Must Love Breeches (28 page)

She opened her mouth to him. His tongue hungrily plunged in and claimed her, made her his. At least, that was how it felt to her: possessive, primitive, and damn good. In desperation, she twined her arms around his back to steady herself.

A groan issued from deep within him and he pressed his body more firmly against her, his arousal hard against her lower stomach. She had caused this reaction? Hoo.

A hand left her cheek and slowly caressed her neck, each finger leaving individual trails of fire. She couldn’t help it—her neck was sensitive—and a little moan escaped her. Waves of delight chased up her spine and she arched her back. His lips abruptly left hers and traced a steamy path across her chin and down her neck, while his hand brushed across her shoulder and ever so slowly came to rest on her breast. She sucked in a deep breath and rested her head against the wall.

She should stop him, they were in a public place, after all. Though deserted. Still. But, wow, his lips... Now they suckled the soft skin of her ear lobe, and the puffs of air from his nose tickled her ear and shot warmth through her. She shuddered. He stroked her breast, and she held him tighter. How in the heck was she still able to stand?

Abruptly, he tore himself away and stood several inches from her, breathing heavily, one hand on her shoulder, another pawing his hair. He closed his eyes and took more deep breaths.

Isabelle breathed heavily, too. Wow, had they been making out in the British Museum? The thought turned her on even more. With shaking hands, she smoothed her skirts, trying to calm herself, and trying to think straight. He certainly knew how to mess with her senses, that was for sure. What were they going to do now?

She’d been telling herself he didn’t feel the same attraction, that the kiss at the Crosley’s had been only a cover. But clearly his reaction now screamed otherwise. Someone of his demeanor and control, to suddenly toss that aside and kiss her so passionately, so spontaneously? In a public place?

Lord Montagu straightened. “Forgive me, Miss Rochon. I have behaved abominably. Shall we depart?”

Shall we depart? Gah!

That night, Isabelle scanned the lecture room. Now, if she and Ada could escape without Mr. Podbury seeing them. His talk on aether and space-time had been an hour of tediously obscure mumblings and declarations. Besides, the lecture competed with her daydreaming about Lord Montagu, replaying the sexy kiss in the museum earlier that day. That had been, without a doubt, hot. H-A-W-T.

Ada and Isabelle made their way quietly down the aisle. Just two more steps...

A large man stepped in front of her.

“Sir Raphael!” Isabelle stepped back, bumping into Ada.

He bowed. “Miss Rochon. Miss Byron. Imagine coming upon you here? I know Miss Byron has an interest in the sciences, but I had no concept you did as well, Miss Rochon?”

“We were just leaving,” Isabelle said.

“I shall not delay you. I wish only to pay my respects and relate that I enjoyed our
tête-à-tête
at the theatre.”

Isabelle hooked her arm in Ada’s and made to move around him.

He blocked her. “It strikes me as odd. Your betrothal to Montagu.”

“I do not see how it is any business of yours.”

“Still. It intrigues me. From our conversation last night, you are obviously an intelligent and sensible girl, and it makes me wonder why you are saddling yourself with a man of his reputation.”

What an ass.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about. His reputation is not—” She closed her lips, incensed he’d riled her.

“Is not what, Miss Rochon?”

“Is not your business. Good evening, sir.”

His eyes narrowed and his forehead creased, but he stepped to the side with a bow.

Whew.
She placed her hand on the door latch.

“Oh, Miss Byron, Miss Rochon, you came.” Mr. Podbury hurried to them and looked at Isabelle longer than she liked. Drat.

Please don’t ask us how we liked it.

“What did you think of my lecture? It is so difficult to distill into a single talk all the variants of a subject, one despairs whether one made any sense at all.”

“We enjoyed it tremendously,” Ada replied.

Mr. Podbury beamed, his cheeks pushing his glasses up a fraction. “Oh, I say, well then. Excellent. Good to hear, good to hear.” He rocked on his heels and looked at them both expectantly.

“Yes, very enlightening,” Isabelle added.

Mr. Podbury stopped rocking and faced her, his hands twisting. “Miss Rochon, I shall tell you I am not fooled by the taradiddle you fobbed off on me yesterday. I am quite determined to know the truth. You cannot know what this means to me.” He looked at the other lecture attendees milling around. He pulled Isabelle to the side.

“You cannot fool me. I know you have traveled back in time. Meeting you has given new breath to my investigations. You are my muse! To know it is possible... You can have no idea.” He stared off for a while, his eyes glazed and distant. They came back into focus and he pushed his glasses up his nose. “I have made several more breakthroughs since I saw you last.”

“Erm, Mr. Podbury―”

“No, I know you will not discuss it. You do not trust me, that is obvious, and to be expected. However, I hope to earn that trust in time. You are unconvinced, as yet, that I have the ability. In short, I would like to propose that you allow me to conduct some tests on you. If I am able to do so, it will help my research exponentially.”

“In what ways?”

“So you admit? You are willing?”

