Must Love Breeches

by Angela Quarles

  He had been right in one thing: allowing her the choice. There was that. The satisfaction was grim and no palliative. She would always be what he desired in a wife, in a companion. No one else could fill that role. Ever.

  At least she had awakened the old part of him; the part subsumed by his quest for revenge; the part he thought lost forever. Tomorrow, or maybe the next day, or the next, he might contemplate picking up the shattered pieces of his soul and pursue his love of antique books, to find himself again. However, tonight, and perhaps tomorrow, he would mourn her, wallow in self-pity and brandy. He deserved that much indulgence. No, not a day—a week. A month. Perhaps the rest of his life?

  He stood to pour a new glass of brandy and stumbled. A little unstable on his pins he was. He grasped the mantel for support. He shoved off and aimed for the brandy decanter. A couple of decidedly unsteady steps brought him to his goal. His hand shot out and grasped the table.

  He grabbed another glass and filled it.

  A flash of white shimmered in the corner. He turned and dropped his glass, the crystal shattering on the floor.

  Isabelle.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  She walks in beauty, like the night

  Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

  And all that’s best of dark and bright

  Meet in her aspect and her eyes:

  Thus mellow’d to that tender light

  Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

  Lord Byron, Hebrew Melodies, “She Walks in Beauty”

  Isabelle stood in Phineas’s library, her body shaking with the enormity of her decision, with the anxiety of whether the case would work. She searched his face. Had she made the right decision? Her sweat-slicked fingers tightened on the handles of the duffel bags she carried.

  Shattering crystal pierced the room. She jumped. The rich, raisiny smell of brandy spiked the air.

  “Isabelle?” he croaked. “Have I gone mad?” He ran both hands through his hair and stumbled to a chair.

  He was drunk? He looked like hell, his shirt stained, the shirttails out. His face unshaven. An icy river of guilt for what she’d put him through flooded her. She set down her bags, ran to him, and put her hands on his knees.

  He flinched, moaned, and pressed against the chair back’s sheltering wing.

  She smiled. So much for her fantasies—the two of them running across the room into each other’s arms. She found the bell pull and rang for a servant.

  A few minutes later, a loud banging rattled the library door. What the heck?

  “My lord. You rang for me?”

  Isabelle ran to the library door, unlocked it, and let the housekeeper in.

  “Miss Rochon? His lordship said you’d left, though we couldn’t fathom how. I’m so relieved you’ve returned. We don’t know what’s come over his lordship. He’s never behaved like this before. I’m not afraid to tell you, we’ve been right worried about him. Locked us out, he did. I don’t believe he’s eaten a morsel since yesterday evening, poor dear.”

  Oh, Phineas. “Mrs. Gibbs, can you summon his valet? I need assistance in getting him upstairs. He will need a bath drawn as well. And instruct the cook to make a bowl of hot soup.”

  “Yes, ma’am, thank you. Right away.”

  Isabelle turned to go back to Phineas.

  Mrs. Gibbs continued, “Wait. How did you get in the library? His lordship locked all the windows and doors.”

  “He, uh, let me in through one of the windows when I knocked on it.”

  Mrs. Gibbs nodded and rushed off to rouse the valet and cook. Isabelle went to the window facing the front lane and unlocked it. Hopefully, they wouldn’t think of asking how she’d arrived, since there’d be no carriage or horse outside to explain it.

  She took a tremulous breath, went to Phineas’s side, and placed her hand on his knee again. He slept soundly, but a crease marred his brow. She smoothed her fingers over his forehead.

  Okay. Not the most promising beginning, but she knew she’d made the right choice, she felt it in her gut.

  “Isabelle,” Phineas moaned in his sleep. She sat up in the chair she’d placed by his side. Between her and the valet, they’d gotten him cleaned up and put to bed several hours earlier.

  Her heart beating so loudly she was sure it would disturb him, she slipped under the covers and snuggled next to him, the clean smell of soap mixed with his unique, elemental scent settling over her. She put her hand on his forehead and smoothed back his hair. “Shh, I’m here.”

