Must Love Breeches (23 page)

Urgency and need roared through his veins and muscles. An urgency and need for
her.
He moved his hand up her waist, his fingers aching, straining, to caress and stroke her breast, to make her nipple hard, but hesitant to rush matters. Slowly he went until his fingers gently cradled the underside of her luscious breast. Ah, bliss.

However, the rational part of his mind finally screamed at him.

What are you about?

He jerked his head up as if his mind had shouted the words aloud. He looked down at Miss Rochon’s flushed face. Forcing himself to steady his breathing, he also forced himself to say, “We must stop.” He raked in another breath. “Someone saw us, and if we do not wish to create a full blown scandal, we must return downstairs with all due haste.”

“What? Oh.” Her hands dropped to the floor and her flush darkened.

Just seeing that made him ache to witness her, in a future time and place, beneath him and flushing, not from embarrassment, but from bone deep pleasure he had given her, right before finding his own, deep, deep inside her. He shook his head in an attempt to dispel the lusty image.

He tried to clear his throat, but it was more like a dry rasp in the execution. “The kiss gave us an explanation for our presence here. However, we ought not be absent too long, or it shall cause talk.”

He levered himself up and discreetly adjusted his pantaloons. He reached down and helped her stand. She appeared flustered, but they had no time to delay, and he was also rather worried about his control when it came to her. At this moment, he did not trust himself to be alone with her.

“Come, let us depart at once. Meet me downstairs by the punch bowl. I shall take the servants’ stairs.” He grabbed her hand, opened the door, verified no one was near, and stepped into the hall.

“Wait, the punch,” she said.

He stopped. What the devil could be bothering her?

“I missed most of your head, thank God, but some did splash onto your hair and your, uh, your cravat.” Her hand smoothed back part of his hair, the act so intimate it threatened his resolve.

“Devil take the cravat, we have not the time.” He sounded gruffer than he had intended, but there was no help for it. They must return downstairs. Immediately.

Oh My God. Had she really thrown herself on him like that? What must he think of her? Isabelle watched Lord Montagu disappear down the back stairs, and her skin flushed.

These men were more prudish than those of her own time, though thankfully not as much as they would become during the Victorian era. But, still. And here she’d been stupid enough to believe it had been a naturally motivated kiss, not something he’d done to give them cover. Sure, he had a hard-on—couldn’t help noticing
that
through all her skirts—but guys got those easily enough. Couldn’t read too much into that, other than he was a hot-blooded male. He must have seen the door opening.

That overdue black hole needed to open
now
, or whatever had magicked her here needed to send her back to her own time now.

Right now would be good. Yep, very good.

But no, no such luck. She tried to look nonchalant and graceful as she descended the front stairs. She adjusted her glasses so they sat on her nose more firmly, patted her hair. The excitement in the room and her brief rush to the steps left her a little breathless, and she worked on breathing through her nose to calm herself. She seemed to be doing that a lot tonight.

She wandered through the ballroom and found him in position near the refreshments. His profile reminded her to try to look as calm and collected as she could. Yeah, right.

Someone had seen them? Were they being gossiped about right now?

She reached his side, and his rugged face dipped down. His low voice in her ear sent a fresh wave of chills through her, “Hold your head up, behave as if nothing has transpired. We shall find our hostess and take our leave.”

Oh, man, she’d totally thrown herself at him like some floozy. She felt cheap and dirty. She
hated
feeling cheap and dirty. She couldn’t wait to get to her room at Mrs. Somerville’s and crawl into bed, hide under the covers. Too bad bars of chocolate hadn’t been invented yet. Did they have Pinot Grigio?

She followed his lead, though, and kept her chin up. They attracted some attention, but nothing too crazy. They thanked their hostess, and Isabelle managed to find Ada and let her know they were heading home.

All this time, he had her hand tucked securely under his arm, but damn if she’d let the rest of their bodies touch. Couldn’t have him think she’d read more into it than he intended.

At last, she climbed into his carriage. Fortunately, she was on her way home, to solitude. Unfortunately, she’d be sharing the space with Lord Montagu. Alone.

She sat on the forward-facing seat, assuming he’d sit across from her; however, he squelched that hope by sitting on the same side. She inched away as far as she could get, clasped her hands in her lap, and tried to pretend the scenery outside was just the coolest thing she’d ever seen in her life.

He didn’t say anything, and the silence, far from being comfortable, grew, stretched, and took over the whole carriage interior, crowding her. She shifted in her seat. She put her hands on her knees. She would
not
be the first to puncture the silence. His presence also seemed to grow with it; she was acutely aware of his body in relation to hers.

After some minutes elapsed, Lord Montagu cleared his throat. “Miss Rochon, about what transpired. I apologize for taking such liberties without your leave. I am―” He coughed.

She
hated
looking like a fool. She had to make him believe she understood the reason behind the kiss and had played along. She hadn’t
really
thought he had kissed her for real.

That she
had
would be her own secret. She’d been right, too: he was a damn good kisser.

Dammit.

