Must Love Breeches (26 page)

That was all that mattered. Behave like a gentleman.

Sitting beside her and not being able to touch her was driving him mad, though, he was sure. He had had a difficult time concentrating on the play. Her views and obvious intelligence did not help matters; it would have been much easier to ignore his desire if she were an empty-headed debutante.

He had been watching her closely, for the rumors circulating about her had reached him. He paid them no mind. What gossip mongers concocted no longer surprised him. From the future? Ridiculous. He regarded it in the only possible light: an attempt to discredit him, but what a peculiar choice. No need to weigh the merits of speaking of it to her, though. He would continue to monitor her reactions to ensure this latest scandal had no adverse effect upon her.

Several gentlemen stopped to converse, but Phineas broke away as soon as propriety allowed; it unsettled him to leave Miss Rochon alone, even for a short time.

Punch cups in hand, he strode down the hall. A familiar male voice drifted from his box. Tiny icicles crystallized his blood.

Sir Raphael.

Jaw clenched, Phineas swept inside. Aware others in the surrounding boxes watched, he kept his face and voice neutral. “Sir Raphael. What do you think you are doing here?”

Phineas dared not look at Miss Rochon, or his fragile calm would shatter.

Sir Raphael pivoted. He executed a slight and stiff bow. “Montagu.”

“I asked you a question, sir.”

“Nothing that concerns you.” He turned to Miss Rochon with an oily smile. “Right, my dear?”

The chill in Phineas’s veins instantly flared hot, his stomach churned. He looked at Miss Rochon. She appeared baffled and gave him a slight head shake.

Phineas’s unease lessened, replaced by the satisfaction of knowing he was able to communicate so easily with Miss Rochon. The searing anger remained. Obviously, Sir Raphael had hoped to inflame his jealousy and make a scene. Did the bastard wish to provoke a dawn appointment? The devil knew, Phineas would be only too happy to oblige.

“You will leave us now. This is a private box.
My
private box.”

Sir Raphael remained stationary for a long moment. Would a scene transpire after all? Sir Raphael needed to push him only a little more.

In the event, Sir Raphael appeared to think better of it and kissed Miss Rochon’s hand. Phineas’s lip curled.

Sir Raphael gave a curt “My Lord” and swept from the box.

Isabelle watched Sir Raphael leave. She itched to know the story between these two. Was it tied to his project? Lord Montagu’s jaw muscles worked, and she knew he’d been close to losing his control. A shiver went through her.

Sir Raphael’s visit had been strange. Wary at first because of Lord Montagu’s reaction at Lady Huxton’s ball, as well as Sir Raphael’s unnerving study of her at Babbage’s soiree, she had soon relaxed. He had kept the conversation to the weather, the play, and other safe topics, not once making any advance or broaching any kind of intimate talk. It was as if he had only marked time.

“Did he harm you?” Lord Montagu strode to her side and sat. He handed her a cup of punch and leaned toward her.

She took a small sip of the fruity drink. Warm, but refreshing. “Me? No.”

A new level of awareness, of understanding, hummed between them now, she could sense it. It made her feel warm inside.

“Did he act unseemly?” His eyes roamed from her lips, her neck, an ear, and then snapped back and held her gaze. His gloved hand flexed on his knee.

She stifled a smile and the warmth within coiled further. “No,” and she related the extent of their interaction.

He lapsed into a brooding silence and she sipped her punch. They’d been having a great night until Sir Raphael’s appearance. Maybe she could recapture their earlier rapport. “Tell me more about the Tate version.”

He cocked and bowed his head slightly. They discussed the changes, though she compared the play to the Shakespearean original, and Lord Montagu compared it to Tate’s.

“What worries me is the audience,” he said a short while later, his moodiness brought on by Sir Raphael’s visit now gone. “Breaking from Tate was attempted before, and the audience was not pleased. They seem sadly quiet tonight. If they are not swayed, the English stage will be doomed to play Tate’s version for another hundred and fifty years, I am afraid.”

But after the third act, the crowd visibly reacted. People down in the pit made participatory noises. It was like folks who talk to the screen during movies, giving advice and shouting encouragements. By the conclusion, it was clear Tate was on the outs. It ended with the usual body pile after a Shakespearean tragedy, and the crowd roared its approval. Isabelle had been riveted. It had changed it for her, to know this version had a chance for the characters to live, and so made their deaths more poignant.

Like after a really good movie, Isabelle was reluctant to move back into life’s regular chatter. So, she stayed in her seat and let the experience wash over and through her, nurturing the sensation like a new-born thing until it could be safely absorbed before anyone could pollute it.

Thankfully, Lord Montagu remained seated, too, and five minutes passed in friendly silence. Then Isabelle realized he wouldn’t stand to leave, since she hadn’t. Wow, something to be said for manners. But he also didn’t give the impression he was impatient to leave. Previous dates would have already stood and made her feel selfish for attempting to stay. She turned her head and his lowered, angling toward her, looking down at her.

