Must Love Breeches

by Angela Quarles

  “Oh, no. Her husband is a physician. That is the reason they live in this part of town. He is the lead doctor at Royal Hospital Chelsea, so is generally absent attending to patients. Do you like her?”

  The question caught Isabelle off guard. “Yes, she’s been open-minded about me, that’s for sure.”

  Ada clasped her hands. “Oh, I admire her greatly. A mentor to me since youth. She is brilliant at math and always greatly supportive of me.”

  Another female mathematician? Isabelle didn’t remember her, but if that was the case, assumptions about women in this time held by her contemporaries needed to change.

  However, more immediate concerns pushed her. “Ada, can I quiz you now? I’m a historian―”

  “Fascinating!”

  “—and so I know somewhat of your time and the morals and behavioral codes, though I specialize in early American Southern history. I’ve read lots of novels taking place in your mother’s time period, like those I saw downstairs by Jane Austen.”

  “Is she not sublime? She is not altogether popular, but I think her work is such a wonderful depiction of our day-to-day human weaknesses. You have read her novels?”

  “Yes, and you’ll be happy to know in the future she’s very popular. Anyway, can you and I role-play common situations I might find myself in? You could tell me if I act appropriately or not. Visiting Lady Huxton today brought home how ignorant I am. I need to fit in.”

  “Oooh, this sounds delightful. Initially, you shall manage based on your origins—the ton thrive on novelty. However, it will take you only so far. After the initial charm wears off...”

  And so Isabelle created scenarios, and Ada got into it as they readied for the party. She envisioned some Isabelle would never have thought she’d find herself in. Her brain felt too crowded with no way to fully pin each new scenario. “Sorry, Ada, do you have paper and a, uh, a quill? So I can take notes?” They didn’t worry about the lady’s maid, for the fact that Isabelle was not from here and needed instruction was not a secret.

  “Actually, we have a pen nib.” Ada jumped up, left the room, and returned with a pen. Isabelle took notes.

  Many notes.

  Phineas circulated among the guests at Lady Huxton’s ball. Soon, he would head to the card room, his usual solace at these gatherings. He never played too deep, but enough to maintain his rakish façade. He paced the small ballroom’s length. Ladies backed up in the wake of his scowl. The ball was certainly shaping up to be a big squeeze, sure to please Lady Huxton, at least, if not himself.

  Phineas stopped abruptly, disconcerting the guests nearest him. He had been searching the room. For whom? For what reason? Moreover, his gut had tightened, but why? For tonight he enacted no plans, no schemes to forward his project. No reason, therefore, to account for these feelings. Only a social engagement, for a change.

  “There you are, cousin.”

  Phineas turned. Miss Byron stood before him, accompanied by her “American cousin.” He looked upon the latter’s face, and the tension in his stomach eased. A pleasant, warm feeling seeped in.

  Bloody hell. This was his anxiety’s source? Was he a moon-calf? He bowed to both, hoping the action hid his confusion, among other things.

  “Miss Byron, Miss Rochon, a pleasure as always.”

  They dipped a curtsey. Phineas availed himself of the few seconds their eyes were downcast and perused Miss Rochon’s form. Green favored her coloring, for certain. Leagues better than the yellow dress she had worn when he called earlier today. Well-shaped, too, ample curves in the right places. What would it feel like to hold—

  “Just the person we wished to see,” said Miss Byron.

  “Indeed? I am flattered, to be sure.” He smiled at both, but Miss Rochon avoided his eye, which he was grateful for. If she could read the thoughts he had just entertained, she might very well slap him, and that would be inconvenient.

  Marshalling his thoughts and his body’s response, he led them to a small alcove. It was well in sight of the guests for preservation of modesty, and for preservation of privacy, it was ideal.

  “Lord Montagu, have you had any luck in finding my silver case?” Miss Rochon’s warm brown eyes finally met his, searching.

  Her gaze burrowed within, making a path for her unusual voice, low but feminine, to seep in—his skin tightened all over, his heartbeat thumped in his ears, and he felt exposed, his public mask inadequate to the task of conversing with her.

