Must Love Breeches (27 page)

For the first time in years, he had stepped into this bookseller on Bond Street on the way to his club on St. James. On seeing all the books, he felt he greeted old friends, friends who had patiently awaited him. He inhaled deeply and savored the unique scent.

How had he strayed so far from his true self to the point of estrangement? Odd, he had never noticed its absence. Could he recapture his old pleasures, his old self?

Making up for lost time, lost moments, Phineas prowled the shelves and stalls, foregoing his normal visit to his club. The thrill of the hunt sizzled within.

So, that part of him had
not
died.

Phineas smiled and seized that feeling, indulged it, allowed it to grow.

He found a rare Francis Bacon folio tucked under some worthless ephemera and added it to his growing pile of folios and octavos. He consulted his pocket watch. Damn and blast. He had just enough time to journey to the Somervilles’ for his daily bandage change.

He pictured placing his gift in Miss Rochon’s hands, her expression of delight, perhaps a flush in her cheeks as she looked him in the eye and thanked him. His spirits elevated further. Perhaps he could prevail upon her for another excursion; the theatre outing had been so enjoyable that, far from being satiated, he felt driven to know more about her, more about her opinions, more of
her
. Throughout the day, he would observe something and catch himself wondering what
she
would think. Her forthrightness intrigued him. Perhaps it was her Colonial upbringing?

Being a newcomer to London, she might wish for a guide. Yes, to experience common sites through her intelligent eyes, learn her opinion of things he took for granted, that would be gratifying indeed. He could present his gift afterward.

However, he needed to remember that this new energy was all well and good, but it must not divert him from his project.
Stay focused and in control.

An hour later, Miss Rochon sat beside him in his curricle, heading to the British Museum. Every sway of the vehicle brushed her arm against him. He caught himself whistling and grimaced.

What plagued him? He had also whistled when he sprinted up the Somerville townhouse steps a half hour earlier and let the knocker drop onto the heavy door. Accustomed now to calling at four in the afternoon to have his arm ministered, it surprised him to discover he anticipated the visit, indeed, that he
looked forward to it.
Despite her odd behavior, or because of it, he felt comfortable in her presence and temporarily forgot his larger concerns. Concerns that were so routine, they were second nature and no longer caused his senses to spark like Miss Rochon made them spark now, enlivening him.

She appeared nervous, a trifle withdrawn, while she had changed his bandage, but he reasoned it was on account of their strained relations since that disastrous kiss. Hopefully, this outing would put her more at ease. At least she was not as withdrawn as she had been when they had first gone to the theatre.

After she tended to his wound, he had put forth his offer. Seemingly pleased with the prospect, she had requested they visit the British Museum.

Which was the cause of his bout of whistling?

Damnation. Act the gentleman.
He had survived last night at the theatre. Surely he could control himself in the middle of the afternoon at a museum, of all places.

“What was that?” she asked, interrupting his thoughts.

“What was what, Miss Rochon?” He switched his view from his matched grays to her laughing eyes.

Eyes which narrowed slightly, as she balanced herself on the curricle seat. “I thought I’d heard a noise coming from you. It sounded suspiciously like the start of a whistle.”

“Ahem, yes, well. I momentarily forgot myself.”

“I hope you didn’t stop for my sake. I enjoy a good whistle myself, from time to time,” and she proceeded to issue forth the worst excuse for a whistle he had ever heard, her delightful lips pursed.

Deciding a subject change was essential for his self-preservation, Phineas cleared his throat. “So, the British Museum? Have you not had an opportunity to visit its hallowed halls?”

“Of course I have... not. I... have been too busy socially to have a chance.” She paused, as if to gather her thoughts. “I’m dying to see its collections and how they’re displayed.”

As she neared the end of this little speech, she looked away.

Strange. He sometimes found her mannerisms and exclamations puzzling. Why did he feel as if she had caught herself and changed the direction of her initial words?

He cocked an eyebrow at her, though she faced away. He returned his attention to his horses and to the road before them. A quick glance behind confirmed he’d only imagined being followed. “I believe you will find its collections quite interesting. Is there anything in particular you wish to see?” he asked, desirous of hearing her talk.

Excitement lit her warm, brown eyes. “Oh, I’m not sure what’s there. I’d be interested in anything relating to the American South, or to the Colonial period.”

“Hmm, I should be rather surprised if there were anything of that nature at our museum, however I could be mistaken. It is famous for its antiquities collection—the Elgin marbles and the like. There might be items relating to the sav—” he caught himself in time, remembering her opinions on the subject, “—to the Indians. I believe a few visited Queen Elizabeth and presented her with gifts. We shall inquire as to what they may have.”

Her smile shot right through him. “That would be great, thank you.”

He took a deep breath and directed the horses onto Russell Street. He forced himself to remember that he was here as her guide. “Up ahead are the entrance gates to the museum.”

She stiffened beside him and breathed in sharply. He frowned, but continued with his tour. “Behind this building, the old gardens are now a construction site for the new museum Smirke is erecting.”

Their carriage wheels clattered over the courtyard stones. He threw the reins to a servant and assisted Miss Rochon from the curricle. As she placed her hand in his, another carriage passed; the same one he had noticed behind them earlier. A shadowed face peered from the interior, and he could not shake the feeling they
had
been followed.

“So, you said they’re building a new museum behind here?” Miss Rochon’s excited voice interrupted his speculations. He must be more vigilant. The carriage continued on its way, however, and did not stop.

He gave his full attention to Miss Rochon. “Yes, I have heard the present structure will be demolished soon to make room for the new museum’s South Wing.”

She seemed as interested with the building’s exterior as he’d expected her to be with the interior. She lingered and surveyed the whole façade.

