Surely, she looked like a candidate for the poster child of dumbfoundedness: mouth agape, brow creased. Oh. She chuckled. “I get it. Man, you are good. You don’t break character, do you?”
He continued to stare at her as if she were the one who was nuts. Her smile slipped. She looked away and muttered, “Reenactors.”
Phineas executed another turn on the floor and inwardly cursed his impulse to approach Miss Rochon for this dance. Earlier, her countenance and attitude while she watched her fellow participants had intrigued him. It was as if she were worlds away, yet utterly in the moment, and he felt an overwhelming desire to know, to understand fully, what occupied her thoughts. He was certain it was more than the latest gossip or mere cuts of gowns.
It had surprised him to note she was quite striking. Surprised, because he noticed it second—not first. He maneuvered her around the room and let his gaze sweep her pleasing form again. Her dark brown hair was arranged in loose curls upon her head. But the rounded, hooded Gallic eyes captivated him, whispered of secrets.
Despite an ill-fitting dress, her form was discernible—one that quickened his pulse. It was evident she had recently been to Paris, because the style of dress was de rigueur there, but had yet to cross the Channel. He knew, because his sisters had insisted he take careful note of the fashions when it had been his misfortune to journey to Paris a week ago on behalf of the Crown.
Earlier, when he observed Miss Rochon conversing with his cousin, he felt strangely relieved. Miss Byron was the only lady of his acquaintance at the ball who would deign to speak to him, let alone introduce him to a female friend.
After all, the haut ton called him the Vicious Viscount.
Despite a French name seeming to confirm his initial assumption, when she opened her mouth, she proved to be a Colonial. Even more baffled—and drat it all, intrigued—he gritted his teeth. What brought an American to the Duke of Chelmsford’s ball of all places, in a style of dress only Parisians would know was all the rage? Her gloveless left hand on his shoulder was slightly shocking as well, though its warmth penetrated, seared into him, providing the focal point between them—an awareness he could not shake, and was not certain he wished to.
She was a puzzle, full of contradictions. To unravel her secrets... An unfamiliar sense of anticipation trickled through him. No. He expunged the feeling. She was not his puzzle.
Though that warm, bare hand. Those lively eyes.
The dance mercifully completed, Phineas led Miss Rochon to Cousin Ada’s side. She introduced Miss Rochon to Mrs. Somerville, Ada’s chaperone for the evening. Because the last dance was the supper waltz, he escorted all three to the supper room. Miss Rochon appeared ill at ease. She mumbled something about a ‘boss’.
He settled the ladies at a table and sought victuals for them. He rolled his right shoulder, the heat of her bare hand still a palpable weight. Reactions to his presence—the rude glares, the protective shuffling of eligible females out of his way by concerned matrons—were commonplace. He spared no notice, no anxiety. Annoying, yes, but he was inured to it. Indeed, he had cultivated the fear his name and presence engendered. It was a valuable commodity, a valuable blind for enacting his long-laid plans.
At the buffet table, Lord Edgerton looked straight in Phineas’s eyes and turned away with no acknowledgment. Question settled as to whether he was still part of that gentleman’s circle. He had not yet received Edgerton’s calling card after his recent marriage. Now, Edgerton’s ‘cut direct’ confirmed it—Phineas would no longer be receiving invitations to the homes in Edgerton’s circle.
Ironic, since the persona he cultivated had been calculated to infiltrate that very circle. If he did not wish for his investigation to cease, Phineas saw no alternative but marriage. Marriage would burnish his image, thus gaining the very invitations he needed.
Yes. The Vicious Viscount was a liability. His wealth and title were insufficient to secure a wife from London’s ton.
Damnation.
Phineas prepared plates of delectables, ensuring he had plenty of blanc-mange, Miss Byron’s favorite dessert. What did Miss Rochon prefer? He pictured her gloveless hand—her bare, gloveless hand—elsewhere on his person. Heat bloomed through him. Perhaps on his knee. His thigh. His—He gritted his teeth. Enough. He enlisted a footman to carry the plates to the table.
On his return, he espied a young lady he knew to be of remarkable intelligence, but of a shy nature. On a whim, he bowed.
Several people gasped. The young miss turned white.
Excellent. Word would quickly spread, putting her in the orbit of the young blades of the ton. Surely, some worthy gentleman’s sense of protectiveness would be aroused, and he would take notice of her.
Perhaps his reputation still had one noble function.
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Blurb
Copyright
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE: In Which The Punch Proves Too Tempting For The Monkey
CHAPTER TWO: In Which We Meet Our Hero, And It’s All Just A Little Too Much For Him
CHAPTER THREE: Wherein We Cringe And Say, “Poor Dear”
CHAPTER FOUR: Bosses, Brothels, and Bungling Menfolk, Oh My
CHAPTER FIVE: Wherein The Monkey Lives Up To His Namesake
CHAPTER SIX: Which Deals With a Murder Most Foul
CHAPTER SEVEN: Wherein The Denizens Of Mobile Are All Aflutter
CHAPTER EIGHT: And Wonder, Just Who Is The Ripper?
CHAPTER NINE: In Which Our Heroine Follows Our Hero And Overhears A Bit Of Unpleasantness
CHAPTER TEN: On The Importance Of Being Situationally Aware
CHAPTER ELEVEN: In Which Our Hero And Heroine Come To An Understanding (But Not That Kind Of Understanding)
CHAPTER TWELVE: How A Not-So-Simple Kiss Can Illuminate Matters
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: In Which Our Heroine Receives A Mysterious Package
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: Wherein Matters Progress Of An Intimate Nature
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: In Which Matters Turn Deadly
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: How Our Heroine’s Plans Get Thrown Into Disarray
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: How Water Can Be So…Energizing
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: Blast All Interfering Menfolk, And That Includes You, Mr. Killer
CHAPTER NINETEEN: On The Wonder Of Man’s Ingenuity
CHAPTER TWENTY: An Invigorating And Energizing Waltz
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: On The Wonders And Vagaries Of Passion
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: In Which We Interrupt The Angsting Of Our Intrepid Duo With An Unwelcome Encounter
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: A Game Of “Where’s The Killer,” Anyone?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: And Then The Game Turns Deadly
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: In Which Our Hero Digs Deep And Becomes All Hero-y
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: On The Kindness Of Strangers
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: Wherein Our Hero And Heroine Show How Appreciative They Are To Be Alive
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: In Which Epiphanies Are Had
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: In Which Our Heroine Is Thwarted By An Unscrupulous Boss, And Our Hero Makes A Dashing Appearance
CHAPTER THIRTY: And We Get Our Happily Ever After
EPILOGUE: On The Importance Of Family
Thank you
Historical Note
About the author
Acknowledgments
Excerpt from Must Love Breeches
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental, except where it is a matter of historical record.
Copyright © 2015 Angela Trigg
Cover design by Kim Killion
Developmental editing by Jessa Slade
Copy editing by Julie Glover
Proofreading by E
lizabeth (Elizabeth Edits), Lillie Applegarth, and Melissa Woods
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Digital Edition 1.0.202
ISBN: 9905400-3-8
ISBN-13: 978-0-9905400-3-8
Steam Me Up, Rawley Page 33