After the Kiss (4 page)

Isabel half thought his amenability was because she’d secured the great Sullivan Waring to come to the house for the next fortnight or so, but she didn’t say that aloud. She might tend to look for high drama or create her own where none existed, but with her parents—or her mother, at least—expressing concern over her latest project, she’d abruptly begun to realize that she wasn’t just keeping a secret. She was lying.

For heaven’s sake, if she’d had more time to consider how to proceed, or a bit of advance notice that she’d been about to stumble in broad daylight across the man who’d stolen paintings from the house and a kiss from her, she doubted she would have settled on this solution. It wasn’t even a solution, really; it was a stalling tactic to keep Mr. Waring close by until she could…what? Decide how to best him for taking liberties with her? Have him arrested? He was a thief, after all. He deserved to be—

“My lord,” the butler said, sending a glare at the footman with whom he’d just spoken, “a Mr. Waring is in the stable yard, awaiting Lady Isabel.”

“He’s here!” Douglas crowed, bouncing into the room. “He rode that big black again. By Jove, he’s bang up to the echo.”

“Douglas,” the marchioness chastised. “A little decorum, if you please. It’s not as though the Prince Regent’s come calling.”

“This is better than Prinny.”

“Harry, say something to that boy of yours.”

“I’m sorry, my dear, but in this instance I have to agree with Douglas.” The marquis pushed away from the table. “I’ve chatted with Mr. Waring on occasion, but to actually see him work…Come along, Tibby. Let’s go see what the master horse breeder has planned for today.”

Douglas sped out of the room, but Isabel resumed picking
at the toasted bread she’d actually finished with five minutes ago. “I’m eating. And he’s a horse breeder, for goodness’ sake. He can wait.”

“Are you certain you aren’t delaying because of the horse?” the marquis countered, shaking his graying brown head at her. “I would understand why. Stay here if you wish. I’ll send Zephyr home with Mr. Waring.”

“I’m not—Oh, bother.” Frowning, she stood up. “Very well, then. Let’s go say hello to the illustrious Mr. Waring.”

She could pretend it was indifference, but the reluctance was very real. It was just that Zephyr wasn’t the only reason for it. Luckily Douglas and her father were too occupied chatting about the next Derby races to notice her trepidation. Shaking out her shoulders, Isabel followed along behind them. It was one thing to be uncertain of her ground. Allowing Sullivan Waring to see that would be quite another.

He was seated on the back of her father’s phaeton as they exited the house through the kitchen. Today he’d dressed less like a gentleman and more like a stableboy, his coat draped over a post and his shirtsleeves rolled halfway to his elbows. Isabel swallowed. She’d been struck before by his hard handsomeness, but taken altogether, he looked like one of the great Greek heroes about whom Homer had spun his tales.

“Good morning,” he said, inclining his head and jumping to the ground. A strand of dark gold hair slanted across one light green eye.

“Mr. Waring,” her father said, smiling as he offered his hand. “I see you’re a man of your word.”

“I thought this might be a bit early,” Waring returned, shaking and releasing the marquis’ hand, “but it needs to be if I’m to deliver two training sessions each day in addition to my other responsibilities.”

“Two?” Isabel blurted. “Each day?”

“That’s the recommended routine,” Douglas supplied, eyeing Waring’s attire as though trying to commit it to memory. “Thirty minutes each, to start with. Isn’t that it, sir?”

“It is.” Waring nodded, facing Isabel. “Shall we begin, then, my lady?”

“Oh, smashing!”

Wonderful
. “No, Douglas,” she said forcefully. “I don’t want you stomping about and frightening everything on two or four legs.”

“But you’ve—”

“That’s a very good point,” her father put in. “You’re going to Parliament with me today, anyway.”

“But I—”

“Come along.” The marquis squeezed Isabel’s fingers. “Phipps is about, and what looks like half the grooms and stableboys. You won’t be riding today, and Phipps will keep an eye on things.”

“I’ll be fine. Thank you, Papa.” She hoped he believed her, even with her hands shaking. Of course, he expected her to be unsettled around horses, and she was. They also provided a good excuse for nerves of another sort entirely. The game didn’t seem quite so much a game with her opponent looking straight at her.

“That was handy,” Waring commented as her father and brother returned to the house.

