“Yes, it is,” Phillip said when she declined to answer.
“Very well. Good day, then.” He turned around and left the house.
“Well, that’s interesting,” her older brother mused. “Apparently the Sullivans and Mr. Waring have had some dealings.”
“Shh,” Douglas muttered. “Don’t mention his name.”
Isabel glanced from them to the pile of returned goods, then headed back out the front door. “Oliver!” she called.
He pulled Paris to a halt halfway down the drive. “What is it?” he asked brusquely.
“Why did Sullivan sell Paris to you?”
For a long moment he glared at her. “So that the difficulties would appear to be between him and me, and that you were in no way involved.”
Sullivan had done it for her. “That’s why you and your family have gone out of your way to be civil to me, as well, isn’t it?”
“It was part of the agreement.” He looked away down the street, then drew in a breath as he returned his gaze to her. “You could have had me, you know,” he said slowly. “Now I won’t have his castoff, and he has his blunt to leave London. Permanently.” He paused. “At least I got a horse out of the deal.”
With that, he kicked Paris in the ribs and trotted off down the street.
Isabel sank down on the step. Sullivan was leaving London. None of the things Oliver had said mattered in the slightest, except for that. He’d meant it, then. He wouldn’t allow her to be a part of his life, however much she might be ready to accept it.
“Tibby?” Douglas sat beside her.
She lay her head on his shoulder. “Did you know he was leaving London?”
“I knew that one of the big stables was in the process of relocating,” her younger brother answered. “I figured it was him.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“What good would it have done?”
She thought about that for a moment. “None.”
“Then I don’t know whether you want to go inside or not.”
Isabel lifted her head to look at him. “What?”
He nodded his chin toward the street. “Someone’s here to retrieve Molly. And this time you can’t say I didn’t tell you what was going on.”
For the space of a heartbeat, Isabel closed her eyes, the remainder of her brother’s prattling fading into nothing. Then she looked in the direction Douglas indicated. Sullivan rode up the drive on his black Achilles, his ice-green gaze steady on her. “I think I’ll stay out here,” she murmured.
Sullivan drew up Achilles at the foot of Chalsey House’s front steps. He’d spent the morning rehearsing what he would say and how he would go about it. He needed to say goodbye to Isabel. She’d walked out of his house and shut the door on him. For her sake he should probably have made that their last encounter. For his sake, though, he wanted to see her one last time, and to make her understand that this was the best, most logical way to end things. Still, seeing Isabel sitting there as though she were waiting for him threw off the balance he’d carefully assumed.
“Good morning,” he said, swinging down from Achilles.
She remained seated. “Good morning. Douglas, would you fetch Molly for Mr. Waring?”
So he was back to being Mr. Waring again. Stifling a frown, he tied off Achilles and sat on the step as Douglas nodded and hurried around the side of the house. “I saw Tilden up the street. He didn’t look happy. I presume he was here?”
“Yes, he returned the items that were stolen from the house.”
Sullivan nodded. One of the clips in her pretty blonde hair had come loose. He worked his fingers, fighting the urge to touch her. They could be seen from the street, after all, and he had no intention of setting her reputation back on its heels again. Not when she seemed to be returning to Society’s good graces.
“Interestingly enough,” she said abruptly, “Oliver was riding Paris.”
“I do sell horses,” he countered smoothly. “It’s how I maintain my business.”
“Is that why you sold Hector, too?”
“I sold Hector because people want him. My business has been a bit…flat over the past few weeks. I wanted the attention.”
“It seems odd, then, that you would choose to leave London now.”
He blew out his breath. “You are very well informed.”
“I discovered it all just a few moments ago,” she returned, finally looking at him. “You should stay.”
“I can’t, Isabel.”
“Because of me?”
“Honestly?”
“Yes, if you please.”
His Isabel had changed since they’d met. She seemed less changeable, and more serious. She appealed to him even more now than she had before. And that was dangerous. Keeping that in mind, he edged an inch or two farther away from her. “Honestly, then. I can’t stop thinking about you. You’re in my mind, in my heart, every moment of every day. And I can’t have you wi—”
“You can have me. That’s what I keep trying to tell you.”
“I would ask for your hand in a second if I thought I could give you what you deserve. But we both know that I can’t do that. And whatever you say now, you would resent me once you realized that having me in exchange for everything else you have now wouldn’t be worth it.”
Tears hovered at the corners of her eyes. “You should let me decide that.”
“I want to. And that’s why I’m leaving. I sold those damned paintings to Dunston for a very good price. I bought a small estate in Sussex. I’ll have ten times the land I had here in London.”
Isabel stood, brushing off her skirts. “I thought I was the proud one, Sullivan, but I was wrong. I’m sorry you think so little of your life that you don’t wish anyone to share it with you. And I hope your business does well in Sussex. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go change for luncheon.”
“Isabel.” He stood up as she topped the stairs and the butler pulled the door open to admit her. “Tibby.”
“You’re already the man that I want, Sullivan,” she said, turning in the doorway to face him. “If you ever realize that it’s you and not your standing in Society that I fell in love with, you know where you can find me. But I’m tired of fighting you for something we both want. If you’re happier being miserable, then do it without me. I suppose you would have to, though.”
