Must Love Kilts

by Angela Quarles

  “Gah. I feel like a green robot with strange battle armor.” Isabelle pointed to her dark green dress, the shoulders flaring out almost to a point, exaggerating their width. “What were the fashionistas in 1834 thinking?”

  “I have no bloody idea.” Jocelyn squeezed the poof of fabric at her shoulder. “These huge-ass sleeves are ridiculous.”

  “Ah, screw it, we’re having fun, right? I’m not going to self-sabotage the ball. Not after all the time I spent obsessing over my costume.”

  “And obsessing over the etiquette rules.”

  “That too.” Besides, how fun was it to learn Jocelyn shared her obsession with guys in period clothes and bodice-ripper romances?

  Isabelle eyed a guy strolling past in tight-fitting, buff-colored pantaloons. She pitched her voice to be heard over the string quartet. “Hmm. How about the clothes on that daring derriere?”

  Jocelyn sucked on her olive and plopped the empty stir stick into her martini. “Oh, yes. Definitely a breech-ripper.”

  Isabelle choked on her Bellini, the champagne fizz tickling her throat and nose. This was the first opportunity they’d had to socialize outside work, so she treated this moment delicately, afraid to puncture the mood. No need to point out he sported pantaloons, not breeches.

  She should ease up on the drink, though. She didn’t want to get plastered at the Thirty-fourth Annual Prancing Through History Reenactment Ball. Especially since her new colleagues would be around. And her boss. She needed to impress him.

  “Look lively,” Jocelyn said, her voice low, with a dollop of teasing. “Here comes the office hottie.”

  She’d been cultivating a mild crush on Andrew since starting her new job at the British Museum six months ago. The whole situation was perfect. A guy in the same field would respect her interests, wouldn’t expect her to give up her profession for a relationship. He was safe. If it worked out, great, if not, no biggie. She was happy, finally, with how her life was working out.

  She’d pictured him in period clothing before, looking resplendent.

  He did.

  “Hi, Andrew.” Her voice came out a little too high. Jeez, could she sound any more like a lovesick fool? She always did this around gorgeous men—went ga-ga as if she couldn’t rub two brain cells together. She gazed around the Duke of Chelmsford’s newly renovated ballroom and pretended as if her breath hadn’t quickened and her body hadn’t heated at the sight of Andrew.

  “Hello, Isabelle. Jocelyn.” Andrew nodded. His smile felt like a gift for her alone.

  Her pulse throbbed. He’d sought her out. Play it cool. Say something witty. “So, uh, having fun yet?” Having fun yet?

  Something, or someone, in the crowd hogged his attention. She followed his gaze until she found it. Or rather him. Their boss at the bar.

  Andrew faced her and the remnants of calculation on his hot-as-heck features disappeared behind his over-bright grin.

  He leaned closer.

  The artificial tang of his cologne drifted her way. She wrinkled her nose.

  “Well done on the Whittaker exhibit. Finding that journal was a bit of a coup. It’ll be a fine addition to the exhibit, once it’s built.”

  He’d noticed. She’d worked damn hard. “Thank you.” Why couldn’t Brits find her Southern accent as sexy as she found theirs?

  “Glad you came across the pond to work with us. That find should put you in the running for the promotion.”

  Good. The promotion would mean she could stay in London. Well, it would make staying easier. No matter what, she was determined to remain.

  “Of course, you’ll have to beat me out.”

  Cold clarity hit her stomach like accidentally gulping a glass of iced gin instead of iced water, jolting her from her usual foray into Incoherent Land around attractive guys. “You’re applying too?” Of course he was.

  “Without a doubt. Career changer and all. I’m a shoo-in. Sure you still want to apply?”

  Could she scrub the smug look off his face? She settled for the less satisfactory, but more controlled, “Yes.”

  Now catching her boss’s attention was more important than ever. Besides wanting to escape into another era, she’d also hoped her costume would impress him. She glanced at the wet bar. Drat. Where had her boss gone?

  Andrew slipped his hand around her elbow, pulling her closer. “How about we ditch this party and grab a pint? You and me.” He ignored Jocelyn, who stared back and forth between them.