  Ridiculous. He reined in his erratic reaction and forced himself to observe her dispassionately. Her nose was just a tad too long, but it did have an endearing slight upturn—

  “Lord Montagu?”

  “Pardon me. My mind wandered. How can I assist you?”

  “My silver case. Any luck?”

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  “You hired a Bow Street Runner, did you not?”

  “Since that was the very thing you specifically requested, I did indeed. However, he has so far proved unsuccessful. Perhaps if you provided me with a more detailed description so he is fully informed, that would help matters.”

  “Of course, I can write it down, make a little sketch, if it would help.”

  “Indeed it will, Miss Rochon,” he replied with a slight bow. For some odd reason, his blood still pounded through his body, restless, searching, eager.

  A gentleman in dire need of replenishing the family coffers, if recent rumors circulating the clubs were accurate, approached tentatively. He begged Miss Byron’s hand for the next set, and they repaired to the dance floor.

  An awkward silence bloomed between him and Miss Rochon. Her presence beside him seemed to grow. He glanced at her. She appeared paler than usual, and his heart skipped a beat. He stepped toward her and her intoxicating scent settled over him. “Miss Rochon, are you well?

  “Yes, thank you, though this room is very stuffy. I have never been able to get used to that. I think... I think I need some air.”

  Phineas tucked her arm within his, completely aware of all the tiny movements that made up the act: their gloved fingers touching, the whisper-scrape of cloth as she curled her hand around his arm, the warmth and weight settling on him at their point of contact. Oh, for her to be gloveless again.

  He pulled in a deep breath, blinked once, and slowly put them in motion, escorting her to the terrace off the ballroom. At the marble balustrade, her hand gave a tug and he loosened his hold. And because he was watching her hand leave his body, he was a witness to them shaking when she rested them on the marble railing. After a few deep breaths, she regained her usual color.

  His muscles relaxed a fraction. Thank God. Fainting females were deuced awkward to handle.

  “I am so sorry. It was so stuffy in there. I started to feel a bit dizzy.”

  “Do not distress yourself. I found I needed air myself. It is a lovely evening, is it not?”

  Chapter Eight

  The devil hath not, in all his quiver’s choice,

  An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice.

  Lord Byron, Don Juan, Canto XI

  Isabelle’s gaze locked with Lord Montagu’s. Breathe. “Yes,” she whispered.

  Had she really almost fainted in there?

  Below her stretched a beautiful rose garden with a fountain in the middle. Her gaze wandered up and down the shell paths, drinking in the profusion of petals splashed along its length. She inhaled and savored the roses’ sweet scent wafting up to them. The soft tinkling of the water fountain rode the scent. Yes, she was calmer now.

  She peered up at Lord Montagu. His gaze remained fixed on the garden while she studied his profile. He had a strong jaw, with a small scar punctuating his chin, right below his lips.

  Man, she’d forgotten how toe-curlingly handsome he was. Her newly achieved calm went poof.

  She’d met good-looking men before, some quite gorgeous—those she distrusted. But this guy was, well... he screamed male virility and something else, something solid, but that didn’t make her sq
ueamish. Odd.

  She should say something. Her mouth went dry. Why did she have to be so clueless when it came to flirting?

  Did his lip twitch, as if repressing a smile?

  Good Lord, how long had she been staring?

  She swung her gaze back to the gardens. She felt the weight of his eyes on her and couldn’t resist looking back up to him.

  “How do you find London, Miss Rochon?”

  “I, uh...” Yep. His eyes were two different colors. She cleared her throat. “I love it here.” One was hazel, with green predominating. The other was a rich brown, the light spilling from the ballroom sparking off flecks of gold.

  “Is it so very different from your native land?”

  “You have no idea.” She longed to tell him; however, that would top the list of brainless things to do. Ada had accepted her story, but she couldn’t risk others being so open-minded. If she told him the truth, he might send her to Bedlam.

  He shifted toward her a fraction, his body close enough now that his heat and yummy scent swirled around her. She breathed him in, and her skin tingled.

  “Is it true Red Savages maraud across your country?”

