Must Love Breeches (3 page)

Phineas executed another turn on the floor and inwardly cursed his impulse to approach Miss Rochon for this dance. Earlier, her countenance and attitude while she watched her fellow participants had intrigued him. It was as if she were worlds away, yet utterly in the moment, and he felt an overwhelming desire to know, to understand fully, what occupied her thoughts. He was certain it was more than the latest gossip or mere cuts of gowns.

It had surprised him to note she was quite striking. Surprised, because he noticed it second—not first. He maneuvered her around the room and let his gaze sweep her pleasing form again. Her dark brown hair was arranged in loose curls upon her head. But the rounded, hooded Gallic eyes captivated him, whispered of secrets.

Despite an ill-fitting dress, her form was discernible—one that quickened his pulse. It was evident she had recently been to Paris, because the style of dress was
de rigueur
there, but had yet to cross the Channel. He knew, because his sisters had insisted he take careful note of the fashions when it had been his misfortune to journey to Paris a week ago on behalf of the Crown.

Earlier, when he observed Miss Rochon conversing with his cousin, he felt strangely relieved. Miss Byron was the only lady of his acquaintance at the ball who would deign to speak to him, let alone introduce him to a female friend.

After all, the
haut
ton
called him the
Vicious Viscount
.

Despite a French name seeming to confirm his initial assumption, when she opened her mouth, she proved to be a Colonial. Even more baffled—and drat it all, intrigued—he gritted his teeth. What brought an American to the Duke of Chelmsford’s ball of all places, in a style of dress only Parisians would know was all the rage? Her gloveless left hand on his shoulder was slightly shocking as well, though its warmth penetrated, seared into him, providing the focal point between them—an awareness he could not shake, and was not certain he wished to.

She was a puzzle, full of contradictions. To unravel her secrets... An unfamiliar sense of anticipation trickled through him. No. He expunged the feeling. She was not
his
puzzle.

Though that warm, bare hand. Those lively eyes.

The dance mercifully completed, Phineas led Miss Rochon to Cousin Ada’s side. She introduced Miss Rochon to Mrs. Somerville, Ada’s chaperone for the evening. Because the last dance was the supper waltz, he escorted all three to the supper room. Miss Rochon appeared ill at ease. She mumbled something about a ‘boss’.

He settled the ladies at a table and sought victuals for them. He rolled his right shoulder, the heat of her bare hand still a palpable weight. Reactions to his presence—the rude glares, the protective shuffling of eligible females out of his way by concerned matrons—were commonplace. He spared no notice, no anxiety. Annoying, yes, but he was inured to it. Indeed, he had cultivated the fear his name and presence engendered. It was a valuable commodity, a valuable blind for enacting his long-laid plans.

At the buffet table, Lord Edgerton looked straight in Phineas’s eyes and turned away with no acknowledgment. Question settled as to whether he was still part of that gentleman’s circle. He had not yet received Edgerton’s calling card after his recent marriage. Now, Edgerton’s ‘cut direct’ confirmed it—Phineas would no longer be receiving invitations to the homes in Edgerton’s circle.

Ironic, since the persona he cultivated had been calculated to infiltrate that very circle. If he did not wish for his investigation to cease, Phineas saw no alternative but marriage. Marriage would burnish his image, thus gaining the very invitations he needed.

Yes. The Vicious Viscount was a liability. His wealth and title were insufficient to secure a wife from London’s
ton.

Damnation
.

Phineas prepared plates of delectables, ensuring he had plenty of blanc-mange, Miss Byron’s favorite dessert. What did Miss Rochon prefer? He pictured her gloveless hand—her bare, gloveless hand—elsewhere on his person. Heat bloomed through him. Perhaps on his knee. His thigh. His—He gritted his teeth. Enough. He enlisted a footman to carry the plates to the table.

On his return, he espied a young lady he knew to be of remarkable intelligence, but of a shy nature. On a whim, he bowed.

Several people gasped. The young miss turned white.