With that, she went inside. The butler sent him a startled, affronted look, and then closed the door.
Sullivan looked for a moment at that door. She still didn’t understand. He couldn’t even have followed her inside, because he wasn’t allowed through the front doors of fine houses. And she wouldn’t be, either, if he married her.
“As you wish,” he whispered.
Chapter 27
Three months later
“Mr. Waring, someone left open the conservatory window last night, and the rain has ruined the burgundy chairs.”
Sullivan looked up from his accounts book to eye Dudley. “Then throw them out,” he returned.
“But it’s only the material, sir. The rest can be sal—”
“Then do that, Dudley.”
The butler gave an audible sigh. “Yes, sir. I only needed your permission first.”
With another glance down at his expense accounts, Sullivan forced a smile. “Then you have it. Eventually you’ll have me trained in all this. Bear with me.”
The butler nodded. “Of course, sir. And Mrs. Howard wishes to know your choice for the evening’s menu.”
Mrs. Howard never used to ask what he cared to eat. He supposed having a kitchen thrice the size of the old one and a cottage for her and her husband to live in had made her more conscious of her new role. And his. “Tell her to cook whatever she wishes. She knows I’ll eat it.”
A muscle jumping in his cheek, the butler sketched a bow and left the room. Sullivan went back to work on figuring his monthly expenditures, then tossed the pencil onto his desk and sat back.
Out his window
he could see Halliwell exercising Achilles on the path beside the stream. Closer by, in the main stable yard, Vincent and the new fellow were unloading sacks of feed grain from a wagon while Samuel led one of the new brood mares out to the nearest enclosed pasture.
Most men probably would have selected a room with a more scenic view of their property to be their office, but the stable yard was the most vital part of his property. He wanted to keep an eye on it. Actually, he wanted to be out in it, but lately he seemed to be spending more time closed behind doors than out of them.
He should have expected that, he supposed, going from owning a small stable and employing five people to owning an estate with a name and employing nearly two dozen. It kept him busy, and left him mentally and physically tired—and that had been the best part of all of this. No time to think of other things.
Except that she still managed to keep her place, in that corner of his heart that she’d taken over, on the fringes of his mind where an image of her could arise at every unexpected moment of the day or night. Especially of the night. Isabel. His Isabel.
He shook himself, pushing to his feet. So now he had the trappings of nobility. However wealthy he might become, in the eyes of her world he remained a nonentity. None of the nobles on the estates neighboring his ever came to visit, not that he’d yet asked them over. They came on occasion for business, but with his new philosophy of trying not to hate every aristocrat, he didn’t want to ask them to stay for meals and have them refuse. And he hadn’t been invited to their homes except to see and compliment their stables.
It would have been enough. Before he’d met Isabel, this life would have made him ecstatic—except for the complications of trying to run a household and the amount of time he had to spend bent over his books. The price of being successful, he supposed. And he had a great many more people relying on him now.
He walked down the hallway to his small library. It was odd, having more rooms than he knew what to do with. Next he’d be ordering a billiards table—a nobleman in everything but actuality.
Once Bram had learned that he was putting together a library, the blackguard had begun sending him books of Far Eastern erotic art, and another small stack of them lay spread across a chair. Hm. Dudley had been at them again, then.
As for himself, whatever the joke Bram thought he was playing, nothing stirred him any longer. It was probably odd that he would remain faithful to a woman he would in all likelihood never see again, especially after the life he’d lived, but he would have her or no one.
Wandering to the window, he looked outside. The view from the library was of the front of the house and the side pasture, the latter being used by half a dozen mares he’d acquired since the move to Sussex. The former was empty—and then it wasn’t.
A single black coach turned up the long, winding drive toward the house. A yellow coat of arms adorned both doors, but it was too far away to make out. Sullivan frowned. He didn’t have any appointments scheduled until tomorrow afternoon. And it couldn’t be Bram, because he refused to travel in a coach bearing his father’s family crest.
Returning to his office, he shrugged into his coat. He refused to contemplate who the occupants might be, because he knew whom he wanted it to be. And that was ridiculous.
She wouldn’t come after him, anyway. She’d made that very clear. It was up to him, she’d said, and he wasn’t going anywhere. He wasn’t that selfish. Or so he told himself.
“Mr. Waring,” Dudley said, as he topped the stairs, “you have a caller.”
“Who is it?”
The butler held out a silver tray. Belatedly Sullivan reached out and took the calling card. Damned pretension. Then his breath stopped. “Did you let him in?” he asked, clenching his fist around the card and rendering it into an unrecognizable wad.
“He is in the morning room, sir.”
“Very well.” Making himself breathe again, he headed down to the ground floor.
“Shall I bring tea, sir?”
“Tea? No. He can get his own refreshment somewhere else.”
The butler cleared his throat. “Very good, sir.”
Outside the morning room Sullivan squared his shoulders. Then he opened the door and walked inside. “Lord Dunston,” he said.
