Must Love Breeches (22 page)

“Lord, Ada, I still can’t get used to all the rules. I constantly feel as if I’m being tested,” Isabelle said. They were at Lady Crosley’s ball later that evening, enjoying lemonade and watching the dancers at this less crowded, and more exclusive, event. They were near a corner, partially shielded by a potted palm.

Ada craned her head around, then leaned in to whisper, “Anymore developments with your silver case?”

“Sadly, no.” They discussed her need to find it and strategies to explore, even going so far as to speculate how it worked and whether the fact that it was silver had anything to do with it.

At a pause in the conversation, Ada again glanced around, then fixed her with eager eyes. “Tell me, what is it like to travel back in time and see London? Has it changed greatly?”

Isabelle nodded. “Quite a lot, actually. There will be a terrible war, and large sections of London will be destroyed by—by―” Isabelle paused and amended what she’d been about to say, “—by flying machines that drop explosives on the city every night for over two months.”

Ada stared at her, apparently fascinated and horrified by turns. She seemed to struggle with what question to ask next: presumably, what the terrible war was, or about the flying machines, or what got destroyed.

She eventually got to all three questions, but flying machines came first.

“What manner of flying machine? Is it run by steam?”

Isabelle hesitated—how much to tell her?

Ada, however, jumped in with, “I know, you cannot tell me, but this is so fascinating. I tried to create one when an adolescent—a flying horse powered by steam. I was quite passionate about it, had correspondents send me bird skeletons so I could measure wing span to body mass. I established my laboratory in a barn. However, Mother eventually put an end to my experiments.”

Isabelle shook her head. What little she’d seen and learned of Ada’s mother, Isabelle could not like. She opened her mouth to reply, but closed it—one of Ada’s admirers approached.

He bowed before them. “Would you do me the honor of a dance?” he asked, addressing Ada.

Off they went, leaving her alone. A rustle from the other side of the potted palm startled her. She stepped over, but if someone had been there, they were now part of the milling crowd.

Isabelle walked the perimeter until she found a chair. Though she’d been taking lessons from Ada on the steps and figures of the different dances, she didn’t feel confident enough to accept any gentleman’s offer.

Plus, she had
so
not wanted to go out tonight. Her life had been non-stop lately: errands for Mrs. Somerville, meeting Lord Montagu’s family, a rout last night, and Lord Montagu’s injury. And now a ball? She’d been tempted to beg off, but Lord Montagu had marked it as an important one to attend. She’d resisted the selfish urge, and he’d fetched her earlier for Lady Crosley’s ball. But now where was he? If he didn’t return soon, she might just go look for him.

She fidgeted in her chair. The man was irresistible. That arm kiss. Just thinking about it made her stomach clench. Too bad they’d been interrupted, as she was sure he’d been about to kiss her, and she’d bet her left pinkie toe he was a damn good kisser. And she’d give her right one to know if she was correct. However, he’d given no signals earlier that day that he was interested. She kept telling herself this was for the best: she couldn’t risk her heart to him—it’d be too painful when she had to leave.

Thankfully, he’d let her attend his wound. So far, it looked healthy, but she couldn’t rule out the risk of tetanus. That worried her. All she could do was keep disinfecting it and watching him closely.

Where
was
Lord Montagu?

Screw being a wallflower.
She’d had enough of that in high school. And screw him for making her feel like one. She stood and made a quick circuit of the ballroom. Not on the marble terrace... He could be in the gardens, but she had a hunch he was up to the same shenanigans as last night.

She walked toward the refreshment room, pretending it was her final destination. She retrieved a glass of punch and stood by the door in the back that led to the main hallway, sipping her drink and watching the crowd.

Confident no one watched, she slipped from the room and strolled down the hall, using the open door to block her from view of the front of the hallway. She peeked into a room on her right, but seeing nothing, moved on.

A room on the left stood empty. Only one more room on this floor before she’d have to check upstairs, and she
really
didn’t want to get caught up there. The door to this room was closed. She held her breath, eased it open, and stepped inside. She strode to the middle and glanced around. Empty, dammit.

She exited and quietly closed the door. Standing in the hallway, she sipped her punch and fanned herself, trying for all the world to look like someone who only needed to get away from the crowd for a moment. In actuality, she was trying to screw up her nerve to go upstairs.

The main stairs were too public, so that left the servant stairs nearby. But if caught by a servant, she’d have no excuse whatsoever. Maybe pretend feeling a little faint, in search of a quiet place to lie down? And didn’t want to draw attention to herself by using the main stairs? Feeble, but a servant might not question it.

She eased over and looked up the dark, narrow stairs. No one there, and no footsteps, either. Steeling herself, she counted to ten and sprinted up the stairs, careful not to spill her punch. Well, sprinted as best she could in the heaps of skirts around her legs and the corset strangling her.

The top reached, she peeked around the corner, took a quick survey, and pulled her head back. Four doors, two on each side. Three were open. If he was up here, he’d be in the room with the closed door.

Why was she doing this? She should go downstairs and wait. To be caught up here would cause a scandal. She waited for her breathing to settle—running in a corset had been a mistake.

She peered around the corner again. All clear. She tiptoed down the hallway. No candles or oil lamps illuminated the hall, the only light coming from the end windows.
Stupid. Stupid.
There’d be no way to see inside the room once she reached it. Maybe the room’s windows would be enough. She wasn’t turning back now.

