After the Kiss

by Suzanne Enoch

  After a quick greeting to her mother and brother she made her way out the back of the house. She reached the yard just as Mr. Waring rode up on his monstrous black horse. It wouldn’t surprise her at all if the beast ate small animals. Good heavens. But she still wouldn’t be willing to wager over which of the two was more dangerous—the horse or the rider.

  As Sullivan rode into the Chalsey House stable yard, he spied Lady Isabel leaving the house. At the sight of him on Achilles she stopped short, putting her hands behind her back in that endearing, vulnerable manner she had. It seemed so at odds with her sharp tongue. Immediately he dismounted, handing Achilles’ reins over to one of the stableboys. As far as he now stood from being anything resembling a hero, frightening a woman for no good reason simply cut him wrong.

  That applied to a woman who was presently blackmailing him, apparently. He took off his jacket and slung it across Achilles’ saddle, then rolled up his sleeves as he approached her. “Promptly at ten,” he said, pulling on his leather gloves so he wouldn’t be tempted by the absurd impulse to take her hand, to touch her skin.

  “My congratulations to your nicely wound clock,” she returned.

  Not quite an insult, but not a compliment, either. He wouldn’t mention, then, that he’d been pacing Achilles up and down the next street over for the past twenty minutes. “I’ll just get started, shall I?”

  “If you don’t, your promptness would be rather pointless, don’t you think?”

  “You’re the one giving the orders, my lady.” Sullivan walked toward the stable to meet Phipps, who had Zephyr and a longeing whip already waiting for him. “I’m just doing the work.”

  “So why are you here, Mr. Waring?”

  He cocked an eyebrow at her. So she’d figured out something about him and decided it was time to learn the rest. “I’m training a horse, I believe.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” she countered, following behind him. “And I have several other questions to ask, as well.”

  “Then ask. I seem to be at your disposal for the foreseeable future.”

  “You’d best keep that in mind, Mr. Waring.”

  “Thank you, Phipps,” he said to the head groom, accepting the lead line. “She seemed a little skittish yesterday. I’d appreciate a bit more room today.”

  “Of course, Mr. Waring.”

  As soon as Phipps pulled his people back and then made himself scarce, Lady Isabel cleared her throat. “Don’t order my servants about.”

  “I’m not. I made a request.” He faced her. “Before you begin interrogating me, I have a question for you.”

  She lifted her chin, pretty brown eyes showing almost amber in the sunlight. Immediately he wanted to kiss her upturned mouth again. Sullivan shook himself. Idiot. What the devil was wrong with him? “Is Zephyr solely your excuse to keep me under your heel, or do you actually intend to ride her?”

  From the way the muscles in her jaw jumped, she hadn’t expected the question. Good. He’d long ago learned the benefits of a surprise attack. He waited, Zephyr standing patiently beside him, while she considered her answer.

  “Of course I mean to ride her,” she finally stated. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Then come here.”

  She folded her arms across her chest, which drew his attention to her breasts. They seemed just the right size; as Bram had been known to say, anything more than a handful was a waste. “I give the orders,” she stated. “Not you.”

  “Then please come over here, my lady,” he revised, reflecting that it was a good thing he’d learned to have patience when faced with willful creatures. He wondered whether she’d realized that he needed to decipher her intentions as much as she seemed to want to determine his.

  “No.”

  “If I haven’t injured you thus far, Tibby, you can be fairly assured that I won’t be doing so. Just hold out your hand.”

  “No. And my name where you’re concerned is Lady Isabel. Or my lady.”

  Deciding the protest was merely a delaying tactic, he ignored it, looking from her to Zephyr. The mare was a good animal, but no horse did well with a fearful rider. It wasn’t fair to either of them. He supposed it would help to know what precisely it was that frightened Isabel, but first things first. If she wouldn’t make a single step forward, he would take the horse back and let her find another way to blackmail him until each of them had satisfied their curiosity.