The marquis turned from gazing out the far window to face him. “Well, you look like a gentleman.”
“You’ve come quite a distance,” Sullivan returned coolly, easier now that he knew the tone of the meeting. “I would have hoped you had a better insult to hand.”
“You made a muck of things for me this Season,” Dunston continued, remaining on his feet. Either he didn’t want to soil himself by sitting on his bastard’s furniture or he wasn’t comfortable there. It was an interesting thing to realize.
“You began it.” Sullivan deliberately took the seat closest to the hallway door.
“Yes, I suppose I did.”
Sullivan opened his mouth, ready to continue the argument. Then he closed it again. Well, that was a surprise.
“You didn’t expect to hear me admit that, did you?” the marquis went on. “You are not without fault, certainly, but it was my actions that precipitated yours. While you acted wrongly, I expected more of myself. And of my son.”
“I’ll assume you’re speaking of Tilden.”
Dunston flipped a hand in dismissal. “I’ve sent Oliver to tend one of my properties in York.” He paused for a moment. “And I’m wondering whether your sale of that horse to him was intentional on your part.”
Sullivan frowned. “Beg pardon? Of course I knew I was selling him a horse. A damned fine one.”
“In everyone’s eyes he bullied you into it, to try to recover his own reputation.”
This time Sullivan snorted. “Can’t say I’m too troubled by that.”
“No, I didn’t imagine you would be.” Finally Dunston came around the front of the chair and sat opposite Sullivan. “The problem being that I won’t have us being seen as cruel or overly arrogant in picking on a social inferior. Especially a respected one. And a talented one.”
“Then you probably shouldn’t have done it. Don’t expect me to come out and correct everyone’s impressions. I doubt they would listen to me, even if I were so inclined.”
He only half paid attention to what he was saying. Instead, his thoughts caught on what Dunston had said. Not that he was a social inferior—he knew that well enough. But that the marquis knew him to be respected. The way Dunston had said the words, it almost sounded as though he shared in the feeling.
Isabel had told him the same thing. Not in the same way, since she wasn’t concerned about Society’s perception of either of them. But that she respected him. As a man.
And he’d walked away from her. He’d made the decision that she wouldn’t like his life, that she wouldn’t be able to hold her head up when her old friends snubbed her. But they’d been snubbing her since a fortnight after he and Isabel had met, and she’d never faltered. She’d tried to tell him that, as well, but he hadn’t listened.
He closed his eyes. Good God. What had he done?
“I’ve decided to acknowledge you.”
Sullivan shot to his feet. “Excuse me. I need to be somewhere.”
“Didn’t you hear me?” Dunston called, following him into the hallway. “I said I mean to acknowledge you.”
“Yes, do whatever you want,” Sullivan said absently, heading up the stairs. “Dudley! Have Halliwell saddle Achilles. And send Gerald up to see me. I need to pack some things.”
She would be at Burling at this time of year. It would take him two days to get to Cornwall on Achilles, if he rode hard enough. And he would.
“I am making you respectable!” Dunston bellowed up the stairs. “Show some bloody gratitude!”
“I’m already respectable,” Sullivan returned, pausing at the top of the stairs. “You want to help your family. That’s fine. Do what you will.”
“This will put an end to the feud between us.”
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“I ended it three months ago, my lord.”
“I’m prepared to give you a yearly stipend.”
Sullivan lowered his brow. “I don’t require anything of you. This is about what you feel is necessary. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go see whether I can mend the largest mistake I’ve ever made in my life.”
Dunston looked up at him for a long moment while Sullivan tried not to fidget. Finally the marquis nodded. “You are not mine,” he said.
With a scowl, Sullivan took a step back toward Dunston. Not that damned business again. “I’m not your son? Then why are you—”
“No! No. You are not my largest mistake. You…you have courage, and a greater sense of honor than others of my blood.”
“Thank you. See yourself out, will you?”
The marquis blinked. “You won’t—”
“Good day, my lord.”
If Dunston expected to be called father or some such thing, he was in for a disappointment. Still, being acknowledged would make him more acceptable in the eyes of the ton. There would still be places he couldn’t go, not that he cared. No, he’d discovered something else, thanks to George Sullivan: Even with his birth and the thefts—or perhaps because of them—he was a good man. The other things didn’t matter.
And now he needed to go convince someone else that he’d learned his lesson, and hope that she was more forgiving toward him than he seemed to be toward his own flesh and blood.
“I am not going to teach you to jump,” Douglas stated.
Isabel urged Zephyr around her brother and his mount. “Why not?”
“First of all, Father would break my skull whether or not you broke yours. And secondly, no.”
She grimaced at him. “I’ll ask Phillip, then.”
“He’ll say the same thing.”
Yes, he probably would. In truth, she didn’t feel secure enough in the saddle to attempt leaving the ground. But it would be something she could strive for. Something to keep her occupied. She’d nearly run out of things to embroider and books to read. And the village women would begin throwing rocks at her if she went down to bring food and clothes and help them plant their gardens more frequently than the thrice a week she’d already managed.
After the Kiss Page 30