After the Kiss

by Suzanne Enoch

  “You look very serious, Tibby,” her father said as he strolled into the morning room to collect some of his correspondence.

  “I was just thinking,” she returned, blinking and trying to pull her wandering thoughts back in.

  “About anything in particular?”

  “How well do you know Lord Dunston?”

  “Quite well, as you’re already aware.” He frowned. “Is this about Oliver? Or Mr. Waring? That’s something you shouldn’t concern yourself with.”

  “I don’t know what it’s about, precisely,” she admitted. “I’m just trying to reconcile what I thought I knew with what I do know now.”

  “Ah. Well, everyone makes mistakes, I suppose. I’ve yet to meet anyone who can boast of absolute perfection.”

  She smiled. “Except me, of course.”

  “Well, of course. I reckoned that went without saying.” Planting a kiss on her forehead, he headed out the door again.

  “Papa, why would Lord Dunston not acknowledge that he had another son? It would have made things so much easier on Sullivan. On Mr. Waring, I mean.”

  “It’s more complicated than a matter of ease. There’s integrity and family obligation, lines of inheritance…” He trailed off. “To be blunt, Dunston is not the first nobleman to produce offspring born on the wrong side of the blanket. He’s prided himself on the way he’s lived his life. Should he be punished for making one mistake?”

  A mistake. She hardly counted fathering a child on the same level as stubbing one’s toe. Especially when Dunston held himself up as a paragon of propriety and integrity. She didn’t say any of that aloud, though. Her father didn’t want to explain it any further, and she suspected that she wouldn’t like his answers, anyway. Not when she’d put herself in the middle of a matter of very questionable legality.

  Lord Darshear took a step back into the room. “It’s the way of the world, my dear. And I hope you are still going driving with Oliver; obviously he’s blameless in this, whatever you might think of Dunston at the moment.”

  “I am going driving with Oliver,” she affirmed with another smile, nodding.

  “Good. I wouldn’t have Mr. Waring here, except that he has an unparalleled reputation with horses and you said you wished to learn to ride. There is no one in England better qualified to perform that task.”

  “Thank you, Papa.”

  Once her father left the room again, Isabel resumed her sightless gaze out the window. No, none of this was Oliver’s fault. He’d only been eight months old at the time of Sullivan’s birth. But neither was it Sullivan’s fault. And yet the two of them obviously viewed one another as mortal enemies.

  As a fellow member of the aristocracy, she should be sympathizing with Oliver. But though she wondered why Lord Tilden hadn’t arranged for Sullivan’s arrest when he obviously knew the identity of the Mayfair Marauder, her curiosity and growing concern were with Sullivan.

  But the animosity between the two men meant she probably shouldn’t have asked—ordered—Sullivan to kiss her. But she had, and he had, and her heart thudded every time she thought about it. My goodness. The first time, she’d been frightened and titillated. That kiss, though, had more than likely been meant merely to surprise her into silence while he escaped into the night. This kiss she’d wanted. She’d been thinking about it for four days. And he hadn’t disappointed.

  Down the hallway the front door opened, and at the sound of Oliver’s voice she stood to summon her maid. A moment later Oliver appeared in the morning room doorway. “Good morning, Isabel,” he said, smiling. “You should always wear green; it’s very fetching on you.”

  She curtsied, glad she’d managed to arrange for him to visit while Sullivan was elsewhere. “Thank you, Oliver, though I think after a time I’d begin to feel a bit like moss.”

  “But you’d look precious as emeralds.”

  After they went out to the drive and he helped her and then her maid into his curricle, they set off for Hyde Park. Sullivan would be back at three o’clock for Zephyr’s afternoon training, but she should be home well before then.

  Her father had said she needed to show an active interest in the horse’s training if she expected to keep Zephyr, and that provided a good excuse to keep an eye on Mr. Waring. Was that an excuse, though? Because it had begun to seem that keeping an eye on the mare’s trainer had less to do with him being the Mayfair Marauder, and more to do with him being interesting and dangerous and…different than anyone else she’d ever met. And her very own secret.