  Isabelle laughed and resisted her typical impulse to inch away from attraction. “No, it is not true. Out West they have Indians.” She cringed at having to use that term. “But where I live, they are mostly nonexistent, sadly.”

  “Sadly?” He turned toward her, his hip leaning against the balustrade, one hand resting atop it, inches from hers, the other cocked behind his back. “I would think that would be rather fortunate.”

  Oh, don’t get me started. “I don’t take the same view as a lot of my countrymen, that they’re subhuman and need to be exterminated, as if... as if they’re pests.” She flicked a hand to the side. “They have distinct and rich cultures in their own right, and we’re basically the invaders, the outsiders, but... sorry, I don’t mean to lecture you.”

  Careful, Isabelle. Gender roles are different in this era. No doubt she’d offended Lord Montagu by giving an opinion. Well, tough.

  Oh, shit. Had she used contractions?

  “On the contrary, you have me intrigued. We rarely hear such views here, and what we do hear is quite lurid, no doubt exaggerated. One always has to consider the source and the motive behind such tales. I welcome a different opinion on the subject.”

  Isabelle’s head jerked up. She scrutinized his face, and his eyes looked steadily back. “Oh, even though it is a woman’s opinion?” She angled to face him, her arms moving to cross over her chest. Hearing Ada’s voice on ‘ladylike comportment’, she covered her movement by placing a hand on the balustrade and let the other drop to her side.

  His head shifted slightly to the side. “Yes, especially if the lady is intelligent. I have never been one to tolerate fools, regardless of their sex, so it follows I also appreciate sense, regardless of sex.”

  His eyes continued to hold hers. She could take a swan dive right in and get lost in their varied depths. Did he have tractor beams attached to them? Her breath quickened and her body angled slightly toward him. Oddly, she was hyper-aware of her breathing—how it left her body, out through her nose, back in again—all in the small space between their bodies. His scent riding it. Those dangerous-to-her eyes now slowly perused her cheek and settled on her lips, and Isabelle’s stomach tripped and stuttered. Heat suffused her veins, flushing her skin, and... oh, hello lady parts! His lips riveted her attention, particularly the tiny scar. What would it feel like to reach out and trace her fingers along his lower lip to the scar and the cleft in his chin?

  Her hand lifted...

  What was she thinking? Get a grip, Isabelle. The first lord to talk to her, and she acted like a teenage girl.

  Aaand, she was still staring at his scar.

  She darted a glance up and locked eyes with him again. Heat and curiosity lingered there, as well as a smidgeon of confusion.

  Confusion? Why would he be confused?

  His head dipped lower, his eyes on her mouth again, and she held her breath—he was going to kiss her and, miracle of miracles, she wasn’t doing something stupid to kill the moment. His mouth inches from hers—their breaths mingled with his scent and his warmth and the loud beat of her heart to become an entity surrounding them, closing them off from the outside world. Oh, stars, it was really happening.

  A scuffle of boots and a titter of laughter in the gardens below shattered the moment. He straightened and cleared his throat. His heated gaze searched her face, and she could actually see the control he harnessed as a shield fell back into place, shutting her out. He held out his arm. “We have been outside for some time. Perhaps we should return?”

  Good Lord. Okay. So they were pretending they hadn’t almost smooched. She inhaled a shaky breath, nodded, and took his arm, his elbow at just the right height for her.

  “May I have the honor of the next set?”

  And, whoa, his mouth was at the right height for his voice and breath to be on a level with her ear. He lit her up again on the inside, and she shivered. “Is it a waltz?” Good. Her voice sounded normal.

  “I do not believe that is the case until later.”

  Dang, that would have been nice. She really should learn more dances. “I am sorry, I do not think I can.”

  His body stiffened, and his eyes flashed and narrowed. “No doubt you do not wish to be seen dancing with the Vicious Viscount?”

  “Vicious Viscount?”

  Lord Montagu pulled away and bowed. “At your service.”

  She missed his warmth already. “Vicious Viscount? Is that your nickname?”

  Surprise flickered across his handsome face. “You claim to be unaware of my reputation?”

