Must Love Breeches (12 page)

Think, Isabelle.

“I looked at Katy’s text, and I remember putting it back in my purse...” she mused out loud, miming her actions from that night.

The silver case?

Right after she’d put the phone away, she’d studied the case and felt the juxtaposition of time. She’d fingered the smooth metal and wished she could be back in an earlier era. And there’d been a moment of dizziness, and Ada stood nearby in her stunning ball gown.

Isabelle jumped up, took jerky steps around the room. Stopped. Chills crawled across her skin. She shook her head. “No freaking way!”

Well, she’d gotten what she’d wished for.

Isabelle stared at the heavy, cream-colored card the butler handed her.

The Right Honourable
the Viscount Montagu

Lord Montagu? Below? Isabelle’s heart thumped in her chest. They’d almost kissed on the balcony last night, but afterward he’d been cold and withdrawn.

Ada put down the card she’d also received; she’d returned from her calls only a short time ago. Isabelle straightened her skirts. She itched to ask Ada not to receive him; this era’s equivalent of hitting
ignore
on one’s phone. Man, talk about a Long-Distance Relationship; chronologically rather than geographically undesirable. Getting to know him better also simply scared her. Too much promise—a perfect hunk-of-a-trap to ensnare her, only to be disappointed later.

She stifled her irrational fear, straightened her shoulders, and looked to Ada. “Can we receive him without Mrs. Somerville?”

“Yes, as he is my cousin, it will not be improper.” She nodded to the butler.

Lord Montagu’s confident tread echoed up the main stairs in counterpoint to the butler’s soft steps. The door opened, held by the butler, and Lord Montagu swept into the room, his presence overwhelming the space. She could swear even the flowers in their vases perked up and listed in his direction. Honest to Pete.

“Miss Byron, Miss Rochon.” He executed a neat bow.

A folklorist should document his bows—like a language, each said something different. Like this one to her, which seemed to say, “I’d like to jump your bones.” Well, he’d probably phrase it as, “I lust for you.”

Um, yeah, no. More like, “Good afternoon.”

He just looked so yummy in a forest green swallowtail coat, charcoal gray waistcoat, and buff-colored trousers. She liked that guys got to sport more color during the day, instead of the regimented dark blue or black for evenings. Her heart thumped even harder.
Shut up, heart.
It was like having Mr. Darcy or Mr. Knightley in the same room.
This is so weird.

“Please sit, cousin.” Ada indicated a nearby chair.

“Thank you.” Lord Montagu sat. “I hope I find you both well and in good spirits?”

“Quite well, thank you,” Ada replied.

Lord Montagu’s gaze snagged hers, one eyebrow arched.
Oh, he expected an actual answer? It wasn’t perfunctory?
She cleared her throat. “Quite well, also. Thank you.”

“Good, good.” Silence draped the room. Well, except for the
tick
,
tick
of the mantel clock and the clattering carriages outside. Lord Montagu shifted in his seat and adjusted his shirt cuffs. She searched for any sign of last night’s anger and coldness, or even a hint of attraction, but only found that he appeared nervous and... vulnerable? Odd.

Finally, he turned to Isabelle. “Miss Rochon, last night you said you could provide me with more details about your stolen case, perhaps a sketch I can give to the Runner? I thought to take the opportunity to call and obtain it.”

Dang, of course that was the reason he’d called. She shouldn’t be disappointed. Besides, hadn’t she resolved to ignore her attraction? She should be happy he diligently pursued her calling card case and not herself.

Isabelle stood. “Oh, yes, of course. That is very nice of you.”

Hands shaking, she grabbed a sheet of paper and a nib pen from the desk behind her. She sketched her case, taking care to include the initials engraved on the outside. The whole time she worked, she could feel his gaze on her, and she tried to keep her facial expressions and body language nonchalant, but was sure she only succeeded in drawing attention to herself, as if she were performing on a stage.