  “I’d like to ask you a favor,” Oliver said, guiding them onto the park’s main path.

  She shook herself. Pay attention. “Of course.”

  “I know a fellow who trained a winner at the Derby two years ago. Will you accept my counsel and use him to continue your mare’s training?”

  Abrupt annoyance hit her, but she forced herself to take a moment to consider her answer. She disliked being told what to do, politely or not, but she also knew that she wasn’t aware of all the details of Sullivan’s life and activities and so needed to tread carefully. “I paid an additional fee for Mr. Waring’s services,” she said with her usual charming smile. “And my father and brother approve the results thus far.”

  “Tom Barrett is perfectly competent,” Oliver insisted. “And I will see to any additional expenses.”

  With a breath she shook her head. “I don’t wish to ride a racehorse.” Just the thought made her shudder. “It’s a business arrangement, Oliver. Nothing more.” Nor did she want to be obligated to Oliver, because that could come back to haunt her later.

  But her connection to Sullivan was more than just a business arrangement. She just couldn’t tell anyone else about it. Not about the thievery—and certainly not about the kisses. The first would ruin Sullivan Waring, while the second would destroy them both.

  “I don’t like him hanging about you,” Oliver said in the middle of her ruminations.

  “He’s hanging about the stable; not me.”

  Oliver pulled the bay team to a halt and faced her. “Don’t trust him, Isabel. I’m begging you. He’s ruthless and underhanded. And common, whatever he might say.”

  Her annoyance deepened. “For heaven’s sake, Oliver, Mr. Waring doesn’t say anything, except to the horses. You’re acting as though you’re jealous or some such thing. It doesn’t become you.”

  He snorted. “Jealous? Of a bastard horse breeder? I think not.” He clucked to the team and they started off again. “I merely pity any proper female who might cross his path unawares.”

  She drew a breath. As determined as she was to decipher Sullivan, Oliver would likely be a splendid source of information. If she attempted it, she would have to be careful to avoid letting the viscount know she’d realized that Mr. Waring was the thief who’d been tormenting the residents of Mayfair. It wasn’t only the need for caution that made her hesitate, though. Whatever Oliver told her about Sullivan would be bad. According to her uncovering-of-mysteries plan, she needed to hear it. But did she truly want to know?

  “Oliver, since Mr. Waring is in my family’s employ, I would appreciate if you would elaborate on your concerns about him.”

  “I should think it obvious,” he returned. “Where does a nobody acquire the funds necessary to begin a thoroughbred horse-breeding establishment?”

  Through hard work, she immediately thought, but of course couldn’t say that aloud. Some people needed to work for a living, but not nobles. “Do you think he took money from someone?” she asked, careful not to mention Mayfair or marauding.

  “I wouldn’t put anything past him. What do you expect of someone with whom no one wishes to associate except for business?”

  “But his work is well respected by nearly everyone.”

  “Ha. You’ll notice that I don’t own a horse from Waring Stables.”

  Hm. She wondered whether that had been his decision, or Sullivan’s. “If you suspect him of illegal doings, why haven’t you reported him to the au
thorities?”

  He blew out his breath. “There are some things a gentleman doesn’t do,” he returned with a scowl. “I prefer to think that if given enough rope, a scoundrel will hang himself.”

  Hang. She’d threatened Sullivan with that, but when Oliver said it, she realized that not only would the viscount be perfectly content to see it happen, but it was a real possibility. Sullivan Waring could hang. Oliver, despite his stated intention to stay back and observe, could easily see that it would happen. And if she wanted otherwise, she’d best have a reason.

  After all, he’d known Sullivan Waring for a great deal of time longer than she had. If she’d heard Oliver’s opinion of Sullivan before she’d stumbled across him burgling her house, she probably would have turned him in to the authorities without hesitation. It would have been foolish not to. Now, however, what had been complicated before was so tangled she could barely see the spider for the web.