  It all made sense—his sudden interest after dismissing her for months, the calculation she’d caught when he’d turned back—he thought he’d intimidate and charm her into giving up the position.

  She yanked her arm free, saying, “Fat chance, you smarmy horndog,” which cut through the room because, of course, the music had just ended.

  Jocelyn snorted her drink, eyes watering, and coughed, fighting to catch her breath. For a moment, her coughing was the only sound punctuating the silence.

  The curious eyes of the onlookers made Isabelle feel as if a huge moat had sprung up around her. The moat of Beware, All Ye Who Enter—Idiot in the Center. If one of those eyes were her boss…

  Andrew trotted out his grin, the one that used to make her insides hum. “Thought we had a connection. No?” He backed away, hands up, eyes locked with hers in a you’re-such-a-fool stare, his heels snapping on the marble floor with each backward step. “Cheers, then, babe. May the best man win.” He nodded and sauntered off.

  Jocelyn, bless her, completely ignored the Moat of Embarrassment and stepped to Isabelle’s side. “How had we never noticed what an ass he was?”

  “Probably because we were too busy drooling?”

  “There is that.”

  “Seriously, I should just go pound my head against the nearest vertical object and repeat one hundred times, ‘When will I learn?’”

  “Just be careful not to poke out your eye with those lethal shoulder sleeves.”

  “Ha.” But Jocelyn’s dry humor softened Isabelle’s mood. “Can’t believe he expects me to just roll over. I have to get the promotion, I need the security. No way am I going to sacrifice my dream to be with a guy, I don’t care how hot he is.”

  Never again would she let a jerk encased in good-looking skin influence her life. Been there. Done that. Have the gold-stitched Fool’s cap.

  “Let’s get away from the crowd.” Jocelyn pointed to a corner with her glass. “There’s an alcove by the potted palm. Better people-watching.”

  “Okay, but keep an eye out for The Boss. Need to schmooze.”

  They threaded through the crowd, Isabelle taking a direct hit from a guy eager to reach the bar. Her drink sloshed onto her white glove. She glared, but the effect was wasted on the guy’s back.

  Once they reached the snug alcove, Isabelle set her glass on the marble windowsill and tugged off her damp glove. She pushed aside a crumpled paper napkin and laid the glove on the sill. “Is this how you pictured the ball?”

  “Pretty much. What did you expect?”

  Isabelle sipped her drink. “A real ball…”

  “At least the decorations are authentic.” They’d plastered hothouse flowers everywhere, potted palms dotted the perimeter, and white chalk covered the marble floor.

  Jocelyn pointed to the silver calling card case dangling by a chain from Isabelle’s wrist. “Which antique shop had that case?”

  Isabelle flipped the case into her hand and rubbed her thumb over the initials, EDA, engraved on the front. Reflections from the lights, both candle and electric, winked off its surface. “I discovered it under the floorboards while renovating my house. Same place I found the journal the museum’s using. I think it might be from the mid-1800s.”

  She pressed the tiny button on the side and the case clicked open. White cards with her new Guildford address nestled in the faded, lavender silk lining.

  Ever since she’d unearthed the case, it had acted like a lodestone for her, harbored secrets. Who had stashed it under the floor
boards? And why? It was a quarter inch too small to hold her credit card and her British driver’s license, but she’d wanted to use the case. At last, she had a chance.

  “I didn’t think they carried those to balls,” Jocelyn said.

  “I know, I know. I’m not being historically accurate, but I couldn’t help it.” She might meet someone and need to give him her card—right? Right. It was weird bringing something so inaccurate, when she’d been so anal about everything else. The case just affected her viscerally. It was imbued with… longing.

  Jocelyn nudged her. “Ooh, there’s my crush. Walk with me?”

  “Sure―” The double chirrup from her phone interrupted her. Isabelle reached into her small purse and looked at the incoming text. Ah, Katy. “Hang on.”

  “No worries. Catch up with me? I don’t want to lose sight of him again. Wish me luck!”

  “Good luck! For ‘a single man in possession of a good fortune’―”

  “—‘must be in want of a wife!’” Jocelyn smiled, twirled about, and disappeared into the crowd.

  Isabelle pulled up her text:

  Meeting at The Mad Martini for drinks later. Join us after your ball thing? Bring any hotties u meet. Ha-ha. Love ya girlfriend.