  Shifting his grip from the lead line to the harness strap beneath the mare’s chin, he took a firm hold. Then he placed his right hand flat on the mare’s shoulder. “Stand behind me and put your hand on my shoulder,” he said.

  “That seems pointless.”

  “Your right hand on my right shoulder, if you please.”

  She sighed irritably—or that seemed to be her aim, anyway—then moved directly behind him. Her skirt swished against the backs of his legs, and then warmth touched his shoulder through the rough cotton of his work shirt.

  “Happy?”

  “I’m becoming so,” he returned. Every nerve in his body seemed attuned to that one spot of warmth. Even his breath hesitated. “Now move to my elbow.”

  “Mr. Waring, this—”

  “Please.”

  Lady Isabel slid her palm down to his elbow, her soft touch like a caress. Arousal spun down his spine. Good God.

  “Anything else?” she asked, her breath against his shoulder making him shiver. “Perhaps you’d like me to sew on a button, or polish your boots.”

  He shifted a little to cover his uneasiness, just as she was jabbering to cover hers. She wouldn’t let him call her by her name, and he didn’t want to continue calling her by her title. “Now my wrist, poppet.”

  Since he’d rolled up his sleeves halfway to his elbow he wasn’t certain she would comply, but with another even less steady breath she shifted right a little bit and ran her hand down his bare arm to the safety of his glove. By now he’d begun to think that she was being deliberately tantalizing, but since she was also obviously nervous, he let it go without comment.

  It was a good thing she stood behind him, though, because otherwise he would probably be doing something foolish like smelling the citrus scent of her hair. Since her reach was shorter than his, he’d bent his arm quite a bit. Even so, they were very close to one another. If not for the obvious goal of the horse and their position in the middle of the yard, they would never have gotten away with this.

  “Put your hand over the back of mine,” he instructed.

  “You’re not going to trick me and throw me onto her back, are you?”

  “No. She’s not ready for that.” Neither female was, actually. “No tricks.”

  After a long moment she laid her hand flat over his gloved one. Sullivan wished he’d left the gloves at home, but this way was probably for the best. He held still, aware of her cheek against his shoulder and her left hand gripping the back of his shirt for balance.

  “Now what?” she whispered.

  “I’m going to move my hand back along her ribs. Stay with me.”

  Her hand on his trembled a little, but she complied. They repeated the motion twice, and then he paused again with his hand halfway along Zephyr’s side.

  “Can you feel her breathing?”

  “Yes.”

  “If I stay right here, will you slide your hand next to mine?”

  Her breath stopped. “Tomorrow,” she whispered unsteadily. “I’ll do that tomorrow. If you’ll be standing right there.”

  “I will be.” At that moment he felt willing to fight off Bonaparte’s entire Seventeenth Regiment single-handedly for the privilege.

  The lesson seemed to be over, but she didn’t move from her stance against him, her smaller hand over his. He could swear that her cheek rubbed against his shoulder. Every muscle and bone ached from being held so rigidly, when all he wanted to do was turn around and pull her into his arms. He would barely have to move. Just a slight shift of his feet, and—

  Zephyr s
norted and stomped a hoof. Instantly Isabel gasped and jumped backward. Blinking, Sullivan concentrated on patting the mare’s side until he could be reasonably certain that he wouldn’t throw himself on Lady Isabel. Then he turned around.

  Her older brother, Phillip, Lord Chalsey, stood at the edge of the stable yard. Damnation. With a slight nod at him, Sullivan picked up the longeing whip he’d tossed aside. “You did very well, my lady,” he said as he led Zephyr to one side of the yard.

  She cleared her throat. “Thank you for not teasing me,” she said, following him at a safe distance.

  He shrugged. “You faced something that troubles you. There’s nothing to tease you about.” Shaking out the lead line, he sent Zephyr into a walk.

  “Who is Francesca Perris to you?”

  He froze. Devil a bit. It had taken her, what, three days to figure it out? And he’d had the rest of the ton—with the exception of Bram and the two people whom he wanted to know—running themselves in circles for the past six weeks. Of course, Isabel Chalsey had the advantage of having seen his face.