  “Yes, but I have to say, you do not seem very vicious.” Yummy, yes.

  He stood there, as if wrestling with warring thoughts. Finally, he said, “If it is not my reputation, may I inquire as to the reason you do not wish to stand up with me, if I am not being too presumptuous?”

  Yikes, she’d offended him somehow. How could she tell him she knew only the quadrille they’d all rehearsed for the reenactment ball, and the waltz, but that was it? Ah yes, the ignorant American routine.

  “It has nothing to do with you, my lord,” she threw that last in there—couldn’t hurt, these lords liked to be stroked, “but everything to do with me.” She took a deep breath. “We dance quite differently back home, and I am afraid I would not know any of yours. Waltzing is the only thing I feel comfortable doing.” She threw in a smile. That couldn’t hurt either.

  He looked chastised, no doubt sorry he’d made her admit her shortcomings, as the people in this time would no doubt see it. He bowed.

  “Shall we procure refreshments and locate Miss Byron?”

  “That sounds wonderful, thank you.” Isabelle took his arm and they turned toward the French doors and the ballroom. She fell into step beside him, and his warmth and oh-so-enticing scent settled over her like a safe, sheltering mantle. She savored it and the fresh air, bracing herself for the crush she expected inside. But God, it now reminded her of their almost-kiss. She touched her lips and shook her head. That had been a near thing. She could not indulge in her attraction to the man—what had she been thinking?

  They found Ada chatting with a small group, including the guy who’d asked her to dance. One of the ladies glanced their way, blanched, and whispered to another. They said something to one of the men and departed with him, leaving Miss Byron alone with her recent dance partner.

  Were they avoiding her? Surely not. They couldn’t know anything about her.

  Wow, the Vicious Viscount? He hadn’t been kidding about his reputation. What had he done to earn such a nickname? She had a hard time believing this guy had done anything vicious.

  Isabelle and Lord Montagu reached the group, and he introduced her to Ada’s admirer, a Mr. Davies. Lord Montagu excused himself to get glasses of lemonade, Mr. Davies joining him. At least someone else wasn’t afraid
to be seen with Lord Montagu.

  “Oh, I am so glad you found me,” Ada said. “We finished our set and you were nowhere in sight. Mr. Davies was kind enough to remain.”

  “Sorry, Ada, I got a little dizzy with all the heat and stuffy air and had to go outside. Lord Montagu escorted me.”

  Ada studied her, but said nothing. Isabelle struggled with her own curiosity. Screw it. “Ada, if you don’t mind me asking, I’ve noticed how people react to him, to Lord Montagu, and he mentioned he’s known as the Vicious Viscount. What’s the story?” She glanced around. Whew. She hadn’t meant to lapse into her normal speech patterns.

  Ada gripped her fan tighter. “I truly do not know. It started two years ago, or so I was informed. I hear all sorts of wild tales about him, and his... his debaucheries... but I have a hard time reconciling those rumors with the cousin I grew up with, the cousin I love like a brother.” She fiddled with her sleeve, lifted her chin. “I decided when I made my come out this year to ignore all such tales and go with my heart, my instinct, until I, myself, witness something to tell me otherwise.”

  Probably all she would get from Ada, which sucked. “I think that’s wise. There are always two sides to every story, as they say.”

  A blond man approached their group, his confidence oozing with each step. If she went for blonds, he’d be handsome, with just enough ruggedness to make him interesting. Her friend Katy would be swooning. “Miss Byron,” the stranger said, at which point he bowed and waited.

  Lord Montagu and Mr. Davies returned with the lemonades at that moment, and unease pulsed around the group. Ada drew herself up and cleared her throat. “Isabelle, may I present Sir Raphael Warren. Sir Raphael, my cousin, Miss Rochon.”

  Isabelle curtseyed and made what she hoped was the appropriate reply. Sir Raphael grasped her hand and bowed over it. He brushed a light kiss on her knuckles.

  He straightened and cast a smile. “Delighted to meet a cousin of Miss Byron’s, especially one so charming. May I have the pleasure of the next set? I believe it to be the waltz.”