Once inside, a guide conducted them through the ground floor library and up the main staircase, the specimens of unusual animals of the world looming above. Phineas wished to ask the guide about their collection. However, Miss Rochon seemed so completely absorbed with the building’s interior, the paintings by La Fosse on the ceilings, and the displays themselves, he felt he would be intruding if he interrupted. If she were enjoyably engaged, that was all that mattered. She flitted from one object to another. He dismissed the guide, smiled, and followed her every movement with his eyes.

“Wow, the way they’re displayed. This is just so weird.”

“Weird?” Phineas looked around. How could any of it be construed as ‘weird’? Some of the items, to be sure, but how they were
displayed
?

“It’s so old-fashioned. I saw a museum once outside of Atlanta, a local one, that had display tables and cases with the artifacts set up like this, with little cards all lined up, one next to another, but―”

A surge of patriotic fervor rose in his chest. How insulting could she be? “Old-fashioned? Atlanta?”

Miss Rochon whipped her head around and stared at him, color draining from her face. She appeared as if she had forgotten his presence until he spoke. Why did he feel as though he were back at Harrow, except this time he was being ignored and taunted simultaneously?

“Oh my gosh, I keep forgetting...”

“Forgetting what, Miss Rochon?”

“Nothing, sorry, I sometimes ramble. I just love museums and can get carried away.” She turned her back to him, engrossed with the artifacts before her. However, he could not suffer the statement to pass without comment.

“What is this business about old-fashioned? And what, pray tell, is Atlanta?”

“Oh, um, sorry, I didn’t mean to be offensive, though I know that’s how it appears. Did I say old-fashioned? I meant, how, well,
old
everything was, the items, you know. And, uh, Atlanta is a place I used to live.”

“In America?”

“Yes.”

“I have not heard of it.”

“I know.”

“You know?” Realizing he marched toward her, he slowed his pace and stopped a foot from her. “What the devil does that mean? You expect me to be ignorant of your country’s history and places? I find myself more and more insulted.”

“Oh God, I keep making it worse. I assure you, I didn’t mean that. I can’t explain... I, uh, oh wow, look at these Inuit artifacts. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a whalebone net in such good condition. This is so amazing.”

Phineas crossed his arms and cast his eyes upward. He wanted to continue questioning her, and glared at her, awaiting an opportunity.

Mumbling to herself, she ran from that case to another, pulling out a small notebook and scratching notes.

Phineas uncrossed his arms and stepped closer, his eyes consuming her every move: so unlike the regular crop of ladies of fashion who cultivated an air of ennui. They would never dare admit to, much less evince, enthusiasm of any kind.

She strode to another case and absentmindedly adjusted her spectacles. Thinking about how she differed from fashionable ladies made him realize why he found her spectacle-wearing so pleasing. No lady of fashion would dare it. Obviously, Miss Rochon possessed intelligence and a healthy disdain for frivolity.

“Look, they have a steersman’s cap from the western part of Georgia. Looks as if we found the right room.”

Phineas smiled. He hoped she had not observed the plaque at the entrance to the room which said, “Artificial Curiosities from Less Civilized Parts.” He walked to the room’s center and chuckled—within a glass frame sat one of the original copies of the Magna Carta.

Footsteps echoed behind him. Isabelle straightened. “Mr. Mendley, how nice to see you again.” A stooped, elderly gentleman approached, his hat squished in his hands. “Lord Montagu, may I introduce Mr. Mendley, a friend of Mr. Charles Babbage?”

They exchanged greetings and Phineas watched him with curiosity. He was obviously happy to see Miss Rochon, and they told Phineas of their evening at Babbage’s. Her eyes lit as she talked about what she’d seen and meeting ‘the great man himself.’

“Will you be attending the Hollinsworth rout tonight, Miss Rochon?”

“No, Miss Byron and I will be attending a lecture tonight.”

“So will I. Perhaps I’ll see you at Babbage’s soiree Saturday? I heard an astronomer will be setting up a telescope on the lawn.”

Eventually, Mr. Mendley shuffled off. Phineas had been correct earlier; it did prove enlightening to see familiar items through another’s eyes, especially if he found that someone compelling. As he observed her, her face flushed with excitement, the last time he had seen her face flush rose unbidden to mind: on the floor in the Crosley townhouse bedroom. When she lay pinned beneath him.

He grew instantly hard.

Devil take it, he was
not
an animal!

Miss Rochon grabbed his arm, pulled him to an upright case, and pointed to an object nestled in its dark recesses. Though difficult to discern in the poor light, it was clearly a weapon of some kind, and clearly had her near to swooning.

“Lord Montagu, look at this blow gun. The card says it’s a ‘pacuna’, used to blow the poisoned darts from that case over there. Why don’t they display them together? Look at the detail on the side. ‘From the Indians of Marañon’. Hmm, wonder where that is. South America, maybe? And a bow from the banks of the Ucayall... Everything in this room is all jumbled together from places all over the world—Alaska, Africa, New Zealand...”

Runnymede...

She finished talking, her hand remaining on his upper arm. She looked at him, obviously waiting for his reaction. Her passion for these items lit her eyes.

The claws of instinct and desire gripped him. Her passion for history: he had to drink it, transmute it into another kind of passion. He framed her face with his hands, pushed her back into the recess between the two cases, and captured her silken mouth with his own.

The suddenness of the kiss stunned Isabelle. His strong hands, cradling her face firmly. His body, pinning her to the wall.

Whoa.

Probably the sexiest thing anyone had ever done to her. So manly. But she didn’t have time to analyze it, oh no. Right now, it was all she could do not to let her knees buckle as his mouth moved on hers and sent delicious shivers up and down her whole body.