Must Love Breeches (16 page)

He drew back and stared at her with wide eyes. “What do you know of such things?”

Okay. Maybe she’d overdone it on the lingo. “I am not ignorant, Lord Montagu.”

“Indeed.” He remained quiet for a moment longer, studying her. Jeez, and she thought the men of her own time were difficult to figure out. Finally, he said, “It is my understanding he is indeed checking with his contacts, but so far, nothing has surfaced.”

Isabelle slumped back in her chair, but remembered her recent training and corrected her posture. “Is there nothing else we can do? I feel so helpless about it.”

“Not that I can determine.”

“Well, thank you for what you have been doing. I very much appreciate it. Now, about these invitations...”

Isabelle explained how she’d organized them, and Lord Montagu picked the ones to attend. Sometimes several were on the same date. It seemed it was not so much particular evenings he tried to fill, but certain people whose invitations he wanted to accept. He pointed to one from the Havershams. “I will be away at my country estate for a few days, so the first party shall be this one, two days hence.”

Friday night, Isabelle made small talk with a number of oh-so-polite ladies of the
haut ton,
and she really rather thought that sticking a fork in her eye would be more pleasant. She fidgeted in the small chair, smoothed her skirt, and tried to maintain the smile plastered on her face. Lady Haversham’s rout was the first party she attended as Lord Montagu’s fiancée. And boy, was it crowded. She’d been lucky to get this seat, and she wasn’t giving it up no matter how annoying the ladies became. Apparently, routs were wall-to-wall mingling and no dancing—thank God for
that,
at least. But it would be nice if she were actually
with
Lord Montagu.

“I tell you, I was so vexed with her, I almost turned her out without a reference,” said one of the ladies seated with her.

“But I thought you adored your lady's maid. She certainly does wonders with your hair,” another replied.

Just keep smiling and nodding.
What old advice did mamas give about their impending wedding night?
Just lie back and think of England?
Well, she’d sit back and think of Mobile.

She’d always intended to move back to her home town. She loved the port city of Mobile, its history, its funky charm. She smiled at the memory of her father telling her he’d secured a spot for her on the Queen’s Court as a Lady-in-Waiting.

She hadn’t wanted to do it, but she hadn’t had the heart to tell him so; he’d been so proud. One of the quirkiest aspects of Mobile was the debutante season’s grand finale—the days leading up to Mardi Gras, when the city pretended to be ruled by King Felix III, the Lord of Misrule. The dresses, the rounds of parties that lasted all winter, all leading up to the elaborate coronation of the king and queen, attended by their ladies-in-waiting and knights. Thank God for that experience—who would have thought it would come in handy in such a way as now?

But thoughts of Mobile invariably led to thoughts of family, and that was definitely
not
something she wanted to dwell on. She sucked in a deep breath to counteract the tears gathering strength. Weird how sometimes a sudden memory could make her smile and other times yank at her, taunt her. She’d had such a great childhood, but always suspected the happy times were adding up to a big tragedy to balance the scales. So when she lost them all in a car crash one rainy night—her father, mother, and sister—while the grief had been unbearable, a tiny part of her knew it for what it was: pay back.

“Miss Rochon?”

Isabelle straightened. Had she zoned out that bad? Why were these fashionable ladies gaping at her? “Pardon me?”

“Are you well, dear?” Lady Rathburn, wasn’t it?

“Yes, why?” Had she been drooling? She brought her hand up to do a quick chin check.

“We were remarking on your engagement,” said the one with bright red hair, whose name Isabelle had already forgotten. “It is all so very exciting. An American cousin marrying the V— Lord Montagu. Lady Alice asked if you were looking forward to being his next victim, and you nodded your head.”

Oh, Lord, she deserved that for not paying attention. “And...?” She smiled politely and looked around.

The other ladies’ eyes widened and avoided hers. They moved on to other, safer, topics.

Would this party ever end? And where had Lord Montagu disappeared to? He’d barely spent ten minutes with her at this party. She’d asked him if he had any pointers on how to interact with the guests as his fiancée, and he’d been totally unconcerned.

A footman appeared at her elbow. “Miss Rochon, your pardon. Lord Montagu is outside in his carriage and is ready to depart. He wishes to know if you care to meet him there to be escorted home?”

The other ladies glanced at each other. Isabelle replied, “Yes, of course, thank you.”

Why didn’t he come get her himself? He was certainly the arrogant one, wasn’t he? She strode across the crowded ballroom, following the footman.

Muttering to herself, Isabelle got her wrap and went in search of his carriage. His footman spotted her first and waved. He opened the door, pulled down the steps, and helped her inside.

“My lord, I know we are not really engaged, but could you at least have the decency to come get me yourself?” Isabelle held onto the carriage doorframe and let her eyes adjust to the darkness within.

Lord Montagu’s dark form loomed in the corner, the lamp hanging on the inside illuminating his face and casting dark, shifting shadows. She settled on the same seat in the opposite corner; she wasn’t yet used to riding with her back to the horses.

“You realize you do not have to do that.” His eyes searched hers, then roamed down her body and back up. However, his gaze didn’t seem threatening, more like he looked at her out of curiosity. Didn’t matter though, heat coursed through her veins anyway.

“Do what?”

“Speak to me like that.”