  Isabelle winced. Not likely. About the hotties, anyway. But joining her only friend after the ball might be just the familiar haven she needed to kick away the evening’s disappointment. Good Lord, yeah—Katy wouldn’t let her take herself too seriously, or become too obsessed with the promotion.

  See you there. No hotties yet.

  Men in tails kissed their partners’ hands and bowed, elaborate ball gowns in jewel tones swirled with a rustling of fabric, the quartet played a quadrille, and here she carried a glaring anachronism. She slipped the phone back into her purse—no, her reticule—and pulled it shut.

  The quadrille ended, and the musicians left for a break. The dance floor cleared. Where was her boss? She rubbed her bare thumb over the engraving on her calling card case, the action oddly soothing. If only she could have lived back then. Experienced a real ball, not this playacting.

  “Wouldn’t that be amazing, to truly be at this ball in 1834?” she whispered. The silver under her thumb flared with heat.

  The room spun; the air, colors, and sounds muted, as if she were inside an abstract watercolor painting. Her heart—Oh, God—spun, swirling about to match the room, each beat a slow thunk, stretched.

  Shit, the room spun faster. She flung out a hand to steady herself against the wall and met only air.

  What the—? She slammed her eyes shut and fought a slug of nausea.

  Chapter Two

  I had a dream which was not all a dream.

  Lord Byron, Darkness, 1816

  Isabelle slowly opened her eyes and brokered an uneasy truce with her stomach. The colors and shapes seemed overexposed, too sharp. Nearby, French doors led to the balcony.

  Fresh air.

  Legs shaking, she stumbled toward the opening and leaned against the doorjamb.

  Whoa, she’d never gotten that dizzy before. Had the bartender added a jigger of grain alcohol? Good thing she’d not had a third cocktail. She really should have eaten before she came, but she’d been too anxious. Cool night air soothed her flushed skin and filled her lungs. Tables, palms, people snapped back into focus. Okay. She faced the ballroom, hoping concentrating on the crowd would provide an anchor.

  Keep breathing. In. And out.

  Calmer, she glanced at the person beside her.

  Wow, this girl knew her stuff. Finally, someone else took the ball seriously. Jocelyn had said the period fanatics usually came later to reenactment balls. The girl had the big skirt, tiny waist, and wide shoulders popular in the early 1830s. Her stylist had gone all out with her up-do, too. Were those peacock feathers in her dark hair?

  “Love your ball gown. Mind if I post it?” Taking her head tilt as agreement, Isabelle dug out her phone and snapped a picture. She sent it to her online profile with the caption: Loving the detail at the ball. Who’s jealous?

  “Cool, thanks.” Isabelle tucked her phone away, the upload progress bar still chugging away. She looked at the girl, who leaned away, eyes blinking from the camera flash. Isabelle smiled and gestured toward the dress. “So, where did you get it? Did you make it yourself?”

  Isabelle loved seeing someone so young getting into a historical reenactment. The dark-haired girl couldn’t have been more than eighteen. Her elaborate hairstyle set off her patrician nose, delicate mouth, strong jaw, and almond-shaped eyes. Eyes sparkling with intelligence and curiosity. Like Isabelle, she’d also gone without makeup, in keeping with the era.

  The girl took in Isabelle’s appearance, from toes to hair. She replied in a soft voice, “Madame Frenchet on Bond Street.”

  “Awesome. Looks like she knew what she was doing.” Isabelle tried to maintain her I’m-confident-and-not-still-slightly-out-of-it smile. “I consulted old fashion plates and went to the seamstress we use at the museum. She makes these things all the time for the docents. She did a pretty good job, don’t you think?” Isabelle spun about, smoothing her hand down the billowing skirt.

  “Yes,” the girl replied, the word drawn out.

  Isabelle held out her hand. “I’m Isabelle Rochon,” she said, pronouncing her last name with a soft sh sound.

  Her new acquaintance stared at the hand, then darted her gaze back to Isabelle’s. Finally, she clasped her palm. Tentative at first, then firm. “Miss Ada Byron. My chaperone should return momentarily.”

  “Oh, wow. Byron, as in Lord Byron? Is he an ancestor?”

