with him.
And she’d never enjoyed her life as much as she had in the few days since she’d stumbled across him. But it was more than that. Larger, more significant things were afoot, and even if it was by accident, she felt a part of it. And she liked that, as well. Perhaps that was why she’d begun to want so badly to figure it all out.
“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’sbirth. 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,
And she’d never enjoyed her life as much as she had in the few days since she’d stumbled across him. But it was more than that. Larger, more significant things were afoot, and even if it was by accident, she felt a part of it. And she liked that, as well. Perhaps that was why she’d begun to want so badly to figure it all out.
“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’sbirth. 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,
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