“I am admitting no such thing. You have me intrigued, is all.” Isabelle shot Ada a pleading look, but she was talking to elderly Mr. Mendley.
So, they’d been attending the same lecture.

“Hmm, yes, well, I feel confident that if I am able to conduct these tests, I might fine-tune my calculations.”

“That is all?”

“That is all?” he sputtered, his voice rising. He lowered it. “You do not comprehend. My calculations comprise the formula for harnessing the power of aether and its interactions with stringy holes in space. In short, the ability to travel forward or backward in time.”

Isabelle’s breath caught. Worm holes? Could this eager man be on the verge of such a discovery? Could she risk dismissing perhaps her only chance to return?

He looked around the room again, his gaze darting, almost feverish. “The gentleman who visited after you believes. He was most intrigued.”

Isabelle nodded along. Should she trust this man?

“He inquired after you. Saw a report in some paper.”

Isabelle’s breath hitched.
Wait, what?
“You didn’t tell him anything, did you?” She tried to picture the visitor, but no distinguishing features stood out—he’d just
been
there, taking up space.

His eyes narrowed and he pulled his shoulders back. His gaze darted to the side briefly. “Of course not.”

Well, that decided it. No way could she risk giving this funny man any power over her. Too dangerous. She’d been lucky Ada believed her.

May 20

Katy—

...I managed to give some excuse the first time I met him, but what if Mr. Podbury
can
help me? We went to his lecture tonight and he approached me—said he was close to a solution and mentioned a phenomenon that sounded like wormhole theory. Thing is, I feel it’s too risky to trust him. What should I do? I need to get back and so far have drawn a big fat zero in recovering the card case. I mean, what other methods are there for finding a stolen item than what we’re already doing? I now wish I’d read more mystery novels, LOL.

To complicate matters, things have progressed with Lord Montagu—he pushed me back against a wall in the British Museum to kiss me! He makes me feel...

...today, he gave me a present—a newly printed book on Native Americans. How sweet is that?

But midst the crowd, the hurry, the shock of men,
To hear, to see, to feel and to possess,
And roam alone, the world’s tired denizen,
With none who bless us, none whom we can bless;
Minions of splendour shrinking from distress!
None that, with kindred consciousness endued,
If we were not, would seem to smile the less
Of all the flattered, followed, sought and sued;
This is to be alone; this, this is solitude!
Lord Byron,
Solitude

The next morning, Isabelle lay in her bed, her bones like spaghetti. No energy. Things were too out of control. It was hard in this lifestyle to find time to herself. She was seriously overdue for that session by the fire in her home in Guildford: book, Pinot Grigio, and dark chocolate.

Was she really stuck in 1834? Things had settled into a routine, the novelty had faded, and reality had made itself known. It was as if she were in a dream from which she would wake, one day, but, with the even stranger feeling that this was her reality now.

Like she’d always been here.

She needed time alone to get her mind straight, and Lord Montagu was unwittingly doing his best to keep it muddled. She’d let her attraction for him go too far. When had he crept under her skin? It was the slow courtship that’d done it—her romance radar seemed more attuned to this era’s pace. In her own time, things moved so quickly that by the time she figured out her own feelings, the guy had already given up and placed her in the friend zone.

But, how did she think this was going to end? She couldn’t
stay
here.

Ugh. Her sense of self was slipping again. She needed to rebuild her defenses.

Writing to Katy helped her stay centered, kept her from disintegrating. Somewhat. Problem was, it was one-sided. She craved the familiar, to have its solid presence speak to her in a way Katy could not—allow her the peace and space to
think
.

What was familiar, though?

She fumbled for her glasses. Her longing for the fire, book, and dark chocolate in her home sparked an idea: to seek her house, the one she owned in her own time, walk its grounds and find peace. Perhaps she could ask the current owner for a tour. They sometimes allowed that in the old country houses, even in this time. Maybe she’d be allowed to sit in the garden.

What would it look like in its prime? She’d pictured it as just the size of a country gentleman’s manor, like Mr. Bennet’s. Large by American standards—after all, she’d had to use all of her inheritance as down payment—but typical for a respectable member of the English gentry.

Her house called to her like a beacon of sanity, and the more she thought about it, the more it became essential she go there. And thanks to her fake betrothal to Lord Montagu, she had plenty of spending money to get there and back. And Mrs. Somerville had given her the weekend off.

Isabelle threw back her covers. The trip might take a while, so she didn’t want to lose any time. Ada had plans to attend a lecture on mathematics and make social calls, so Isabelle was able to slip away when Ada left.

Isabelle wrote a quick note, left it on Ada’s dresser, saying she’d decided to make a day trip to Guildford, not to worry, she was used to being on her own, and walked to where she knew post-chaises could be hired.

Smiling, Isabelle paid the driver and hopped into the chaise. She opened
Persuasion
and settled in for a nice stretch of reading—just what she needed to distance her mind from her present troubles, relax it, and be fertile enough to think. When the pace of the horses picked up at London’s outskirts, the carriage jounced and swayed a lot more—good thing she wasn’t prone to motion sickness.