Must Love Breeches (20 page)

The butler arrived with the tea tray, and Isabelle took in more of the room as Lady Montagu poured. Her gaze lingered on an Abyssinian statue tucked in a far corner. This would never be how a room would be “restored” to the 1830 time period.

But how silly. Probably in the year 2255, future historians would try to recreate an authentic living room from her own time, get all the details exact, and bomb. Just like the museum rooms she’d helped with, they would fail to capture what made a place a
home.

“How do you take your tea, Miss Rochon?” Lady Montagu asked.

“Oh, cream and a little sugar, thank you.”

They talked and the sister soon thawed. Though she still stared at Isabelle with big, saucer eyes, she asked questions about what it was like to live in America. “You speak English very well,” she blurted at one point.

Isabelle cocked her head. “Er, thank you.”

Lady Montagu tried to dampen her daughter’s enthusiasm, but it was obvious she preferred to indulge her inquisitive children, and so Isabelle patiently answered all of her questions.

“Oh, and you can sponsor my come-out next Season!”

A knot formed in Isabelle’s stomach. She swallowed. Oh, man, so they
didn’t
know.

“Caroline, that is not something you ask of someone. Besides, your sister shall come to town for that honor.”

“But, Mama—” Caroline lapsed into silence upon seeing the quelling stare of her mother.

Lady Montagu asked Isabelle a series of polite questions about her stay in London and life in America, and Isabelle answered to the best of her ability. She started to relax. Perhaps she could get through this visit after all.

“Miss Rochon, we are, of course, delighted by your betrothal to my son.”

Blood rushed to Isabelle’s face. She looked to an embroidered pillow for inspiration and ran a finger along the stitches. “Indeed?”

“Caroline, go check on your sister, please?”

An uncomfortable silence grew to fill the room while the sister left.

When the door shut, Lady Montagu said, “I can see you are uncomfortable. I apologize. My girls do not know, but Phineas has informed me of the deception.”

So she would be spared having to lie to his mother; one less thing to worry about. The knot in her stomach eased again. Then the name Lady Montagu used registered in her brain. Her pretend fiancé’s first name was Phineas? Well, better than Egbert, or something.

Lady Montagu looked her up and down. Isabelle opened her mouth to express her relief aloud when Lady Montagu said, “However, I do hope I can persuade you from crying off.”

Isabelle snapped her mouth shut and her stomach knotted right back up. They hadn’t invented Pepto Bismol or Alka Seltzer yet, had they?

“You see,” continued his mother, “we have quite despaired of―”

The door to the drawing room banged open, and Lord Montagu stood there, the planes of his handsome face pulled into a scowl.

The knot in Isabelle’s stomach flipped backwards, tied back on itself and took up permanent residence.

‘Tis strange,—but true; for truth is always strange;
Stranger than fiction.
Lord Byron,
Don Juan
, Canto XIV

“Phineas, dear, what a surprise. I did not expect you.” His mother smiled.

“Clearly.” Phineas stood at the door, trying to calm his breathing without betraying his harried state. He had sprinted from his club as soon as he had received the hasty note sent by his sister Gwendolyn.

“Well, come inside and join us. Do desist from looking like a riled bear.”

Why had he labored under the delusion his mother would follow his instructions in this? He had been quite clear: no interaction—an engagement in name only. He must endeavor to salvage this situation as best he could, get the two separated, their connection severed. Plus, he had little faith in his mother to constrain herself to the role in play. She was desperate for him to marry. Hence the precaution of asking Gwendolyn to keep him informed.

He had been a fool, obviously. But, why such anger? He finally looked to Miss Rochon. She sat in a corner of a settee, as far away from his mother as she could manage.

It struck him with blinding clarity: his anger was on her behalf. This put her in an uncomfortable position, and it was unfair she should suffer further in this for his sake. She already had to play a role with the public, and now she was no doubt being importuned by his mother.

He stalked to the settee and sat on the opposite end from Miss Rochon.

“That is better, dear. I was only becoming further acquainted with Miss Rochon. We happened across each other at a bookstore this morning, and I invited her for tea. Caroline and I had...”

His mother rambled on, which she did when Phineas was upset with her. Somehow, she knew it gave him time to calm down. However, he was not confident he could regain his composure this time.

His mother finally ceased her explanations, and a long silence settled over the room.

Miss Rochon cleared her throat, stood, and smiled, though it did not reach her eyes.

He jumped to his feet. What was she about?

“Well, this has been nice. Lady Montagu, thank you for tea.” Her voice sounded strained.

“Miss Rochon, do not leave.” He sounded gruffer than he intended. Wait, not leave? But, was that not what he desired?

She drew herself straighter. “Since you did not bother to tell me you had a family, it is obvious my presence is not wanted.”

She was upset with
him
? He glanced at his mother, who contemplated him with pity in her eyes. Pity.

“Miss Rochon, you do not understand.” He took a step toward her. His hand reached forward. He made a tight fist and returned it to his side.

“I believe I do, actually.”

“On the contrary―”

“Children, please. Sit.” Mother waved her fingers at them.

Miss Rochon obeyed and Phineas reluctantly followed suit. Did he just see a corner of her mouth quirk?

“Mother, I believe I asked for you not to contact Miss Rochon.” He could feel Miss Rochon bristle next to him.

“Yes, dear.”

“I really think I should leave,” said Miss Rochon.

“No,” he replied at the same time as his mother.