She took a breath, having to look up to meet his gaze. “I’m surprised you waited out here instead of climbing inside through a window or something.”

He took a slow step closer, dust rising around his black boots on the bare ground. “Just keep in mind that I
can
climb through a window, anytime I choose.”

So that was how they were going to play this game—bluff
versus bravado. Except she wasn’t entirely certain that he was bluffing.

Neither, though, was she. Or so she hoped. “And you keep in mind, Mr. Waring, that I can clip your wings, anytime
I
choose.”

“We’ll see about that, my lady.”

Isabel followed at a distance as Waring walked into the Chalsey family stable like he owned it. The servants inside all gave him room, apparently under the same misapprehension. That was more than enough of that. “Phipps, please bring my horse out.”

Waring ignored her, continuing up to the small stall where Zephyr had already swung her head around to nicker at him. “Hello, girl,” he said in a deep, soothing voice that rumbled down Isabel’s own spine. He rubbed the mare’s nose as he attached a long rope to her halter.

Phipps opened the stall door, and Waring backed Zephyr into the main part of the stable. Her ears flicked back and forth, but she stayed close by the breeder’s shoulder.

“Do you want to lead her out?” he asked, offering Isabel the folded length of rope.

She put her hands behind her back, trying not to gasp. “A completely untrained animal? I think not, Mr. Waring.”

He drew even with her, and slowed. “Not as bold as you’d like me to think, are you, my lady?” he said in a low voice. “Be careful; your weaknesses are showing.”

Drat
. “Well, that’s a ridiculous thing to say, unless you intend to put a horse through my window,” she retorted in the same tone.

Sullivan Waring laughed. The genuinely amused sound surprised her—and she wasn’t the only one. Zephyr lifted on her rear legs in a backward hop. “Whoa, Zephyr,” he murmured, keeping her walking forward and actually giving her more slack on the guide rope. “Easy, girl.”

Isabel backed away herself as they left the stable for the yard. The animal was obviously unpredictable. Or rather, the animal and the horse were both unpredictable.

She smiled a little at her play on words. She knew this man’s character, charming laugh or not. Whether he had everyone else fooled or not. She glanced at Phipps and the other stableboys. They were definitely interested, but far enough away that she could probably manage a private conversation with Mr. Waring. Of course, to do that, she would have to stand closer to him. And to her new, half-wild horse.

“Are you going to stand way over there the entire time?” he asked, echoing her own thoughts.

Reluctantly she returned to his side. However unsettled both he and the horse made her, taking a position of weakness now would never do. Especially not, she sensed, with him. “I believe you owe me an explanation,” she said.

Instead of answering, he motioned to one of the stableboys. The fellow came forward immediately, handing over a long-handled whip with a short, tasseled leather on the end. Mr. Waring glanced at her, the end of the whip swaying back and
forth, snakelike, in his right hand. “You might want to move to my left,” he said, letting out the lead line.

“Are you attempting to threaten me with that?” she grated, beginning to suspect that she might be in over her head. This was not a simple secret, like knowing that someone was infatuated with someone else. This was a large, strong, mobile secret that kissed and threatened and intrigued.

“I’m training your mare, which is what you employed me to do. Back up.”

“I will n—”

He clucked his tongue. “Walk on.” With that he flicked Zephyr’s near back leg, feather-light, with the whip.

Snorting, the mare danced sideways and then began a forward walk in a wide circle around them, as far away as she could get with the lead line. Quickly Isabel took a step back, keeping herself just behind Waring’s left shoulder as he pivoted to keep the mare directly in front of him.

“Well, this is impressive,” she said after a moment. “In no time I shall be too dizzy to defend myself.”

“Whoa.” He flicked the whip forward to touch Zephyr’s chest, and she stopped. “You do it, then,” he said, offering Isabel the rope and the whip.

“That is
your
job. I’m merely wondering why you want me to stand here, spinning.”

“Walk on.” With another flick the mare walked forward again. “What are your intentions?”

Isabel gazed at his handsome profile, admitting to herself that if he’d been a pock-faced drunkard, he would be in gaol already. “What are
your
intentions?”

“No business of yours.”

She took a deep breath, feeling as though she were about to take her first step onto a very rickety bridge strung across a very deep chasm. “I hold your freedom, if not your life, in
my hands, Mr. Waring. You will be civil to me, and you will do as I ask—which includes answering any and all questions I put to you. Is that clear?”

