. In pursuit of sharp-tongued, witty Isabel. “Damnation,” he growled. Zephyr shifted uneasily beside him.

  So that was what Bram hadn’t told him, that bloody, black-hearted snake. Gradually he became aware again of the noise around him, the bustle of the stable yard, and the muttering and gesturing of the group of servants by the door.

  He wasn’t one of them. Squaring his shoulders, he loosened his grip on Zephyr and gave her a handful of oats from his pocket. As he returned her to position in the middle of the yard, he glanced over his shoulder at the large house again. He wasn’t one of them, either.

  If he had been one of them, they never would have dared to rob him blind while he was away at war. At least now he knew why the Chalseys had ended up with one of his mother’s paintings. Undoubtedly it had been a gift from dear Oliver.

  Where did all of this leave him? From her expression before he’d frightened the daylights out of her, Isabel had realized that Sullivan had significance as a name, and why. He frowned as he started Zephyr around at a walk again. However surprised and annoyed he’d been, he shouldn’t have sent the mare charging like that. No matter that he’d had the lead line in hand the entire time. Lady Isabel’s fear was obvious and real, and he already knew that. But like the animal Oliver claimed he was, he’d gotten angry and reacted, unmindful of the consequences.

  So Oliver Sullivan, Viscount Tilden, was in pursuit of Lady Isabel Chalsey. And yet she hadn’t recognized him despite his reputedly close resemblance to his half-brother. And yet even with a beau she’d decided to play this little game of mousetrap with him. And yet when she’d realized who he must be she’d tried to get Oliver into the house rather than sitting back and allowing or encouraging a confrontation as her peers had been known to do.

  Hm. So Lady Isabel continued to baffle him, which meant she was still dangerous. But if he’d needed any additional incentive to remain in the employ of Isabel Chalsey, Oliver’s appearance had just provided it. Any chance to get in a blow against that arrogant lickspittle was simply too good to pass by. And he’d never been all that successful at resisting temptation, anyway.

  He worked Zephyr for another thirty minutes, until he could sense the mare’s growing comfort with and confidence in the two commands she’d learned. He could have proceeded more quickly, but Zephyr needed to be as calm and steady and gentle-paced as he could make her. Especially after what he’d done earlier.

  When they’d finished for the afternoon he put the mare up himself, measuring out her grain and hay and brushing her out as she ate. As he worked, the mare’s ears flicked at him and then away. A moment later he scented the light tang of citrus, and something he couldn’t put a name to swirled down his spine.

  “You’re still here,” Isabel said without preamble.

  He kept brushing. “Do you want me to go?”

  “I want you to face me when I’m speaking to you.”

  Sullivan dropped the brush into its bucket and turned around. “As you wish, my lady,” he forced out, folding his arms and knowing it wasn’t her fault that he felt scraped raw this afternoon.

  “That’s better.” Her pretty brown eyes gazed at him. “I will be out late tonight, and will be sleeping in. You will therefore be here promptly at ten o’clock in the morning.”

  “You want me to come back?” Sullivan asked, deeply surprised.

  “We have an agreement. And I’m still trying to decide what to do with you.” She looked from him to Zephyr, took a breath, and turned on her heel.

  “I’m truly sorry I frightened you,” he said to her back, half wondering why he felt the need to apologize. Frightening her was probably in his best interest. He’d certainly never prove himself harmless to anyone’s—to her—satisfaction.

  She slowly faced him again. “Yes. Don’t ever do that again. It was unfair.”

  “It wasn’t aimed at you, Isabel,” he said quietly. “And I won’t. Ever do it again, I mean.”

  Isabel took another breath, clearly assessing him. What she saw in his face, he had no idea, but her expression finally relaxed a little. “I’ll take you at your word, Mr. Waring. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have guests.”

  Again she didn’t say anything about Oliver and their so-called connection. “I’ll see you in the morning, then,” he said as coolly as he could.

  “At ten o’clock.”

  “Promptly at ten.”

  He watched her back out the wide stable doors. She’d left Oliver inside the house to come and talk to him. To make certain he’d be there in the morning. Isabel Chalsey liked him, which was bad for all concerned. Even worse, he liked her.