  His eyes snapped open and stared straight into hers. “It is you,” he whispered, tugging her into a tight embrace. “I thought my mind played tricks. You have returned.”

  She held onto him fiercely, never wanting to let go. His heartbeat pulsed against her, he held her so tight. How could she have left him?

  He pushed her back slightly. “You are here to stay?” His gaze roved her face. “You will not leave me again?”

  “Yes, my love, I am here to stay.”

  Phineas grabbed her face and kissed her hungrily, leaving her breathless.

  She broke it off and whispered, “Are you feeling up to an excursion?”

  “Isabelle, I do not think I want to go anywhere just now.”

  “Not even to your library? I promise it will be worthwhile. I have something to show you.”

  His gaze wandered over her face. “You have me intrigued. Allow me a moment.”

  “Meet me there when you’re ready.” She brushed his nose with hers, the lightness in her chest making her short of breath. She scrambled out of the bed, instructed the servants to stay away from the library, and went there to prepare.

  She pulled candles from the travel bag she’d brought back with her and set them up and lit them. The bottle of Pinot Grigio was now submerged in melted ice water in the tin bucket.

  A soft click behind her sent warm, prickly bubbles zipping through her. She turned. And gazed at the man she’d chosen. The life she’d chosen. Her heart careened around, accompanying the bubbles in fluttering anticipation, providing an insistent beat, as if every particle of her were too afraid to be still. His eyes pierced right through her and rendered her legs into limp noodles.

  “Hi,” she whispered. All the fluttering bits paused. Pulsed once. Twice.

  His mouth quirked. “Miss Rochon.”

  She stumbled forward a step, but he was at her side in three paces before she could go any farther.

  He crushed her against his strong, warm body. “Do not do that to me again, Isabelle. You are my life. Without you, I am only an empty husk.”

  “Phineas!”

  He pulled apart slightly and rested his forehead against hers. “I speak only the truth. I love you so much, I cannot imagine life without you,” his voice thick, ragged.

  Her heart felt as if it were near the ceiling, too light, too full, too big to be contained in her body. “Neither could I,” she whispered as he captured her mouth in a kiss of possession.

  As they lay in the afterglow of their lovemaking, Phineas cradled Isabelle against his chest. If he let go, would she vanish into thin air, a figment of his drunken binge? He stroked her forehead with the backs of his fingers. She was here.

  She stirred against him.

  “Well, my dear. What did you wish to show me?”

  “Hmm?” She blinked lazily. Her eyes widened. “Oh, yes. Hang on.” She went to a strange soft container by the window, another open beside it. A strange ripping noise sounded as she peeled back a portion. She returned with a hairy creature nestled in her arms.

  “Phineas, I’d like you to meet Roanoke.” She knelt and placed an unusually marked cat in his lap. Long and slim, it turned its wedge-shaped head up to him and gave a sleepy blink and yawn. It arched its cream-colored body, meowed lustily, and curled up on the floor beside him, its shoulder and head resting against Phineas’s leg. Its cocoa-tipped ears twitched.

  “Hello, Roanoke.” He stroked its sleek body. “What an unusual cat.”


  “Oh, true. You’ve probably never seen one before. It’s a Siamese.” Isabelle returned from the bag again with a wet bottle of wine in one hand and in the other, a shiny package.

  She set these on the rug, reached for the two glasses nearby, uncorked the bottle, and poured the wine. She opened the shiny package and broke off a piece of something solid and dark brown. “This is my favorite sweet—dark chocolate. I brought a large supply back. I looked it up—I’ll have to go a decade or so before this is invented.” She handed him a piece and her smile not only lit up her beautiful face, promising a future of surprises, but also lit him up inside, declaring he’d always be fascinated.

  Intrigued, he bit into it and savored the texture and taste of chocolate in solid form. “What else do you have in that magic bag of yours, my lady of the future?”

