After the Kiss

by Suzanne Enoch

  He looked at her for a long moment, his eyes showing green and serious as the sun neared the eastern horizon. “If circumstances were different,” he said slowly, pulling her up against him again, “I would knock at your front door in the middle of the day and ask your father for permission to court you.”

  For a second it looked as though he’d intended to say something different, and her heart stammered. Did he care that much for her? Was he thinking the same things she’d begun to daydream about? His presence had drawn her from the very beginning. Now, though, he didn’t need to be anywhere in sight for her to be consumed with thoughts of him.

  “This is not going to end well, is it?” she whispered.

  He drew a finger along her cheek. “No,” he murmured back. “Not as far as I’m concerned.” Sullivan kissed her. “And if you knew what was good for you, you would dismiss me from your service and hire someone else today.”

  As he released her and quietly pulled open her bedchamber door, Isabel knew that he was absolutely right. But the moment he vanished from sight, closing the door behind him, she wanted him back there again.

  They were both being stupid, and reckless, and she’d never felt more conflicted. He should not have been there, they should not have been together, and at the same time she was quite certain that she would do it all over again in a fast heartbeat.

  But what happened next? What did she want to happen tomorrow, or the next day, or in a year?

  A tear plopped onto her arm. Slowly she brushed it away. The only thing she could hope for was that no one else discovered her secret, and that the gossips would find some other hapless target. She wouldn’t be participating in that fun, however. Lately she’d developed an aversion to speaking ill of other people.

  Isabel donned her night rail and crawled back beneath the disheveled covers. Her sheets, though, smelled like him, stirring desire even after a night of indulgement. She tossed and turned restlessly for a quarter of an hour, then rose to go sit by the window and attempt to read.

  She jerked upright as a knock sounded at her door. “Come in,” she called, blinking. Good heavens, it was light outside. How long had she dozed in her reading chair?

  Douglas hurried into the room, shutting the door behind him. “Did you hear? Oh, of course not. But what are you doing out of bed?”

  “I’m reading,” she lied, setting the neglected book aside and standing. “What time is it?”

  “Half eight. I wanted to wake you half an hour ago, but I thought you might kick me if I did.”

  “Very wise of you. What did I not hear?”

  “Alders got it from the venison man that Lord Fairchild was burgled last night. And listen to this—apparently it happened during the masquerade. Mayfair’s screaming about the Marauder. Waring’s going to get himself caught, if he keeps taking chances like that. Did you know he would be there?”

  “What makes you think it was Sullivan?” she asked, wondering why she bothered with the deception and already knowing the answer to that question. She wanted it to be someone else.

  “Zooks, Tibby, give me some credit. A painting was taken. According to Alders’s source, anyway.”

  “‘Alders’s source’?” she repeated. “He’s a butler.”

  “With a good ear for news. You know it was Waring, Tibby. I like him. You know I do. But he’s got to stop stealing from people we’re acquainted with. If it ever gets out that we knew what he was up to, no one will ever speak to us again. Or we might even be arrested.”

  “Well, he’ll be here at ten o’clock. I’ll mention that to him.”

  “Oh, that reminds me. Oliver sent over a note. He’s coming by in an hour, and inquires whether you’d like to go for a morning drive in Hyde Park.”

  She frowned. “He might have mentioned that last night.” Wonderful. Another complication. If Lord Tilden ever—ever—found out with whom she’d been sharing her bed, there would be bloodshed. She was certain of it. And oddly enough, preventing that was the only reason now that she continued to see him.

  Douglas grinned. “Perhaps he dreamed of you and felt inspired.”

  Isabel knocked him in the side of the head. “You’re an evil boy, and one day I hope you meet a young lady who drives you mad.”

  “I already have you.”

  “Go away, and send Penny up so I may dress, will you?”

  He sketched a bow. “As you wish.”

  That reminded her again of Sullivan. “Stop it. I am not imperious.”

  “But the entire male population of the ton worships you, ma petite,” her brother cooed, taking her hand and bowing over it. “We would all die horribly for you.”