  “I expect an answer, Mr. Waring.”

  This was why he should have been cold and distant and threatening toward her from the beginning, instead of kissing the chit and fleeing without his mask. And just five minutes ago he’d sworn he would never harm her. Being the villain of the piece, if that was what he’d become, should have been easier. “Up, Zephyr. Trot.” Urging Zephyr into a trot, he pivoted in a circle, Isabel keeping pace behind him.

  “I can find out, you know,” she continued. “I imagine Oliver will know who—”

  “She’s my mother,” he bit out. “And don’t threaten me with Oliver Sullivan unless you want me to put a knife through him.”

  “He’s your brother!”

  “We allegedly share a sire. He’s not my brother.”

  For a moment she kept silent, and he thought perhaps he’d finally managed to frighten her into leaving him be. He waited, but she didn’t back away. Well, well. Unless a horse was involved, apparently nothing scared her at all. Even him.

  “Your mother is a painter, then,” she continued finally.

  “Was a painter,” he corrected. “She died a year ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I.” He changed the tension on the lead line. “Walk on,” he instructed, tickling at the mare’s foreleg. With a hopping step she stopped, then continued forward again at a walk. “Good girl,” he murmured. Not bad at all for a first attempt.

  “And so your father truly is Lord Dunston.”

  Damnation. She was like a hound with a bone. “Leave it be,” he said aloud.

  “No. I’m deciphering you.”

  Sullivan glanced over his shoulder at her. “I think that would be a great deal of effort for very little reward.”

  “Are you older or younger than Oliver?”

  “Do you ever mind your own business?”

  “You are my business. I’m blackmailing you, remember?”

  Good God. He sighed, his amusement growing nearly to match his annoyance. “I’m eight months younger.”

  “You must hate them,” she said quietly. “Growing up knowing—”

  He snorted. “Until five months ago they barely crossed my mind.”

  “Why is that? I mean, obviously Lord Dunston hasn’t acknowledged you. So—”

  “Whoa, Zephyr.” Keeping the mare standing and half angry at himself for still not wanting Isabel to be frightened, he stalked up to her. “My secrets for yours,” he murmured.

  Isabel backed up a step. “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “I don’t have any secrets.” She folded her arms. “Except for the one I’m keeping on your behalf.”

  “And you’re enjoying that one, aren’t you?”

  Her cheeks darkened. “I beg your pardon?”

  “People who don’t like secrets don’t keep them, and they certainly don’t explore them.”

  “I—”

  “If you manage to touch Zephyr tomorrow,” he interrupted, knowing he’d already won the point, “I’ll tell you something about myself. The more progress you make with her, the more you’ll discover about me.”

  She glared at him, her gaze slipping to the mare and back again. “What if the information, as you said, isn’t worth the trouble?”

  “That’s for you to decide, I suppose.”

  “I could make you tell me everything right now,” she continued, assuming the defiant stance she’d tried with him before.

  “Not unless I let you.” In most instances he could read people as easily as he did horses. Her, he hadn’t quite figured out yet, but he was fairly confident about this. “You could try, of course. But that would mean giving up your hold over me, Isabel. And I think we both know you don’t wish to do that.”

  As she pursed her lips, Sullivan’s gaze lowered to her mouth. Abruptly he wondered whether Oliver had ever kissed her. Swift anger and frustration swept up his spine, and he clenched his jaw against it. She was a marquis’ daughter. What Oliver had or hadn’t done didn’t signify, because Oliver Sullivan was within his rights to pursue her. Sullivan Waring was the one training her horse.

  “Get back to your work, then. And it’s still Lady Isabel,” she said, walking over to stand where both of her brothers now watched. Apparently, then, she’d come to the same realization. A well-respected horse breeder he might be, but he was still ankle-deep in horse shit.

  Fine. What the devil did he care, anyway, as long as she kept her silence about his nocturnal visit here earlier in the week? “As you wish.” With a word and a flick of the whip he started Zephyr forward again. He didn’t care. Not one bloody bit. And if she never approached a horse again, he would still have done what he’d been hired to do. Nothing less, and not one damned thing more.