  Chapter 6

  Though Barbara left to go home and change her clothes for the Edlington soiree, Oliver Sullivan stayed at Chalsey House for dinner and then offered his coach to escort all of them to the party. The five adults squeezed into his carriage while Douglas stood in the drawing room window upstairs and made faces at them. For once she wished she was three years younger so she could avoid attending, as well.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy the dancing and the music. Generally—until tonight, in fact—she considered them to be the best part of the Season. After today, though, she felt more in need of silence and a very long while to think about what she needed to do next. Tonight, waltzing and smiling seemed a bit of a bother.

  From her father’s careful queries during dinner about the state of Zephyr’s training, clearly he knew that Oliver and Mr. Waring were half-brothers, and also that the relationship was strained, to say the least. Douglas appeared baffled, only rousing from his talk of the latest wagers reportedly going into the book at White’s Club when Sullivan Waring’s name was mentioned. Phillip just as quickly changed the subject of discussion, so he knew the truth, as well.

  Blast it all, why had no one told her? She didn’t know that it would have altered what she did, but the knowledge would certainly have saved her at least one of the shocks of the day. And now she couldn’t ask any of the additional questions that kept popping into her mind, because Oliver was with them, and he would likely have an apoplexy.

  All the same, she wondered what he would say if she informed him that the culprit who had stolen the painting he’d given her family was none other than his own half-brother. She glanced at him from her seat squeezed between him and Phillip. Not once since they’d left the stable yard for the house had he even glanced in its direction. He’d given no sign at all, in fact, that he had any idea his half-brother was just outside. Or that he even had a half-brother.

  “You’ll have to come stay with us at Burling after the Season,” her brother was saying, leaning around her to talk to Oliver. “I can’t wait to ride my new hunter after a fox.”

  Lady Darshear sighed. “Phillip, you talk about that animal more than you do about…ladies. I’m going to have to declare you on the shelf if you don’t begin courting someone very soon.” She sent an exasperated grin at Oliver. “Apparently Mr. Waring breeds very fine horses.”

  “So I hear,” Oliver said, the muscles of his jaw flexing.
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  Oh, dear. “Barbara was telling me today,” Isabel interjected hurriedly, “that Lord Aysling is going to propose to Lady Harriet Reed tonight.”

  “Tonight?” her mother echoed, sitting forward. “At the Edlington soiree? Harry, we must find a seat close by her mother.”

  “Yes, dear.” Lord Darshear patted her on the hand, then turned his attention to Oliver. “Your house hasn’t been burglarized, has it?”

  Oliver’s expression became very still. “No. Why do you ask?”

  “Ours was. Just two nights ago. Tibby here surprised the blackguard and frightened him away.”

  “But not before he managed to make off with two paintings, a porcelain dove, and a very pretty crystal bowl,” Isabel’s mother continued. “And one of the paintings was the Francesca Perris you gave to us at the beginning of the Season, I’m sorry to say.”

  Isabel watched Oliver as closely as she could without being terribly obvious about it. And she realized something else almost immediately. As soon as he’d heard the news, he’d known instantly who’d stolen the painting from them. How and why, she wasn’t certain, but he knew it had been Sullivan Waring. Which meant that he knew the identity of the Mayfair Marauder, and he’d done nothing about it.

  Given his obvious dislike for Mr. Waring, she had no idea why he hadn’t gone to the authorities with his information. Of course, she had the same information and had done nothing about it, but that was different. She wanted to discover his motives. And yes, despite her growing sense that this was more than a game for all concerned, she liked having Mr. Waring at her beck and call. She could always report him later when—if—it came to that. Oliver had no motive for keeping his half-brother’s secret that she could see. They hated one another. Another mystery for her to uncover, apparently. They seemed to surround Sullivan Waring on every side.

  They were mobbed as soon as they entered the ballroom at the Edlingtons’, and it was twenty minutes before Isabel found a space to breathe. As she waved her fan in front of her face, half listening to several of her friends speculating on the impending surprise marriage proposal that apparently everyone knew about, she spied Lord Minster. The earl stood with his usual group of peers, his shock of gray hair standing straight out from his head like a hedgehog’s quills.