He turned his head to look full at her, his green eyes hard and cold as ice. “As you wish, my lady,” he half growled. “May I please ask what you intend to do with me, though, when you’re finished playing this little game?”

A thrill ran through her. Power. She’d never held anyone’s life at her mercy, and had never thought to do so.
Goodness.
“I haven’t decided yet.”

Slowly he nodded. “You’d best do so, because my patience runs only so deep. And you aren’t the only one capable of making plans.”

“Are you certain it’s wise to give me an ultimatum?” she asked.

“Hm.”

“‘Hm’? What is that supposed to mean?”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “It means that I think you have no idea what you’re doing. You saw me, so you feel as though you can’t simply walk the other way, but I kissed you and you liked it, so you don’t wish to send me to the hangman.”

Her cheeks heated, though she wasn’t entirely certain whether it was because of embarrassment or frustration. If he continued to understand her that clearly, she didn’t stand a chance of keeping him beneath her thumb until she’d wrung all of the excitement out of the situation. “I did not like your kiss,” she hissed. “It was such a poor effort that I felt sorry for you. My compassion, however, is swiftly being overwhelmed by—”

“You felt sorry for me?” he repeated. “If you feel sorry for anything, it should be that I was forced to kiss you at all.”

Isabel raised her arm, her fist clenched. “You will not—”

“Be cautious, my lady,” he murmured. “We do have an audience.”

She glanced toward the stable, where half the servants employed there seemed to be gawking at both of them. No, not at both of them, she amended. At him. At the famous Mr. Sullivan Waring. “I think you’re the one who has no clue how to proceed,” she said in as steady a voice as she could manage. “A true thief and blackguard would have slit my throat. You’re training my mare.”

“Whoa,” he said again, and Zephyr came to a stop. “Just for my edification,” he said quietly, something that sounded like humor softening his voice, “are you actually complaining that I didn’t kill you night before last?”

This conversation was supposed to be her method of gaining information about him and his motives. Instead she’d walked into an argument when she couldn’t seem to manage even to get the last word. At the same time, she
was
learning some things about him. He didn’t talk like a horse breeder, for example. Grooms didn’t use words like “edification.”

“You may think we’re at an impasse,” she countered slowly, reflecting that she couldn’t even recall the last time a man had challenged anything she’d said, “but you’re here this morning, and you’ll be back this afternoon. And you’ll come here tomorrow and the day after and the day after that, until I say otherwise.”

His jaw clenched again. “For now, my lady.”

“Keep working Zephyr. I feel the need for a glass of lemonade. I’ll return shortly.”

“I wait with bated breath, my lady. Zephyr, walk on.”

“Yes, do continue.” Before she became embroiled in another argument or he could come back with yet another retort, Isabel turned and headed for the house. Having to time her departure around the circling Zephyr left her looking a
little less stately than she would have preferred, but she kept her chin up and marched.

Once she made it through the kitchen door she closed the hard oak and leaned back against it, fanning her hand in front of her face. That had gone nothing like she’d imagined. Their encounter was supposed to be harder on him than on her, but he didn’t look as though she’d ruffled a single blasted horse-breeding feather. Men smiled at her and agreed with her, barely requiring any mental effort at all on her part. Who did this blasted fellow think he was?

A kitchen maid hurried up, curtsying. “May I fetch you something, my lady?”

“A glass of lemonade, if you please.” It was a pity that ladies didn’t drink whiskey at nine o’clock in the morning, because she felt in need of some.

Sullivan kept his eyes on the mare, but most of his attention remained on the young lady disappearing into Chalsey House. He hadn’t precisely intimidated her into keeping her silence, but he supposed he had an excuse of sorts. Threatening women under any circumstances didn’t sit well with him. And he couldn’t justify righting the wrongs done to one woman by wronging another. Particularly one who, other than being a member of a family who’d acquired a painting, had nothing to do with this.

Yes, she had a sharp tongue—God, she had a sharp tongue—and she seemed perfectly content to use her knowledge to turn him into little better than her slave. At the same time, he’d begun to think that she had no intention of sharing his secret with anyone, much less the authorities. Why she’d decided to keep her silence, he had no idea, except that she seemed to enjoy holding her knowledge over him. Given
that nothing was as changeable as the mind of a female, the wisest thing to do would seem to be to exit her so-called service while he had the chance. If any gossip about his involvement in the thefts began, Bram would hear of it and give him enough time to leave London.