  She laughed, the sound sending fresh chills over his skin. She was here. “Not much else. I didn’t want to confuse archaeologists by bringing technology from my time. I figured we’d burn those bags. I did research and wrote into my leather journal as much as I could about natural herbs and ingredients for medical problems and treatments. Researched a better formula for tooth powder I can make for us, pain killers, that kind of thing. Anything I could think of that I might need to know. Also wrote down any historical tidbits—future stock market crashes...”

  Phineas could only smile.

  Of course, that would be like her.

  Inside him, the last of the tense knots dissolved and his heart pulsed, chased the chills. Phineas pulled her against him, her back to his chest. He took a sip of wine and held her tight, relishing her presence, the feel of her against him, her scent surrounding him. She had truly returned. For him. Pure joy whipped through him, making him feel light.

  Saturday evening, Isabelle stepped through the quadrille, confident in her steps as she looked into Phineas’s eyes. Her husband’s eyes. They’d married that morning in the parlor of Lady Montagu’s townhouse and the reality had still to sink in.

  Her mother-in-law had gotten her wish. This was their wedding ball. Curious members of the ton packed the ballroom and had been stumbling over themselves to wish her happiness.

  The last note echoed through the room, and Phineas bowed and kissed her hand. She curtseyed. Beside her, Ada winked. A surge of happiness zipped through her.

  Sir Raphael approached. “My lady. My lord.” He bowed. It was weird enough getting used to calling Phineas her husband, but having folks my-lady her was even weirder. “Montagu, I extend my heartfelt congratulations. My lady, you have my sympathy.”

  Phineas growled, but his eyes told her he was only joking—a sign, perhaps, that they would be able to be friends again? She hoped so.

  Phineas led her off the dance floor as his mother called for everyone’s attention from the balcony. His sister Caroline stood behind and to the side, her eyes drinking in the sight.

  News of the Muslin Makers’ capture had rocketed through the ton, and while some grumbled about one of their own investigating other members, most were only too happy he’d protected their finances. Add to that his self-inflicted persona for the sake of his sister, he’d fast become something of a hero. Several debutantes now looked on her with envy.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the Dowager Viscountess Montagu’s clear voice rang over their heads, “I will keep this brief, as I know you wish to continue dancing, but I ask you to forbear for a moment. As many have heard, my eldest son has married. Family has always been important to us. It is indelicate to speak of such things, but propriety be dashed. My children love each other deeply. My children have been each other’s fiercest supporters. My children will do anything for each other.” The dowager’s eyes met Isabelle’s. “The new Lady Montagu supported and loved my son, trusting him on scant information. For that, she will always have my love. It moves me greatly to present to you Lady Montagu. Welcome to the family, my child.”

  Isabelle swallowed and fought the swelling tears. She blinked and smiled and glowed. As she took in her surroundings, a familiar, but long absent feeling suffused her, warmed her, crept into the last lonely corners of her soul—a sense of belonging. Phineas slipped his arm under hers and pulled her close, smiling down at her. God. That. Smile. Would it ever not give her rubber knees? She pushed up on her toes and nibbled his chin. Finally.

  His eyes sparked with shock, but grew darker. “Holy cow,” he rumbled. “Is this how you pictured the ball?”

  “No.” At her answer, his smile faltered. “It’s better than I imagined.”

  He plucked two glasses of champagne from a passing footman’s tray, handing her one. “To the future,” he whispered, clinking his glass against hers, his eyes bathing her in warmth and acceptance and love.

  “To our future,” she whispered back.

  Epilogue

  Thirty years later, London

  Isabelle walked around the bedroom of her recently deceased mother-in-law. God, she’d miss her terribly. She stopped her wanderings. Enough. She’d had a happy life full of love. Isabelle set herself to the task she’d delayed long enough—an inventory of her mother-in-law’s personal belongings. At a pretty inlaid wooden box, she turned a delicate key and peeked inside.