He slowly smiled, and his mismatched eyes caught the low light and sparkled. “Did you enjoy it, Miss Rochon?”

Her stomach slipped. “I did, thank you.” She crushed Ada’s poor fan with her fingers.

“My pleasure.” He turned his body toward her, his knee brushing her leg. “Do you wish to remain for the farce?”

“The farce?”

“The next item of entertainment, I understand.”

Good Lord, they’d already been here for hours, and there was more? “I’d rather not, if that’s all right with you. I don’t want it to spoil what we just saw.”

Isabelle stood and he tucked her arm under his, ushering her out to London’s noisy streets. Yes, she decided, she liked this arm-tucking business. By the time the coach arrived and they were inside, she felt ready to talk about the play and its merits. They had a lively discussion on the way back to Mrs. Somerville’s.

When the carriage arrived, Lord Montagu hopped out and turned. His fingers lightly grasped, almost possessed, her own, and sent a cool tingle up her spine. Her predicament crashed back to the forefront of her mind.

She faltered at the top of the steps and looked at him. He gazed back at her, eyes dark and unreadable.

“Thank you, Lord Montagu, for a wonderful evening,” she managed to say. Amazingly, she also managed to get down the steps without tripping.

“Until tomorrow, Miss Rochon.” He bowed.

“Have you given any further consideration to my proposal to wed my son?”

Isabelle squirmed in her chair. Lady Montagu had called the next morning, taking Isabelle by surprise. They were alone in the drawing room. To be honest, she’d forgotten about his mother. How could she possibly answer this woman without upsetting or insulting her? “I have not had much time to consider it yet, my lady.”

“How much time could you require?”

“It is complicated.”

“How so?”

Wow. This woman was like a determined bulldog. Isabelle liked her attitude. If only her tenaciousness were directed elsewhere. “I cannot say right now, but there are circumstances outside my control that prevent me from considering it.”

Lady Montagu looked at her steadily, the delicate lines around her mouth becoming more pronounced. “Hmmm.”

“I assure you, my lady, as soon as things clear up, I will think about it.” What was she saying? She’d never have that chance. “However, you should know, it will likely end as prearranged, as there are circumstances...”

“Yes, yes, beyond your control. Miss Rochon, I do hope things ‘clear up’ for you. I take liberty to say that you have been good for my dear son. He has not been the same since his sister’s death.” She gazed off for a moment before focusing on Isabelle again. “He has shared with you this charade’s purpose, has he not?”

“Only that he has some project that consumes all his attention and energy, but nothing more. What
is
he up to?”

Lady Montagu studied her, lips pursed. “That cagey boy.” She shook her head. “I cannot divulge it if he has not, though it pains me. He is a good man, despite what the gossips say.”

“He
did
tell me he manufactured the Vicious Viscount persona.”

“Good to hear. When Miss Trowbridge cried off and his ‘project’ consumed his time and energy, I had despaired of him ever making a match. Especially with the reputation he fostered. I do wish to say, however, lately he has shown a spark I thought lost forever. I believe you are the genesis. He has even taken an interest again in his antique book collection.”

He collected antique books? Isabelle stifled a groan. Could he be any more perfect?

She took a deep breath, “I understand, Lady Montagu.” But what had she said? “Who is Miss Trowbridge?”

“I am sorry. She and my son had an understanding two years back, but she inexplicably broke the connection. That, of course, lent verisimilitude to his false reputation. Now, about the ball.”

“Lady Montagu―” She couldn’t possibly be expected to process all she’d heard in the space of a second.

“Leave it to me. I know. In truth, you might not be betrothed. However, I have given this some thought. We will not state the reason for the ball, and if it transpires you
are
engaged, we shall announce our intent to celebrate it that evening.”

“But―”

“I believe the last Saturday in May would suit. A little over a week away, but it can be managed.”

Isabelle felt as if she’d been hit square on the head with the Mallet of Inevitability.

Twenty minutes later, after handing the ball’s planning to Lady Montagu and answering many questions—her favorite color was green; no, she didn’t have any family to invite; yes, a small string orchestra would be lovely; no, she thought doves being released when they appeared would be a bit over the top; and much, much more—Isabelle saw Lady Montagu out and returned to the drawing room to recover.

She flopped onto the sofa, but it wasn’t as fun and satisfying when wearing a corset. Was she really getting caught up in Lady Montagu’s plans? She had to figure out how to return to her real life. But what could she do? Trusting Mr. Podbury felt like stepping off a ledge into thin air.

The heart ran o’er
With silent worship of the great of old!
The dead but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule
Our spirits from their urns.
Lord Byron,
Manfred

Phineas fingered the freshly printed leather octavo: “
Observations of the Red Man, Being a Full and True Account as Observed by an English Gentleman During His Travels
.” This would be perfect for Miss Rochon. He brought it to his nose and sniffed. She would also be able to judge how true and full the account truly was. He hoped this stirred up her indignation; he reveled in seeing her in such a state.