  She needed to learn more of those secrets kept by Sullivan Waring. And her best chance to do that would be while she trusted him to keep her safe as she put her hands on a horse.

  “Samuel, I need you to deliver Hector to Lord Brewster this morning,” Sullivan said, as he finished saddling Achilles. “And remind him that he’s signed a contract. He has a fortnight. And whether any of his mares produce or not, he owes us a hundred quid.”

  The groom nodded. “Subtle or straightforward, sir?”

  Sullivan grinned. “Subtle. Brewster’s never tried to cheat me before. I just don’t want any nasty surprises later.” Thunder boomed across the meadow, and he glanced through the open stable doors. “Tell him if the weather puts Hector off, we’ll give him another day gratis.”

  “I’ll see to it.”

  “Good. I’ll be back in under two hours. Before you leave, have Halliwell bring in the pair of bays for Gilroy. I want them dry and brushed down when he comes to take possession.”

  “No worries.”

  There were half a hundred other things he needed to attend to, but as he swung into the saddle and sent Achilles off at a trot toward Mayfair, foremost in his mind was seeing Isabel. Odd, that in such a relatively short time she’d become such a central piece of his life. Of course, much of that was because she insisted on blackmailing him, even though by now they both had a fair idea that she wasn’t going to have him carted off to gaol.

  Yesterday afternoon she’d kept her distance, but he had the feeling that that was more because of her younger brother’s presence than because she didn’t want to kiss him again. He definitely wanted to kiss her again. And that wasn’t all he wanted of her.

  Unfortunately, whatever his feelings toward the aristocracy in general, ruining pretty young things of high birth had never appealed to him—and especially not when this one actually interested him. He’d had his share of ladies of the peerage, ones who had their eyes open and on occasion rings on their fingers, but he’d never found them to be more enticing than any other chit in the world.

  It amused him that the ladies and the more horse-wise men of the ton practically worshipped his skill with and knowledge of the animals—unless Dunston or Tilden or any of the other Sullivans were about. Then he became invisible. A shame he couldn’t take that act to the fair.

  Or rather, it had amused him until his return from the Peninsula. Since then it had served only to remind him of the hypocrisy and conceit of the people with whom he did business. There were exceptions—Bram, for example, and Viscount Quence, Phin Bromley’s older brother. And Isabel Chalsey.

  That last one was probably an illusion on his part, but she’d kissed him twice now. And the second time had been her idea, and it had been after she’d realized that he and Oliver Sullivan were half-brothers.

  Thunder boomed again. Achilles hopped sideways, neighing, but Sullivan reined him in, patting him on the neck. “It’s only noise, boy,” he said soothingly.

  The clouds let loose. A gray curtain of cold and wet closed around him. And over him.

  “Noise and rain,” he amended, pulling his hat lower over his eyes and holding his greatcoat closed with one hand. “Bloody bracing, don’t you think, lad?”

  When he reached Chalsey House he was soaked to his bones. At least he’d arrived at ten o’clock sharp—prompt once again. The stable yard drained well, but it was still muddy. Ah, well. The horses didn’t mind, and the devil knew he’d trudged through worse. For her future rider’s sake he wanted Zephyr accustomed to varying terrain, anyway.

  “Good morning, Mr. Waring,” Phipps said, meeting him at the stable’s main doors. “I thought perhaps you’d pass us by today, what with our fine weather.”

  Grinning, Sullivan shrugged. “It’s like as not to rain tomorrow, and I can’t get much wetter now.”

  The groom chuckled. “I do hear that. I’ll take care of your Achilles for you.”

  “My thanks.”

  Grabbing a spare blanket, he laid it across Zephyr’s back and tied it down before he led her outside. She barely batted an ear as she pranced into the rain. Good. Today a blanket, tomorrow a sack of grain, and the next day or so, a saddle.