  Twenty minutes later he led Zephyr back into the stable. Turning down the multiple offers from the stableboys, he fed and watered the mare himself. At his own stables he had employees to take on mundane tasks like this one, but he’d found that nothing was more conducive to contemplative thought than feeding and brushing down a horse.

  “Do you paint?”

  He flinched, she was so close behind him. To conceal the motion, he ran the brush through Zephyr’s mane again. “Of course I paint,” he said, keeping his back to the young woman who should have been his nemesis except for the fact that he liked her—even with her poor taste in beaux. “Every evening between mucking out the stables and mending saddles.”

  “You don’t muck out anything. And I asked you a civil question. Pray give me a civil answer.”

  Sullivan picked up the bucket and brush and left the stall, latching it behind him. “Is that an order, my lady?”

  “If…if I were to give you an order, it would be for you to kiss me again.”

  His heart thudding, he faced her. “What?”

  “You heard me, Mr. Waring.”

  The color in her cheeks had deepened, her breathing fast despite her haughty expression. With a quick glance about to make certain no one else was inside the stable, he dropped the bucket. She jumped at the sound. Sullivan ignored that, instead pulling off his heavy work gloves one by one and tossing them over the bucket’s lip.

  He’d been wanting to touch her all morning. Striding forward, he placed his palms on her smooth cheeks, tilted her face up, and closed his mouth over hers.

  She tasted of tea and toast. Nothing had ever intoxicated him so much in his entire life. Her hands tangled into the front of his shirt, tugging him closer, drowning him in sensation. He teased her lips apart, plunging deeper into her softness and warmth.

  Her moan jolted him back to himself. Breathing hard, Sullivan tore his mouth from hers. They were standing in the middle of a bloody stable, for God’s sake. Her family’s stable. Anyone might have seen them. And then he would discover that there were worse things than being caught stealing from aristocrats. Namely, stealing their daughter’s virtues.

  Unta
ngling her hands from his shirt, he stepped back. “I hope that met with your satisfaction, my lady,” he managed, his voice rough around the edges. All of him felt rough and raw at the edges. He wanted to wipe a hand across his mouth, but he’d have to scrub much harder than that to rid himself of his craving for her.

  Isabel cleared her throat. “That was much better than the last time, anyway,” she said, her voice as unsteady as his.

  The last time had been nothing to sneeze at. He met her gaze. “I’m glad to be of service, my lady.”

  Chapter 8

  Isabel expected to see Oliver Sullivan at social gatherings. He was a viscount and the legitimate son and heir apparent of the Marquis of Dunston. Even if he hadn’t been in pursuit of her over the past weeks, they traveled in the same circles.

  Both he and his family were well liked and well respected, with the Sullivans frequently held up as a fine example of how aristocratic families should conduct themselves. Lord Dunston was heralded for his gentlemanly ways and his perfect devotion to his wife, Margaret.

  She liked Oliver, with his charm and deference and confident presence. Goodness knew, though, that she’d been pursued by wife-hunting men since her debut, and honestly she didn’t feel any more for him than she did any of the others. In the usual course of events he would probably propose to her in a few weeks, and she would thank him for his kind consideration and tell him she didn’t plan to marry until she turned one-and-twenty.

  The appearance of Sullivan Waring in her life made everything…different. Not only was Mr. Waring unexpected, but his presence made a lie of certain things she’d taken as truths. The Sullivans weren’t the perfect portrait they showed the world. And she, who loved and admired her parents and her brothers, could conceal and lie on the behalf of a criminal, imperfect stranger. She could kiss him, and want to kiss him again—even knowing that he brought trouble and chaos with him.

  And she’d never enjoyed her life as much as she had in the few days since she’d stumbled across him. But it was more than that. Larger, more significant things were afoot, and even if it was by accident, she felt a part of it. And she liked that, as well. Perhaps that was why she’d begun to want so badly to figure it all out.