Excellent.
Word would quickly spread, putting her in the orbit of the young blades of the
ton.
Surely, some worthy gentleman’s sense of protectiveness would be aroused, and he would take notice of her.

Perhaps his reputation still had
one
noble function.

The night
Hath been to me a more familiar face
Than that of man; and in her starry shade
Of dim and solitary loveliness
I learned the language of another world.
Lord Byron,
Manfred
, 1817

Feeling simultaneously bereft and relieved, Isabelle watched Lord Montagu stride away without another word. Weird, but Ada and her chaperone acted as if this were normal. Why hadn’t the organizers said there’d be a buffet dinner? And the period fanatics had taken over, just as Jocelyn had said. Unease settled in her stomach like a lump.

She shouldn’t have had that last drink. Not on an empty stomach. She glanced down. Aaand, she had only one glove on. She yanked it off and stuffed it in her purse. Probably a good thing she hadn’t run across her boss.

“I do not believe I have seen you yet this Season,” Ada said. “Judging by your accent, you are an American? Have you only lately arrived in London? Who is your escort to the ball? She must be positively anxious about you.”

“Oh, I came by myself, though two of my co-workers are around here, somewhere.” Isabelle craned her neck but saw no one familiar. She swallowed hard and turned back to Ada. “And to answer your other question, yes, I’m an American. Came over in December to work at the British Museum.”

Ada’s eyes grew rounder with each word. Isabelle intended to say more, but stopped. What was with her inability to communicate lately without disturbing folks? The tight lump of nameless tension in her belly grew heavier.

Ada’s mouth opened and closed several times. Her eyes fluctuated from shock and disbelief to growing admiration and curiosity. She turned to her chaperone—to gauge her reaction?—but her gaze snagged on the space over Isabelle’s shoulder. Without turning, she knew who it was, as if some kind of homing beacon had been planted in her when she touched Lord Hotpants and now her body hummed, sensing his approach. He came into visual range, and her heart pitty-patted faster. He held a large plate, mounded with food, in one hand, and an event staffer set empty plates and several glasses of lemonade on their table.

Jeez, they’re in costume, too?

With a practiced and oh-so-elegant flip of his coat tails, Lord Montagu sat beside her. His body dominated her left side, his scent and heat buffeting her. He didn’t seem inclined to talk, so Isabelle nibbled on the food set before her, half of which she had trouble identifying. A solid white substance appeared harmless, her pokes not turning up anything scary, so she sampled it. Nice, with an almond flavor that lay delicately on her tongue. She ate the rest, as well as the fruit on her plate, hoping to dilute the alcohol in her system. And maybe whatever this Lord Montagu attraction thing was. And maybe this uneasiness she didn’t want to explore too closely.

No one spoke at their end of the table, though all the other party goers filled the room with their laughing and animated conversation. The situation rapidly approached the Awkward Stage.

“Well, that was quite a storm earlier, wasn’t it? Luckily, my friend Jocelyn had a ginormous umbrella, or I would’ve looked like a drowned rat.” Her attempt at small talk garnered only a round of stares—so much for the vaunted weather conversational gambit. Lord Montagu now sported a scowl.

Alrighty, then.

She’d handled him and the whole situation wrong, she just knew it. He seemed to give off an I’m Interested vibe—whenever she glanced in his direction, she’d catch him looking away—but otherwise his body language screamed Not Interested. Well, as far as she could tell. She sucked at reading signals. And giving them, too. Did she really care about impressing him?

Erg
. She was over-analyzing again. She’d been enjoying the ball since meeting Ada and Lord Montagu, but keeping up with such pro reenactors—and obsessing over the hunky guy next to her—was becoming too much. She still didn’t feel well, either. She needed to leave. But, she didn’t feel like meeting Katy and her friends at The Mad Martini for a chilly glass of Pinot Grigio. No—she closed her eyes—a good cozying up in front of her library fireplace, with a smexy romance and a cup of hot chocolate.