  He let her canter about for a few minutes on the end of the line—she’d been tolerating being closed up in a stable extremely well, and she’d be easier to work with once she’d kicked off her high spirits. The back door of Chalsey House remained firmly closed against the weather, so he supposed he might as well settle down to work, himself. And the disappointment running through his chest? That was just idiocy.

  “Mr. Waring?”

  A ground-floor window of the house pushed open. As he recalled from his late-night visit, through it was a cozy sitting room. That was beside the point, though, as Lady Isabel, her blonde hair loose around her shoulders like soft spun gold, motioned for him to approach.

  “Good morning, my lady,” he said, sweeping his wet hat off his wet hair.

  Her gaze lowered briefly to his mouth. “You didn’t have to come this morning, you know.”

  “It’s just rain. And it’s not good for an animal being trained to miss a day of lessons.”

  “You’re very dedicated.”

  He grinned. “Are you alone in there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’m meeting the terms of my blackmail. But I don’t suppose you’ll venture out here to do your part regarding that other matter.”

  “‘Other matter’?”

  “The trading of secrets. Or information, since you claim to have none of the other.”

  “I am not going out in that,” she retorted, gesturing at the out-of-doors in exaggerated horror. “I’ll catch my death!”

  For a moment he wondered whether she worried more about the weather or about patting the horse. Then she looked behind him at where Zephyr danced through a puddle, tossing her head and nickering. Ah. Definitely the horse, then.

  “And what’s so amusing about me catching cold, Mr. Waring?” she demanded.

  He hadn’t realized he was smiling. “Apologies. I never expected your resolve to get to the bottom of…well, of me, to be dampened so easily,” he improvised.

  “It’s not dampened. Only delayed. And I shall be watching you from the window, so don’t think you can get away with anything.”

  Sullivan inclined his head. “I wouldn’t dream of misbehaving, poppet. Not without you.”

  While Isabel sat in the window, warm and dry and sipping what smelled like peppermint tea, he put Zephyr through her paces, first clockwise, and then the other way around. He did his best to concentrate, but every inch of him knew she was watching. It raised the hairs on his arms and sped his breath.

  “When I ride her,” she called through the window, “is Zephyr only going to be able to walk in a circle?”

  “She can also manage a figure eight,” he answered over his shoulder, otherwise trying to ignore her comments. It was easier, though, to ignore the rain.

  “How will she learn to take the bridle when you’ve been pulling her everywhere?”

  “H
ave you been reading up on techniques of horse training?” he asked, torn between annoyance and amusement. He doubted she would have been asking those questions if she’d been standing next to him. If that had been the case, he would have been tempted to throw her on the back of a horse—any horse—and see how she fared.

  “Yes, I have been,” she returned. “Phillip gave me a book.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to come out here and put your reading to good use, then.”

  “Not while it’s raining, Mr. Waring. For heaven’s sake.”

  “Whoa, Zephyr.” Once the mare stopped, he faced the house again. “Just keep in mind, my lady, that I can reach right through that window.”

  “Oh, yes, I recall. You’re very good at climbing through windows.”

  “Lucky for you, or you’d be stuck in there with no one to torment.”

  “Unfortunate for you, because you were so unskilled as to be caught.”

  That was enough of that. He dropped the lead line and stalked up to the window through the mud. As he reached the window she leaned out with a breathless laugh and pulled it closed, latching it before he could dig his fingers into the frame and open it again. She waved at him from behind the safety of the glass.

  He glared at her, then went back to work. Closing that window was the smartest thing she’d done since they’d met. Because foremost in his mind after getting his hands on her was kissing her again. It wasn’t her safety he was likely to endanger. It was her virtue.

  “Tibby, it’s not seemly for you to be staring out the window at strange men.”

  Isabel actually jumped as her mother, embroidery in hand, walked into the sitting room. “He’s not a strange man,” she replied, gazing out at Sullivan again as Zephyr circled gracefully around him. “I hired him, and I am making certain he’s attending to his duties.”

  Lady Darshear joined her at the window. “Mr. Sullivan Waring looks very fine in the rain,” she said after a moment.