  She shook him off, grinning reluctantly. “If you’d seen me at the Fordham soiree, you wouldn’t be saying that.”

  “Phillip told me. Eloise Rampling is a damned backbiting bagpipe.”

  “Douglas,” she chastised.

  “Well, don’t let her little lies bother you. Fairchild’s went well, didn’t it?”

  “I had a dozen dance partners.” And she’d scarcely noticed any of them, or the dances, when she stood to one side. The man she’d most wanted to dance with had been there. Nothing else mattered.

  “Go driving with Tilden, then. That’ll show everyone.”

  It might help to repair her reputation, at that. Knowing how little the two half-brothers liked one another, though, it also made her feel like a traitor. Discovering a mystery and participating in a deception were two very different things. Isabel rubbed her temple.

  She shooed Douglas out of the room and sat to brush out her hair. By the time Oliver arrived, she and Penny had managed to turn her out presentably, and she’d headed downstairs to devour her breakfast. Being with Sullivan certainly left her famished. “Good morning,” she said, dipping a shallow curtsy as the viscount strolled into the morning room.

  “And here I am yet again,” Oliver said, bowing his head in return. “Your household must be tired of seeing me so often.”

  “Nonsense. Thank you for inviting me to go with you.”

  “My pleasure.” He held out his arm. “Shall we?”

  With Penny and Oliver’s liveried groom sitting on the narrow bench behind the seat, Oliver drove the phaeton to Hyde Park. At midmorning it was crowded, and she braced herself, ready to be as charming as possible to everyone they met.

  It took less than five minutes for her to realize that they weren’t going to meet much of anyone. Carriages mysteriously turned down other paths, horsemen suddenly saw something of interest in the opposite direction, walkers had flowers to examine on the far side of the beds.

  So no one had forgotten the rumors Eloise Rampling had worked so diligently to spread. Evidently she wasn’t as enticing without her butterfly wings. She’d truly thought Eloise had been her friend. Some of the people who avoided her today had been her friends, as well, though apparently the word didn’t mean the same thing to them that it did to her.

  When she looked over at Oliver, his lean face bore a grim, angry expression. As he caught her gaze, he put on a strained smile. “Everyone seems a bit preoccupied today,” he offered.

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  He’d heard the rumors; he knew precisely why no one slowed to speak with them. With Oliver present the worst anyone could do was pretend not to see them; if she’d been alone, she would likely have been given the cut direct. And as they turned back to Chalsey House she hoped that for once Sullivan would have come and gone already.

  Oliver’s restraint actually surprised her a little, considering his previous venomous reaction to his half-brother. And it probably meant something that he was still willing to socialize with her even with the rumors of her infatuation with a horse breeder flying about. Isabel stifled a scowl. Perhaps she should like Oliver more than she did.

  As they pulled into the stable yard a groom came out to hold the team, and Oliver hopped to the ground. “I apologize,” she said quietly, as he came around to help her down from her seat
.

  “You’ve nothing to apologize for,” he returned. “You’ve done nothing but show charity. It’s not your fault your good deeds have been abused by others with less pure intentions than your own.”

  “I prefer to think that an innocent conversation was misinterpreted for no reason other than malice,” she offered, trying not to hesitate as she said the word “innocent.” It didn’t seem as though she’d ever had anything innocent in mind where Sullivan Waring was concerned.

  Lord Tilden smiled at her. “You are good to say so. But don’t be so charitable that you allow harm to come to you, or to your reputation.” His gaze moved beyond her, and his eyes narrowed. Before she could open her mouth to respond, he’d pushed past her.

  She whipped around to see Sullivan emerging from the stable, Zephyr’s reins in his hand. Oh no, oh no.

  “You have some damned nerve, coming here yet again after the trouble you’ve caused,” Oliver snapped, closing on his half-brother.

  Sullivan sent a glance his way, then continued with what he was doing. Her heart pounded, as much from seeing him in daylight as from what was likely to happen next. “Oliver!” she called.