  A slight look of distaste mixed with confusion crossed the girl’s face. “Yes. Lord Byron,” she answered, her tone measured as if it cost her to say each syllable.

  “Oh, that’s neat. You must be named after Ada Byron Lovelace? Or are you reenacting Ada’s persona? She’s always fascinated me. First computer programmer in the world, an’ all.” Good Lord, she was babbling. Deep breath.

  Now Ada looked even more confused. “I-I am sorry. I do not understand. The words you say are altogether strange.”

  I’m such a dork. She’d made Ada glassy-eyed. Not everyone gobbled up historical tidbits. Oh, wait. The girl must be playing out her persona. “I take it you’re from around here. You’re used to these kinds of things? The ball?”

  Ada blinked and stepped back.

  Before Ada could reply, a frisson of awareness streaked down Isabelle’s spine. A dark shape filled her vision. Sandalwood and a hint of something else, something elemental, wafted over her. Isabelle gazed up. And up. And—Holy Pete. She clenched her teeth to hold her chin in place.

  My God, what gorgeous hair! Long, black, and wavy, it caressed the guy’s shirt collar, making her want to plunge her fingers through it. Frolic in it. Twine her fingers around and sniff it.

  He’d grown sideburns for the event, and his prominent chin had that sexy little indentation. Could she nibble on it? The high cheekbones and hooded eyes made her insides all squirmy. Gorgeous men always made her uncomfortable, and this one was one notch shy of being too, too perfect. Which left her trying to remember where she was, and why.

  Oh, yes. Ball. At a ball in London.

  A reenactment of a ball held in 1834, London, England.

  Would this man look equally exquisite on the streets in blue jeans and T-shirt, or were his kind of looks enhanced by the period clothing? She’d seen that phenomenon before: someone who looked absolutely yummy in a historical flick and, when wearing modern clothes, appeared positively humdrum.

  But never mind that. Right smack in front of her stood a man at noble ease in form-fitting pantaloons and coattails. The black coat molded to his frame, and the starched white collar poked just high enough to accentuate his jaw. With a hand-tied cravat to boot. Hoo! Which brought her to his deliciously sculpted lips, one side cocked up a smidge.

  Above those lips and proud nose, his eyes stared right at her. Oh, oops. A fuzzy warmth spread across
her chest. This was awkward. His gaze shifted to Ada. Isabelle tried not to look like, well, like a cartoon character knocked on the head, with big X’s for eyes.

  “Miss Byron. Always a pleasure.” He gave a perfect bow, not at all cheesy, as though he practiced bowing. Definitely not his first reenactment ball. “May I have the honor of an introduction?” He raised a brow at Ada.

  May I have the honor? Really? She was starting to enjoy the whole reenactment thing, but this was a tad over the top. So, he was handsome. Well, okay, drool-worthy. Maybe she would cut him some slack on the over-acting bit.

  “Miss Isabelle Rochon, may I present Lord Montagu,” Ada went right with the flow. “Cousin, Miss Rochon.”

  Isabelle stuck her hand out to shake his. Lord? Okay, cool. Lord Drool-Worthy’s penetrating eyes held hers. He lightly grasped her hand, the warmth permeating her glove. Without losing eye contact, he slowly raised it to his lips and feathered a kiss across her knuckles.

  Electricity spiked up her arm, stealing her breath. Her knees telegraphed: Yep, can’t handle this, checking out now.

  Isabelle managed to turn the knee-buckle into an awkward curtsy, but who cared since this was all pretend, right? Must have worked, because His Hunkiness smiled, the corner of his mouth quirking, as if he sensed her distress.

  And that mouth had been moving only a moment ago. Damn, he’d been talking this whole time? Something about dancing?

  “D-dance?” Her stomach back flipped. Other couples headed for the center, and the quartet, back from their break, took up their instruments.

  He held out his hand, open, waiting.

  Oh, God. Her palms were sweating. Was that why ladies wore gloves?

  Smart ladies.

  She placed her hand in his, and he led her onto the dance floor. If she could focus. Tune out her surroundings. Detach. Not grab the moment too hard, or she’d get so nervous, so flustered, she’d be a pile of goo. A slippery hazard on the marble floor.