At last satisfied with the sketch, she handed it to Lord Montagu, who folded it in half and placed it in his breast pocket. The close-cut coat showed his broad shoulders to perfection. And his chest. And—Isabelle mentally slapped herself. In addition to her Curtsey-No-Contraction mantra, she needed to add a No-Ogling-the-Period-Hunks policy. Oh, who was she kidding—a No-Ogling-Montagu policy.

Ada spoke into the silence. “May we offer you tea, cousin?”

“Thank you, no.” He rubbed his temple. “Actually, I hoped to entice Miss Rochon into a turn around Hyde Park in my curricle. It is a lovely day outside.”

Alone? With him? Her traitorous heart beat faster, as if it were trying to run to him and leap into his lap. Yikes, no, she needed to keep her distance. Wait, she had an out—surely it wasn’t allowed. She threw a questioning glance at Ada, who smiled and nodded.

Oh, right. It wasn’t until the Victorian era they got more anal about that sort of thing. Didn’t Catherine Morland in
Northanger Abbey
ride alone in an open carriage with an admirer? There went that excuse.

She took a deep breath. “I would love to.”

His body relaxed a fraction, she’d swear it. She exited the room with him, and he said, “Will you not need a parasol?”

Another mental slap. “Oh, yes, of course.”

She turned back into the room, but Ada, close on her heels, whispered, “You can use mine. Here.”

Isabelle couldn’t resist wearing the new mantelet he’d given her. She couldn’t directly thank him, so perhaps this would let him know. She glanced to the side and met his eyes, which flared briefly with heat. Her insides swirled and did a yes-please dance, and she beat down the reaction.

A small corner of his mouth turned up. He tugged the coat from her grasp and stepped behind her, his heat palpable against her back, his breath brushing her neck. He placed it around her, and was it her imagination that his fingers seemed to linger on her shoulders? She closed her eyes and shivered.

Twenty minutes later, Lord Montagu’s curricle rattled alongside all the other stylish carriages that crammed Rotten Row in Hyde Park. Isabelle clutched the seat’s edge. Elegantly dressed women strolled along the lane, or chatted in small groups; men and women trotted on horses; and, to Isabelle’s astonishment, tradespeople and servants lined the edges here and there, staring and pointing, as if the promenaders formed a parade for the less fortunate to gawk at. And the way the promenaders behaved—strutting, gossiping with others they met on their amble—it reminded Isabelle of cruising in cars.

Ahead, a knot of garishly dressed men in their early twenties—real live fops! She stifled a giggle, and angled her head to keep them in view as Montagu’s curricle passed. They looked quite pleased with themselves. The cut of their coats was way more exaggerated than Montagu’s, their shoulders extremely wide, waists pinched.

One of them returned her stare. She faced forward. Her heart pounded and she squirmed, feeling exposed in the high seat of Montagu’s curricle. Surely one of them would point and whisper—interloper, faker. She was probably even sitting wrong. Though, hot damn, it was cool to discover what it was like to ride in this, the nineteenth-century equivalent of a modern-day sports car. Kind of thrilling, too, but, Lordy Pete, she was glad when he slowed from the fast clip he’d been maintaining.

His arm brushed hers and her pulse thumped. She sighed. She could no longer deny her physical reaction to him, not when sitting this close. Not that she’d had much success in doing so. On the ride to the park, she had no idea what he expected, so she’d kept quiet. But she also had a hard time keeping her seat, and more than once the carriage’s jolting bumped her against him. Perhaps this explained why the young blades of the
ton
preferred a curricle. So their ladies would accidentally brush against them. Or to give the ladies an excuse to seek their beau’s protection, with a Pretend Squeal thrown in?

Without looking at him, she registered every movement he made in her consciousness, every head tilt to a passing male acquaintance, and a few darting glances at her.

And during the whole ride he hadn’t said one word.

Weird. So, this was a date? Well, as close as it got with these people? The idea almost made her laugh, but it really wasn’t that funny. This slower, more distant courtship was much more stimulating, more exciting. And oddly, more intimate. How was that possible?
Oh, girl, this isn’t good.

