one, but he’dfound 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.
Untangling 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 kindconsideration 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
“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.
Untangling 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 kindconsideration 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
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