“Miss Rochon,” continued his mother, “please remain. My son is correct. He did request I refrain from contacting you, but I believe he is in error.”

“Mother―”

“Hear me out, Phin. Am I correct that this scheme has been concocted to lend you respectability?”

His hands formed fists against his knees. “Yes.”

“Then you are making a tactical error. How will it appear to society if I do not receive her?”

Tactical error? Clearly his mother had been reading about the Duke of Wellington’s campaigns again. He lifted his chin. “But―”

“Consider it, Phin. If I do not receive her and take a friendly interest, the
ton
will assume I do not approve. Is that what you wish?”

When she expressed it in that way... But it still worried him. Miss Rochon had not bargained on this additional charade, this additional burden. If it encompassed only a few social calls between the two, that would be acceptable.

“How about a betrothal ball, would that not be wonderful?” his mother continued.

Damn and blast. What part of
pretend engagement
did she not comprehend? “Betrothal ball? That cannot be wise.”

“Oh, pish, pish. I had been contemplating holding a ball this Season anyway, and this provides a perfect reason. It will allow Caroline the opportunity to watch from the balcony with her governess, so she is better prepared for her launch next year.”

Phineas took a calming breath. “But we will likely have ended this charade by the time the ball could be planned.”

A sharp tug of disappointment in his gut was quickly shoved aside. He refused to analyze it.

“I will address that possibility when it transpires. I am confident I can make it into a positive event, regardless. Leave it all to me.”

Precisely what he feared. However, Phineas knew from experience it did no good to pit himself against his mother when her mind was set. They had that stubbornness in common.

Miss Rochon spoke. “A ball? Lady Montagu, Lord Montagu is right, that seems too elaborate, too wasteful for something that is only a temporary thing.”

“Is it, dear?”

Time to depart.
Phineas stood and kissed his mother’s hand. He held out his arm for Miss Rochon. “It is to no avail to argue with my mother, I assure you. May I escort you home? I will see you later for our appointment.”

Miss Rochon arose and said her goodbyes. When they reached the door, his mother said, “Miss Rochon, please think on what I said. We shall talk again.”

Now, what the devil was that about?

Though skeptical about Miss Rochon’s ministrations and restless over their earlier encounter at his mother’s, Phineas kept his appointment. He walked up the steps of the Somerville townhouse and let the heavy brass knocker drop. He schooled himself to act with better control in Miss Rochon’s presence. An affair of the heart he absolutely could not indulge. He must resist her charms, his project too important. However, her concern touched him in a peculiar way. He rubbed his arm while he waited for the butler to answer the door. Last night had been a restless night for him. Not only had he battled his imagination where Miss Rochon was concerned, but also it had proved difficult to find a position that was tolerable, that would not aggravate the throbbing pain in his arm.

And deuce it if he did not keep abusing it the whole blessed day.

First, he managed to bang it against his four poster bed upon awakening. It suffered further abuse when his valet came to dress him. Since Phineas deemed it important to appear uninjured to his acquaintances, Chandler had been obliged to retie the bandage so it lay flatter and he could squeeze his arm into the tight-fitting, tailored coat.

Then later, as he wrote letters in his library, he dropped his nib pen on the floor. When he leaned over to retrieve it, he banged his sore arm on the desk.

To compound his grievances further, he found the simple task of writing painful, so he wrote one letter deemed absolutely essential and only signed the documents his secretary had given him.

Afterward, he went to White’s to read the papers, take his luncheon, and catch up on any gossip in general circulation. He had to forgo his usual boxing rounds at Gentleman Jacksons due to his injury, and so he was cursed with pent-up energy.

It rather irked him to discover a wager existed in White’s betting book that speculated as to whether Miss Rochon would follow in Miss Trowbridge’s footsteps and cry off her engagement to the Vicious Viscount; five people had already written in their bets, all in the affirmative.

The solace of his favorite armchair at the club eluded him as well; his attention would not remain fixed on perusing the morning papers. He kept calling to mind the events of last night and his abominable, unpardonable loss of control in the carriage. His attraction to Miss Rochon was stronger than he had realized. How she looked in the light of the carriage lamp, how its shadows deepened her mystery—these images plagued his mind’s eye, not the orderly rows of print in the morning paper.

She had also displayed more of that strangeness that had characterized their first encounter. She used words he did not know, and he an Oxford man. Her stubborn conviction that medicine here was not as advanced, as forward thinking, as it was in the infernal colonies? What nonsense. But most of all, how she phrased some of her pronouncements intrigued and puzzled him.

If nothing else, the evening confirmed his suspicion she possessed a secret. What that secret entailed, he could not fathom. However, to his chagrin, he found he wanted to know
.

What was she hiding? Moreover, what were these letters Chandler told him of?

And then the mad dash to his mother’s—

The door swung open at the Somervilles’, bringing his thoughts back to the present. He locked down on thoughts of her, eschewing all emotions, and followed the butler. Shortly, he found himself sitting in a chair in the parlor. Miss Rochon fiddled with the items arrayed around her. Between her and Miss Byron, they managed to pull off his coat, and Miss Rochon rolled up his sleeve. The intimacy of the actions, even with Miss Byron’s presence, threatened his resolve again. His hands formed fists in his lap. He was a rational man; he was not an animal. He would resist looking at her graceful bare fingers as they touched his arm, his
bare skin
. That had nearly been his undoing last night.