  Her breath caught. The journal inside looked instantly familiar—its size and design and shape something she hadn’t seen in a long time.

  It. Can’t. Be.

  She pulled out the journal, fingers shaking, and déjà vu crept over her skin as, in another time and place, she’d opened the same little book.

  The journal she’d found with the silver card case, the journal she’d been so intrigued and haunted by, that journal... was her mother-in-law’s?

  Her eyes lurched back to the box’s interior and she put a hand on the bureau to steady herself, for under the journal rested the silver card case she’d destroyed after her return to Phineas. How—? How had—?

  Isabelle shook herself and thumbed through the pages of the journal, verifying. Her breath came in short gasps. She stumbled to a chair and sank down, her eyes devouring the script that had been so familiar in two different time periods.

  How had she never realized the similarity? Though her mother-in-law’s familiar handwriting was more mature than this sample. So, the initials EDA on the case stood for Elizabeth Anne Dunmore, her mother-in-law’s maiden name.

  Isabelle opened the case. Within nestled the calling cards of a woman who’d become so dear. Without thinking, she tugged on the little secret pocket she’d discovered when she’d found the case. Inside was a card yellowed with age. Breathless, she pulled it out, for she remembered what the card would say, remembered why the name had seemed so familiar when she’d met him thirty years ago: “Mr. Bartram Podbury, esq.”

  But how could—? Tingles raced across her nerves and flushed her skin cold. How could Mr. Podbury have ever held this particular case, since it’d been in her mother-in-law’s possession? She crammed it back into its secret pocket and snapped the case closed.

  Two months later...

  Isabelle stretched and smoothed a hand over Phineas’s warm chest. Miraculous. Not his chest, though it was quite lovely. No. Miraculous that after all this time it was still thrilling to wake beside him, enveloped in his scent, his warmth, his presence.

  She propped herself on an elbow and gazed at the still handsome lines of his face. Gray streaked his black hair, but the strength and virility that had first drawn her to him still snagged her. She stroked a finger across his forehead and down his nose. She leaned down and nibbled the cleft in his chin. His eyes snapped open and a why-hello-there smile lit his face and her body.

  He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her on top of him. “Morning,” he rumbled and nibbled her ear, the sensation the sweeter for its familiarity—they awoke every morning in this way, she nibbled the chin, he the ear.

  “Morning to you.”

  The journal and case had occupied her thoughts for some time now, and it had come to her this morning in that
half-sleep morning fog what she needed to do. “Can we go to the Surrey house for a fortnight or so? Leave today?”

  “Certainly. I can finish some business with the bailiff while there.”

  “Perhaps Ada and William can join us.” Ada had nearly died of cancer eight years ago, but thankfully she’d pulled through. Isabelle spent as much time with her and her husband, the Earl of Lovelace, as circumstances allowed. Babbage had also become a close member of their circle. “I’d like to bury the journal and the silver case under the floorboard.”

  He nodded. She knew now she must place it there so she could find it in the future. She’d already removed her mother-in-law’s cards; left it exactly as she remembered finding it. She smiled wistfully, remembering, as if a dream, her old life. Funny how she’d become so used to living in this time period.

  “Phin, I’m curious. How come you didn’t recognize the case when you first recovered it for me?”

  He tapped her nose. “For the simple fact that I never accompanied her on her morning calls.”

  By early afternoon, Isabelle stood with Phineas in the mews outside their Mayfair townhouse, while their auto-groom loaded the last shovel of coal into their steam-autobuggy. The first steam-powered autocars had rolled off the assembly line last year, and the Montagus had been one of the initial purchasers. The trip today to their country house in Surrey would now take only an hour, instead of five.

  Phineas’s anticipation was obvious in the brightness of his eyes, the restrained energy as he kept from assisting the auto-groom in his task. He loved driving the sleek touring vehicle, leaped at any chance for a drive-about. Only their eldest son Edwin surpassed her husband in enthusiasm for the invention.