He halted Zephyr again and turned her in the opposite direction. His plan to make himself scarce from Chalsey House meant that he wouldn’t be available to continue the mare’s training. In itself that was nothing, but all he had these days was his reputation. If he abandoned the training, Phipps or someone would finish it, and probably would do it entirely adequately. But word would get out that he’d been paid for something and he hadn’t delivered. A small thing, yes, but he knew better than anyone that small things could add up to very large ones.

“Damnation,” he muttered, and Zephyr flicked her ears in his direction. Why in God’s name had he kissed Isabel Chalsey in the first place? Idiocy. Pure idiocy. And he needed to leave here before he ended up dangling at the end of a hangman’s noose. He motioned for one of the grooms to approach. “That’s enough for this morning,” he decided, handing the lead line and whip over.

“That’s hardly worth twenty pounds,” Lady Isabel’s cool voice came from behind him.

Sullivan stopped. “You, what’s your name?” he asked the groom.

The man actually blushed. “Delvin, Mr. Waring, sir.”

“Delvin, hand me the lead back, will you?”

Once he had Zephyr back in hand, he patted the gray mare on the nose and then walked her toward Lady Isabel. “Here,” he said, offering her the lead.

She backed away as she had before. “If you’re trying to
tell me that she’s been saddle-trained in twenty minutes, I shall call you a liar to your face,” she said, half her attention on the horse.

Though the words sounded defiant enough, Sullivan heard the quaver in her voice. He tilted his head at her. “You
are
afraid of horses, aren’t you?” he asked more quietly. “It’s not just an affectation.”

“I’m wary of them,” she countered.

“Given your wariness, then,” he continued, wondering what, precisely was driving him to continue, “you chose an odd means of…pursuing your suspicions of me. Horses being my profession, after all.”

“I couldn’t very well hire you to teach me to play the pianoforte, now could I?”

“Whatever your ulterior motives, it’s a shame to own such a fine animal and not use her as she was meant to be used.”

“You said you were going to sell her for brood.”

“She has a very good lineage. Frankly, that’s why she’s worth more in the pasture than under a saddle.”

“She
was
worth more that way,” Lady Isabel corrected.

“She still is, if you’re not going to ride her.” He took a breath. “Let me purchase her back from you, and we’ll be rid of one another.”

Narrowing her eyes, she took a long, deliberate drink of the glass of lemonade she held in one hand. “You may well wish to be rid of me, Mr. Waring, but you stole from me, and—”

“From your home. Not from you.”

“—and you kissed me,” she continued, as though he hadn’t spoken. “Without my permission. I am not finished with you yet. And so what time will you come by this afternoon for another training session?”

When hell freezes over.
“Is three o’clock acceptable?” he said aloud. “I don’t wish to interfere with your social calendar.”

She nodded briskly. “I expect you to be prompt.”

“And I expect that you’ll eventually ride this horse.” He patted the mare on the nose again.

“That is beside the point. Be here at three o’clock.”

His jaw was already clenched so tightly that it ached. He knew precisely what he wanted to say to Lady Isabel Chalsey, and what he wanted to do
with
her, but as long as she held his freedom in her hands, he didn’t dare. So instead he swept her a bow. “As you wish.”

Turning, he intentionally put Zephyr between them, pretending not to see Lady Isabel back away again. Her fear of horses intrigued him more than he cared to admit. She concealed it fairly well, but from her family’s and her own statements it seemed more than a simple girlishness.

He’d long ago learned the perils of curiosity. And yet he already knew he would be stopping by Lord Bramwell Johns’s home to see if he could discover more about her. If anyone had any information, it would be Bram. And besides, he had four more paintings to reacquire before he was finished. The more information he had about Isabel Chalsey, the better off he would be. She might own him at the moment, but he could dig his fingers in, as well.

“How the devil should I know?” Bram said, eyeing himself in his dressing mirror.

“You know everything.” Sullivan shifted in the deep windowsill of Bramwell’s bedchamber. “That’s what you keep saying, anyway.”