Must Love Breeches (10 page)

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 squeamish. 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.”

“I... uh...” Isabelle hesitated.

Lord Montagu’s jaw clenched and anger rolled off him in palpable waves. He obviously had something against this Sir Raphael guy. He’d not come out and asked her for that dance, but dancing it with Sir Raphael seemed wrong, somehow. Ada had told her etiquette required that if she turned down anyone for a set, she absolutely could not dance it with another. Lord Montagu continued to stare right back, controlled anger simmering in his eyes. Screw it—loyalty to her new friends was most important—who cared if Lord Montagu thought her forward.

She smiled at Sir Raphael. “I am flattered, thank you. But I have already promised this set to Lord Montagu.”

Please, don’t deny it.
From the corner of her eye, she saw one eyebrow tilt up.

His deep voice rumbled, laced with forced civility, “Indeed, Sir Raphael, you are too late. Again.” He crisply turned to her and held out his arm. “Miss Rochon?” He led her in silence to where other couples were gathering for the opening strains of the waltz, his anger still buffeting her.

The first notes filled the air, and he swept her effortlessly into the waltz. Their rhythm established, she could no longer hold back her curiosity. “Thank you, my lord, for not embarrassing me. I know you had not asked me for this set, but I did not want to dance it with Sir Raphael.”

His eyes locked with hers, but he said nothing. He surveyed the crowded room. “I am happy to oblige you.” Isabelle noted a stiffness in his words.

Did he think she’d used him as only a convenient excuse to be rid of Sir Raphael and had no other reason to dance with him? And why did she care? Or was he offended by her boldness? Man, and she’d thought it hard navigating the singles scene in her own time.

“That is not to say I would not have wanted to dance with you if he had not appeared,” she stammered. Heat crept up her neck and face. Oh, God, had she just said that? She’d wanted to make sure his feelings weren’t bruised, and now she’d kind of announced she liked him.

His eyes snapped back to hers, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. “Well, I am glad of it, in the event, as I found I had no desire to see you dance with him.”

What’s between these two men?
They lapsed into silence. Isabelle concentrated on enjoying the dance. A kaleidoscope of colors whirled around her and she imprinted the scene on her mind.
Can’t forget.
This was what it felt like to dance a waltz with someone who knew how to dance it properly, with grace and style. Aware of his every move, the intensity was the same as the last time they danced, but the heat felt too much like controlled anger this time.

The waltz over, the musicians struck up another tune for the second of the set. The strains of a slower waltz permeated the air. Isabelle ventured to pick up the conversation more or less where they’d left it. “I noticed a tension between you and Sir Raphael. What’s—” She almost said
What’s his deal?
and amended her words in time. “What is the trouble between you, if you do not mind me asking?”