On a less populated stretch, his body stiffened. He cleared his throat. “Miss Rochon, we have spoken frankly in the past, and I wonder if I may presume to continue with that freedom?”

Now she was intrigued. “Of course.”

He paused. “Am I correct in assuming you have not been entirely forthright concerning your present situation? Obviously, I know you are not a cousin of Miss Byron, since that was not the relationship given when we were introduced.” He peered sideways at her and did the swoopy thing with his eyebrows.

Isabelle tensed. Her breath caught in her throat.
Uh-oh. What to say? Where to look? Oh, shit, too late.
Her eyes were locked with his in a staring contest, anchoring her to her seat.

He broke eye contact and administered a slight adjustment to the reins of his perfectly matched grays. She used the opportunity to gaze forward.

“You see,” he continued, accurately reading her reaction, damn the man, “I have a good memory, and though I never met my great uncle nor any of his siblings, I do not recall that a sister moved to America. I rather thought I remembered it being Ireland, but I could be mistaken.”

“I... uh...” Isabelle glanced around, as if the answer lay in the tinkling pebbles in their lane, or the deep, deep green of the passing leaves. Was he about to chastise her for lying? To protect Ada? How stupid of her to think this was a date.

“Do not distress yourself. I do not require specifics. I trust Miss Byron’s judgment, and she must have good reason to befriend you, to provide shelter.”

Isabelle let herself relax.

“However, it occurs to me I might be in a position to aid you, as well as to relieve my cousin from the monetary responsibility she must be shouldering.”

“Thank you again, though I do not know how you can help.”

He remained silent for a long time. Was he going to continue? What could he be offering? A job? A loan?

Finally, he said, “I should like to propose something. You see, I have a... project... I am engaged in, indeed, have been these two years. At this stage, I need the respectability that would be mine if I were to take a wife.”

Isabelle’s breath hitched, and her stomach’s contents took up jumping jacks for recreation. Good Lord, was he serious? Had she found herself in the middle of some Regency Romance plot?

“However, upon further consideration,” he continued, and her stomach settled, “I realized my goal can be achieved if it is merely
believed
I am to wed. In short, I wondered if you would be amenable to posing as my betrothed.”

Isabelle’s stomach went back into panic mode. What? She wanted to say “Run that by me again?” She settled for gaping at him. And he hadn’t looked at her once since that brief staring contest.

He continued, “I am unfamiliar with how matters are handled in your country, but in England, as the lady in the relationship, you would be at liberty to jilt me before the actual wedding, so it does not proceed further than either of us desires, and with no harm done to either reputation. I would, of course, not sue you for breach of promise.”

Huh? What the—
All right, silence seemed like a good option right now.

Lord Montagu went on, not budging an inch on the seat, “In return, I offer you enough pin money for your support in comfort until such time as our arrangement ends. You would be required to appear as my betrothed at only a few social functions.”

Isabelle still had no clue how to respond.

Lord Montagu, perceptive guy that he was, obviously realized more needed to be said. “If I have offended you, please, I beg your forgiveness. I regret exploiting a weakness in your situation for my benefit. However, please know I would not have dared, if I did not sense you are a lady who, while you may be beholden to Miss Byron’s charity, is possessed of a lively mind and great sense.”

At the mention of Ada’s charity, Catholic guilt flooded Isabelle. Lord knew how much those dresses and other accessories had cost Ada. Isabelle planned to repay her, but how?

“In short, Miss Rochon, what I propose is a business arrangement.” At this last, he finally looked at her, seemingly searching for an answer in her eyes.

Okay, he was serious about this.
Holy cow.
Just trying to fully process what he was saying left her stunned. Forget about how to answer. Didn’t she need to lessen her interaction with him, not increase it?

“You expect me to ally myself with the Vicious Viscount? Surely someone of my sense would not do so. My lively mind is envisioning so many reasons not to.”