  Lord Tilden slowed. “Go inside, Isabel.”

  “Only if you’ll sit to have some tea with me,” she returned, her gaze on Sullivan. The muscles in his jaw clenched, but otherwise he gave no sign he could hear either of them.

  “I’ll join you in a moment. If you’re too kind to do what’s right, I’ll do it for you.”

  Gathering her skirts, Isabel rushed across the yard, putting herself between the two tall men. “You will not do anything,” she snapped, backing toward Sullivan as she faced down the advancing viscount.

  “Move aside, Isabel,” Oliver ordered.

  “There’s no need to put yourself between us, my lady,” Sullivan said. “Lord Tilden wouldn’t dare begin a fight with me face-to-face. It wouldn’t look at all proper. He likes to hire fists to keep his own from getting bloodied.”

  “I have no idea what you’re babbling about,” the viscount retorted.

  “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not that clever, Tilden.”

  Isabel glanced behind her at Sullivan. “Your face. That was Oliver’s doing?”

  “Not according to him. But then he’s never done anything improper, according to him.”

  “Move aside, Isabel. This doesn’t concern you.”

  A hand gently settled on her shoulder. “It’s fine, Tibby,” Sullivan murmured. “Go inside.”

  “My God.”

  At the sound of the exclamation, she looked back at Oliver. His angry gaze had moved from Sullivan to her. More specifically, to her shoulder, where Sullivan still touched her. In the same moment, the blood left her own face. He knew.

  “You’re finished, Waring,” Lord Tilden spat. He glared at her for another moment. “Poplolly.” Without another word he turned on his heel, stalked back to his phaeton, and climbed into the seat.

  “Oh, no,” Isabel breathed, her heart beating so fast she began to feel dizzy.

  “I would have let him leave,” Sullivan grated, “except for what he just called you.” He dropped the lead line and strode toward the drive.

  “You think I care about that?” she retorted. “He said you were finished.”

  Sullivan stopped. “That bit doesn’t worry me.”

  “I don’t know why not. And please see to Zephyr. I don’t want her running off because someone called me a foul name.”

  His jaw working, Sullivan returned to the mare and caught her reins. “That’s the only part I’m concerned with.” He tugged on Zephyr’s reins and walked the mare forward again.

  Isabel followed him. “I don’t think you should take his threat so lightly,” she went on, nearly treading on his boot heels.

  “He’s not going to do anything. He can’t.”

  “Forgive me for not simply taking your word for it. If he accuses you publicly of wrongdoing, and me of being with you, name-calling will be the least of my worries.”

  “He’s his father’s darling. If he wants to keep his inheritance, he’ll have to do exactly as Dunston says. And Dunston doesn’t want a public scandal anywhere close to him. You and your reputation are therefore perfectly safe, my sweet one.”

  “I wasn’t referring to…us,” she said, gesturing between them and then self-consciously glancing about the yard. For heaven’s sake, if Oliver didn’t ruin them, she would take care of it herself. “I meant the robberies. You robbed my house. I hired you the very next day. And everyone knows I got at least a glimpse of the burglar.”

  He sent her a slow smile that made her mouth dry. “You’ve done more than get a glimpse.”

  “Pay attention to what I’m saying. For heaven’s sake.” If Oliver went against Dunston’s wishes, it wouldn’t be her reputation that would hang by the neck on Tyburn Hill. “This might all be a game to you, but I am worried.”

  “About your ability to find a proper and worthy husband. I know that.” His grip on the reins tightened, then loosened again. Broad shoulders lifted and fell with his deep breath. “Then I suppose our fun is over.”

  Isabel blinked. “What?”

  “You’re worried about your future. We both know I’m not going to be a part of it. So stand back and let me work Zephyr. Let Oliver have his tantrum and then tell him you were just…infatuated with me because you’d never conversed with a horse breeder before. Oliver is the one you want, isn’t he?”