“Please, don’t worry about it.” Her voice came out a tad too high; she lowered it to its normal pitch—she hoped. “You did what was necessary to divert suspicion from the real reason you were there. I understand. No need to discuss it anymore.”
There
.

His gaze held hers for several moments. He seemed on the verge of saying something, but changed his mind.

Finally, he simply said, “As you wish,” and looked out his window.

That was what she wanted, right? Then why did she feel so miserable? And confused?

The carriage came to a stop some time later. He stepped out and helped her down.

“Oh, what about your arm? I didn’t pull out any stitches earlier, did I?”

“I believe not. It is fine. Until Monday night? I thought we could attend the theatre.”

The pace of her heart picked up again. Theatre? She nodded. “Except, don’t forget to come by in the afternoon tomorrow to get your bandage changed.”

“How could I forget?” he responded, voice flat. He bowed. “Until tomorrow afternoon, Miss Rochon.”

Isabelle scanned
The Times
at breakfast the next day, and, yep, it was crisply ironed, fresh from the butler. Thank God, Mrs. Somerville subscribed to a paper, unlike most of her female contemporaries. The paper’s format took some getting used to, with no large photos, and a lack of well-placed white space. Just tight columns of text divided by thick black borders. A small headline in the gossip section caught her eye. She choked on her tea.

“Anything wrong, Isabelle?” Ada set down her fork, brows furrowed.

Isabelle coughed, widened her eyes, and darted them from Ada to Mrs. Somerville and back. “No, just swallowed wrong.” She quickly read the article.

Mrs. Somerville wiped her mouth with her napkin. “Miss Rochon, I have a few items I would like you to procure today.”

“Certainly. What items?” Isabelle kept reading the article, her limbs growing heavy, her heart tightening.

“I have created a list. I shall say good day to you both and repair to my study, if you have need of me.” Mrs. Somerville slid a piece of paper across the table and left the room.

The door shut and Ada put down her knife and fork. “What is it? I am perched on pins and needles. Quickly, before the rest of the family comes down.”

“Look at this article.” Isabelle handed her the paper and pointed to the offending column. “Someone overheard our conversation last night at the ball and, unfortunately, the bit about the future.”

Ada gasped, her eyes huge. She gripped the paper.

Isabelle continued, “They refer to me only by my initials, but as I’m probably the only American cousin visiting a respectable member of the
ton
, everyone will know whom they are referring to.”

Ada turned ashen as she read the article, muttering the whole while.

Isabelle stood and threw her napkin on the table. “They pretty much say I should be locked up in Bedlam. They also managed to squeeze in the little fact Lord Montagu and I had been seen in each other’s arms.”

Ada continued to read, her finger moving down the column. “They say I am humoring you in your belief you are from the future.” She inhaled sharply. “They dare allude to my father? Oh, my. The nerve. ‘With her weak mind, and tenuous grasp on reality, it is obvious which side of the family this cousin hails from.’ Oh, I will, I will... Oh, I do not know what, but... Oh!” Ada slapped the paper down onto the table.

“My thoughts exactly. Even more worrisome is this.” She picked up the paper and read aloud:

And gentle readers, the device that transported her through time? A silver calling-card case! Which she has conveniently misplaced and searches for in earnest. Clearly, the young ladies have too fertile of an imagination, a fault, no doubt, of a liberal education and indulgence in the gothic novels too prevalent by half in today’s society.

“What are we to do?” Ada whispered.

Isabelle stared at the rim of her juice glass, her finger rubbing the edge. So, she was the latest victim of London’s vicious gossip. She snorted air from her nose and sat back down. So what. “Not much we can do.”

Ada twisted her napkin around her fingers, her forehead creased. She sighed. “I suppose you are correct. We have no recourse whatsoever. Only pray my mother does not see this. I know Mrs. Somerville will not. She cannot abide the gossip section and does not befriend those who do.”

They both stared sullenly at the paper. Isabelle bit her lip. “What will Lord Montagu say?”

Ada waved her hand. “I would not worry about him. He pays no mind to gossip, either. After all, he is usually on the receiving end of a rather pernicious variety. He is also too much of a gentleman and too intelligent to listen to gossip. To him it will sound ridiculous and unbelievable, and so he will dismiss it out of hand. He already knows part of it is not true, so he will easily discount the rest.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, that you and he were seen—” Isabelle must have blushed, because Ada finished with, “oh... well, never mind.”

“It was nothing, Ada. He was upstairs snooping again. I went looking for him and we were in danger of being caught, so we, uh, gave a plausible excuse for our presence upstairs, is all.” Ada might be confident of Lord Montagu’s dismissal, but Isabelle was not. “Ada, what am I going to do when we go out again?”

Ada drew her shoulders back. “You will pretend as though nothing happened. Sensible people shall pay it no heed, and the others shall have no fuel with which to keep the rumors aflame if you do not provide them with any.”

“I hope you’re right.” She’d have to wait to gauge Lord Montagu’s reaction until the afternoon when he came for his bandage change.