Yes. Home, with time alone to recharge her batteries. She was done trying to fit in. The spell had been broken.

She searched the room. Where were her co-workers? She could use one as an excuse to leave these three, but she didn’t spot anyone she recognized. Well, no matter, she’d have to be abrupt. It wasn’t as if she’d ever run into them again.

She looked at the three in turn and plastered on a smile. “Wow.” She fanned her face with her hand. “Did the air-conditioning break down or something? I need some air.” She patted her lips with her napkin. “Well, been nice meeting you, but I think tonight’s worn me out.”

She tore her gaze from Lord Montagu’s. No, she could
not
be so forward as to give him her number. So what if he was drool-worthy, and a lord to boot. Unless the title was part of his reenactment persona, too; one never knew with these committed folks. Besides, he’d said nothing to her since the waltz.

Isabelle steeled herself and stood. Adorably, so did Lord Montagu. Blood pounding in her ears, she held out her hand first to Mrs. Somerville, then Ada, and finally to His Hunkiness. “Nice meeting you,” her voice, well-modulated at the start, ended on a slight crack. She winced.

He bowed over her hand, looking at her, forehead creased as if she’d announced she would perform the hokey pokey on the tabletop. Had she? Staring into his eyes, she wasn’t so sure. She shook her head and opened her mouth to say—what?
No. Resist
.

She turned on her heel and worked her way through the crowd to the cloakroom.
Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

Everything seemed so surreal, almost gauzy, after meeting him. Was it her imagination, or were there more candles lighting the room than she remembered seeing when she’d first arrived? But damn, it did feel as if the AC was busted. While May was still cool in London, the crush of bodies and all the candles made the room stuffy. Sweat trickled down her spine.

Several guys lurked in the main hall in animated conversation, and she could have sworn they referred to the British East India Company as if it were still around. She shook her head and muttered, “And I thought Civil War reenactors were bad.”

At the cloakroom, she dug out the claim ticket from her purse and handed it to the attendant. Unlike the person on duty when she’d arrived, this one was also dressed in period costume. The lump of uneasiness coiling in her stomach grew heavier.
Home
.

The attendant gazed at the ticket in her hand and then at her.

“Well?” Isabelle asked, more sharply than she would have liked.

“Well, miss?”

“My coat, please.” She moved her hand to indicate the ticket and put on her best everything’s-normal smile.

“Certainly, miss, but I am uncertain what you mean by gifting me with this scrap of paper.”

Isabelle sighed. British humor. Whatever. “I’d like my coat, please.”

The attendant shrugged and took the ticket, although with a slight hesitancy, as if the paper might come to life and bite him. He cleared his throat. “Your name, miss?”

“My name? What does—Oh, whatever. It’s Isabelle Rochon.” She tapped her foot, trying to picture the crackling fire in her library. And perhaps a glass of white wine, instead of the hot cocoa. And a piece of dark chocolate to go with her book. And Lord Drool-Worthy stretched beside her, reading a book by the fire. Aaaand, she seriously needed to get him off her brain. That had been a non-starter from the get-go.

Isabelle looked up. The attendant still stared at her. At her glare, he retreated into the cloakroom and returned after several minutes. “Sorry, we don’t ‘ave your coat, miss.”

“What do you mean? Did you use the ticket?” She couldn’t help but raise her voice.
White wine, dark chocolate.

The attendant frowned and glanced at the ticket clutched in his hand. He donned a polite and tolerant air and replied, “No, miss, I did not.”

Good Lord, seriously? Okay, two bars of dark chocolate.

The attendant’s gaze shifted to peer over Isabelle’s right shoulder. His eyes grew round, and a panicked look stole across his face.

“Is there a problem?” The deep, newly familiar, baritone voice came from behind, resonating within her.

Isabelle whipped around. Lord Montagu, Mrs. Somerville, and Ada stared at her, eyebrows raised.

Yes. You make my insides all squirmy.
And—her breath caught. “Oh, your eyes are two different colors! Did you know? Of course you did. I’ll shut up now.”