  For a brief second he sounded like a boy whose best toy was being taken away and given to someone else. Then he lowered his head, brushed the lock of brown and gold hair from his eyes, and led Zephyr across the yard.

  Isabel’s hands were clenched so hard the nails were near to drawing blood. She relaxed her fingers, flexing them. The pain, though, wasn’t in her hands. It was in her heart. No, Oliver Sullivan wasn’t the man she wanted in her life. And Sullivan Waring couldn’t be.

  That wasn’t quite true, though. She could have Sullivan, if she didn’t ever wish to go to a party in a fine house again, if she never wanted to dance with the sons of dukes and viscounts, if she wanted all of her friends—and probably her own family—to turn their backs on her literally and figuratively.

  Strangers, she could bear. But her parents? Phillip? Douglas? And how long would Barbara continue to defend her against the truth?

  Oh, it was ridiculous. Even if she understood the hypocrisy of it all, how could she even be thinking about destroying her life for him? What had he done for her, anyway? Yes, he kissed very well, and the…other things were exceptional. But her own friends were carrying tales about her now, and the man who’d been pursuing her for weeks had just called her a whore and stalked off.

  Yes, Sullivan did seem to understand her, and he was kind and patient, and she could say whatever she wished to him without fear of her words coming back to haunt her. She felt…important when she stood in his company, not just some pretty chit of good fortune to complement a matching set of silver candlesticks and a butler.

  “Tibby?”

  She turned around at the sound of her mother’s voice. The marchioness stood a few feet behind her, her generally amused expression surprisingly serious. “What is it, Mama?”

  “Come inside, why don’t you?”

  Isabel looked back at Sullivan. “But Zephyr—”

  “We need to chat, my dear. And you need to stop staring at Mr. Waring like that.”

  Oh, dear. Clearing her throat, Isabel put a surprised look on her face. “I wasn’t staring at anyone,” she lied, smoothing at her dress before she retreated from the yard. “But yes, we haven’t had a good coze in a long while, and I would welcome a nice cup of tea.” But only because it was too early in the day for whiskey.

  Sullivan pretended not to watch as Lady Darshear came outside to claim Isabel. He pretended not to notice the mutterings going on among the stable staff. And he pretended that he was content with having told Tibby they needed to stop seeking one anot
her out.

  Of course it was the right thing for her; the only better thing would be if he’d never touched her in the first place. But he had touched her, and he wanted to do so again. And he wanted to break in half Oliver or any other man who presumed to touch or speak ill of his Isabel.

  Clenching his jaw, he leaned in against Zephyr to tighten the cinch of the sidesaddle. Concentrate, he ordered himself. If he wouldn’t allow himself to touch Tibby again, then he needed to leave her employment as soon as possible. Because whatever difficulties and dangers he’d faced during war, he wasn’t certain he could manage to continue gazing at her while knowing he could never touch her again.

  He straightened. “You, Delvin,” he called, looking over at the stableboy, “what do you weigh, nine stone?”

  “After a meal, yes, Mr. Waring.”

  A bit heavy, but it was much closer to Isabel’s weight than he was. “Come here. Have you ever ridden sidesaddle?”

  The boy blushed as the rest of the yard staff laughed. “No, sir.”

  “Well, you’re going to do it today. Are you nervous?”

  Frowning, the boy met him at the mounting block. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. So will Lady Isabel be.”

  He’d lain across Zephyr’s back, attached sacks of sand and flour with flapping ribbons on the ends, everything he could think of to accustom her to being ridden. Now they needed to make an attempt with an actual rider, and there was absolutely nothing that would make him risk Tibby and her fragile new confidence by having her be the first.

  Phipps approached to help, and while Sullivan talked soothingly to Zephyr, Delvin managed to arrange himself somewhat gracefully in the sidesaddle. The mare backed a few steps, but Sullivan kept pace with her, letting her walk out her nervousness and reassuring her. Finally her ears flicked forward again, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Good girl,” he said, stroking her neck. “Delvin, take the reins, but don’t try to guide her with them. I’ll do that to begin with.”