The door handle turned easily in her hand and she slipped inside. As before, she went in partway. A candle burned on a bureau.

Fabric rustled behind her. A firm hand clamped over her mouth.

And to his eye
There was but one beloved face on earth,
And that was shining on him.
Lord Byron,
The Dream
, 1816

Isabelle fought to breathe around the hand clamped over her mouth. Another arm gripped her waist, pinning her left arm. Panic ripped through her and her brain went into stun mode. She struggled, but her captor pulled her backwards and eased the door shut.

Her legs wobbled. She concentrated on breathing calmly through her nose, willing herself to relax and react more effectively. Just like she’d trained after that home invasion.

She would never forget that one night, returning to her darkened house in a transitional neighborhood in Atlanta, when a gun had been pointed right at her and she couldn’t do a thing. She’d been lucky. He’d only wanted money.

Relax and concentrate.

Her lower arm holding the punch cup was free. All right. She gathered her inner strength and splashed the drink at her attacker’s head. Next, she spread her lips wide, bit his hand, and stomped on his foot. She managed to get a good bite in, but she wore stupid soft slippers, not a nice, spiked heel, so the stomp was not as effective as she’d hoped.

Her attacker jerked in surprise, and she simultaneously buckled her knees as if off balance, causing him to pitch forward. She used his weight and momentum to twist them both around. As she’d planned, they toppled to the floor. Her dang skirts tangled with her legs and she landed on top of him, her back to his front.

Poised to get a good whack on his shins with the heels of her feet, a familiar voice growled in her ear, “Devil take it, woman, it is I, Montagu.”

She let her legs fall and her body go limp. He loosened his grip, and she twisted around and glared at him. She also socked him on his shoulder, coming to rest with her hands on his shoulders, and straddling his waist.

“What the hell are you doing?” Adrenaline coursed through her; her heart beat erratically.

“What am
I
doing? What are
you
doing up here?”

“I asked you first. Why did you sneak up on me like that? Like to give me a heart attack.”

“I did not realize it was you, initially. I was leaving when I saw the door handle turn, and I hid behind the door. I leapt forward to incapacitate the intruder. When I saw it was you, I did not wish for you to scream.”

Her hands tightened on his shoulders. “You didn’t answer my first question.”

He sighed, his warm breath brushing her cheek. “I thought it was one and the same. If you mean, what was I doing up here, suffice it to say I was engaged in the same activity as the night before.”

“I thought so. I hadn’t seen you in a while.”

“So, you came to look for me?” A note of incredulity tinged his normally smooth voice.

What the devil had prompted her to seek him in this manner? Had she truly managed to pull him to the ground? Phineas glared at his supposed intended and became acutely aware of their position; specifically and suggestively their position in relation to each other, her soft curves pressed against his torso, her hips, with twisted skirts, cradled by his, their thighs...

Their labored breathing commingled. Shivers coursed through his body. If he had been tempted by her proximity during previous encounters, this eclipsed those. Her heat and scent settled over him, his heart beat faster. Pure lust shot through his veins. He detected in her eyes, hiding behind her spectacles, the moment she also became conscious of their position. Their dangerous position. On the verge of suggesting she arise, he saw the glint from the candle on the dratted door handle as it moved again.

Damn and blast. He grabbed the back of her head, his fingers spearing into her hair, and brought his lips to hers, while the little that remained of his reasoning pointed out how unwise a move this was for him personally. However, they needed an excuse for their presence in this chamber. Luckily, they lay at such an angle, and the room lit by only a single candle, he was rather certain their identities were safe from discovery.

She responded to his kiss immediately, opening her mouth in invitation. Liquid fire pounded through him at this surprising response, awakening a part of him he had not realized slumbered. With a groan, he slipped his tongue inside and explored her welcoming mouth, teasing her, tasting her, cool and fruity from the punch.

As anticipated, the intruder opened the door and quickly shut it upon discovering them in such an intimate embrace. Miss Rochon flinched slightly, breaking contact. “What was that?” she breathed.

“Nothing to worry about.” His voice was pitched lower and rougher.

“Oh, good.” To his complete shock, her lips returned to his and she whispered, “Now, where were we?”

He smiled. “I believe I was about to do this.”

He angled his head and nibbled on her lower lip. A small moan escaped her. Emboldened, he deepened the kiss and found she did not hesitate to explore on her own.

Blood rushed to his groin and stiffened his arousal. Never had he met a lady so comfortable with her sensuality.

Part of his mind attempted a feeble protest, prudently reminding him they had been seen and must return below with all possible speed. It also cautioned against feeding his lustful impulses. The
ton
believed them engaged, but some lines one did not cross at a ball. If quick enough, they might escape suspicion.

Ignoring his rational side, Phineas wrapped his other arm tightly around her waist and reveled in the feel of her soft curves pressed so deliciously against his hard body, his painful erection fitting snugly against her.

Her tongue ceased teasing his and curled up to stroke the roof of his mouth. A sizzle of sensation sparked through him and she breathed in, the soft air caressing the sensitive skin of his mouth, further spiking his desire. He shivered, groaned and flipped her onto her back, not breaking contact with her devilishly delectable lips.