Blood rushed into her head, and she forgot to count to ten. “I’m so sorry, mister high and mighty Viscount, but you really think you’re just The Thing, don’t you?” She punctuated this question with a punch on his arm. “I’ll speak however I want. It was rude of you, admit it.”

He winced at her punch, but his playacting didn’t fool her. In leaning over to punch him, however, she’d heard a slight ripping sound. Shit.

She sat back, surreptitiously feeling behind her to see what might have torn.

“That is much better,” he intoned.

Her hand stopped its searching and her head whipped up. “What?”

He smiled in the dim lamp light, shadows undulating across his sharp jaw and cheekbones. “I
was
rude.”

Come again? “I’m totally confused now. You get mad at me because you didn’t like that I pointed out your rudeness, and now you’re admitting you were rude?” She shifted on the seat and faced him fully, the better to glare and hide the rip.

“You misunderstand me, Miss Rochon. I do not chastise you for pointing out my rudeness, for indeed I was rude, but rather I mean to suggest you do not have to speak to me in, what I suspect, is not your normal manner. I have observed you lapse only when you become angry or agitated, as you did just now. Hence, why I say it is much better. You do not need to act unnaturally around me.”

Oh. So he’d noticed. Well, cool, it wasn’t easy to speak without contractions, so if she could add another person to her list she didn’t have to do it around, she was glad. She relaxed back into the crimson velvet cushions.

“Sorry I hit you.” She reached out and smoothed the arm she’d hit. He winced. “Come on, I know I didn’t hit you
that
hard.”

His lips quirked and his eyes held a humorous glint. “Indeed, you did not.”

“Well, what...” She reached up and grabbed the lantern hanging above her and brought it closer. She sat back and gasped. “You’re hurt. What happened?”

“Now you have ascertained the reason I could not fetch you myself, Miss Rochon.”

“Okay, but, what happened? How bad are you hurt?”

“Nothing to concern yourself with.”

“We’ll see about that, mister.”

Isabelle leaned forward again, using the lamp’s feeble glow to light her way. She moved her fingers along his arm to the rip in his evening jacket, revealing a dark, wet glistening. A sharp, tangy smell tickled her nose—copper.

When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past—
For years fleet away with the wings of the dove—
The dearest remembrance will still be the last,
Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love.
Lord Byron,
The First Kiss of Love
, 1806

“Blood!” Isabelle jerked back, the lamp swinging, dark shadows careening grotesquely around the carriage’s interior. “Here, hold this stupid thing and let me get a closer look.”

Hands free, she pulled off her gloves, grappled with her skirts, and knelt beside him. She probed his arm with both hands, the weight of his gaze on them as she explored. The carriage lamp’s sparse light made it difficult to see the wound. What had he been doing at the rout to cause this?

“We’ll need to take off your coat. And your shirt, of course.” The carriage turned a corner, and Isabelle braced her right arm against the seat.

Lord Montagu sighed, leaned forward, and placed the lamp on the seat opposite. He gingerly pried off his coat and his cravat.

He cocked an eyebrow. “Shirt too? Could we not simply roll up that sleeve?”

“Oh, whatever. Yes, yes, I just need to see it, see how bad the wound is.” The sleeve hung by only a few threads, no sense in saving it. She grabbed the linen at the tear and yanked.

Her breath caught. “Holy cow, what did you do?”

A ragged slash sliced across his upper arm. Deep and messy, blood oozed down his arm and dripped onto the seat. What would cause that?

“I... uh... a sharp metal object protested my departure of the Havershams’.”

“A sharp metal object...” Isabelle enunciated each word. “Could you be any more cryptic?” She stripped lengths from the remains of his shirt sleeve and applied heavy pressure to the wound. She looked quickly up. “Good God, a knife.”

“No, not a knife.”

She returned her attention to his wound. He appeared to not even feel the pain.

When he didn’t say anything more, she squinted up at him. “If it wasn’t a knife, what was it?”

Lord Montagu cleared his throat. “An iron rose trellis.”

Okay, not what she’d been expecting. “An iron rose trellis? Seriously?”

“Yes.”

“All right, so... in what manner were you leaving the Haversham residence that you met with the pointy end of an iron rose trellis?”

Did his lips just twitch? “My method of leaving the rout was by way of a second floor bedroom window.”

“What?” He remained silent despite her best glare. “Okay, do you mind telling me why you decided going out a window was better than the way us normal folks do it? You know, out the front door?”

He sighed. “Suffice it to say, I was not where I was supposed to be and was at risk of being discovered. The window was my best means of effecting an escape without detection.”

Isabelle studied him, and his eyes told her he struggled with something in his mind, whether it was to trust her with what he was up to, she couldn’t tell. Her skin flushed hot—had he been with another woman? No. She shouldn’t be jealous. She had no right to be. She’d stay positive and show it didn’t bother her. Or was he up there for his ‘project’?

She risked pulling the linen away. The flow of blood had lessened. She took more strips, folded them, and put them against the wound. “Hold this in place.”

His warm fingers brushed hers and settled on the padding, and she shoved aside the spark that sizzled through her. She could sense his dark gaze trained intently on her.

She tore another strip of linen, wrapped it around his arm and tied it tight over the folded cloth. “Obviously, you’ll need to get that cleaned when you get home. You might need stitches.”

“I shall manage, thank you.”

“I know you’re reluctant to tell me what you were doing.” Isabelle sat back and took a deep breath. “Does this have anything to do with your project?”