Must Love Breeches (32 page)

Oh, God! it is a fearful thing
To see the human soul take wing
In any shape, in any mood.
Lord Byron,
The Prisoner of Chillon
, 1816

Shreds of sleep fell away as Phineas drifted awake, leaving him with an overwhelming sense of contentment, of rightness. He smiled with the memory of their recent love making. He’d been appalled to discover his lack of control—he’d made love to her in his breeches—and while he couldn’t erase that telling symptom, he attempted to by removing them and making love to her again, slowly.

Of course, he would secure a special license without delay. He had planned to marry someday, but now the prospect did not seem so ghastly and bleak. To spend his life with someone like Isabelle... He grew aroused just contemplating the concept, the way she had so passionately responded to him. Yet the physical passion was only part of the attraction: her passion for her friends, for history, for learning, for life had ensnared him, awakened him.

The scent and warmth of their recent passion still surrounded him; he reached out to pull her close, to nuzzle his face in her hair and neck, his erection stirring. His hand felt nothing.

He bolted upright, now fully awakened. The storm outside had ceased, but evening’s gloom shrouded the room. In the dim light, she emerged from behind the dressing screen, wearing only her shift.

He smiled, his whole body aglow at the sight of her. A hot thread of unease whipped through him, however, when it became evident she avoided his gaze.

“We need to talk,” she mumbled.

She pulled a chair closer to the bed and sat. She drew her legs up inside the shift and wrapped her arms tight around them, resting her chin on her knees. She finally looked at him, and her eyes were bleak.

His heart hammered in his chest, this time with panic rather than passion. He struggled to appear calm, but lying prone, naked, made this difficult. He felt as if more than his body were exposed, vulnerable. Whereas, in contrast, she had retreated, her body wrapped tightly around itself, protecting, shielding, closed to him. What was amiss? Certainly, not the reaction he had anticipated.

If the talk was as serious as she conveyed with her manner, he desired a more even footing. “Indeed. Do you mind if I dress first? I shall instruct Cook to send refreshments to the drawing room. Shall we meet there in twenty minutes?”

Her feverish gaze held his. “Sure, okay.”

She did not move from her position. He had no recourse but to stand and pull the sheet around him.

She blushed. “Oh, sorry. I’ll give you a moment.” She disappeared behind the screen.

Donning his clothes with all due haste, he exited and headed for his suite. What in the devil plagued her? He could swear an oath he had not forced her. What transpired was of her own wishes as well as his, of that he was certain. He had
made
certain. He had been a little surprised only at her experience—she had not been a virgin—but he had no cause to judge her.

Really, she was in her late twenties, if he guessed correctly. Polite Society would deem her as firmly on the shelf. If she had discreetly taken a lover in the recent past, who could blame her? Perhaps social customs differed in America. Or, perhaps she had been a victim of a seducer, like his sister. It might explain her unmarried state. Could this be her secret? For a secret she definitely possessed.

His own experience with his beloved sister’s seduction had caused him to be more liberal than others of his set on such matters. He viewed the common outlook as the height of hypocrisy.

Whatever was the case with Miss Rochon—with Isabelle—whatever she had to discuss with him, he was resolved to be open-minded and understanding.

“You are telling me you are from the future? Are you mad?” Phineas practically shouted. Of all the hare-brained notions he had ever heard, this crowned the whole. Was she so desperate to protect her secret, or, worse, to push him away?

Isabelle’s face tightened, eyes flashing. “You promised to be open-minded.”

“Open-minded to reality, yes!” And this time he did shout.

“Oh my God, I should have known better.” She stormed to the window and glared at the moon-washed landscape.

Her shoulders shook and he very much feared she might be crying. At the very least, his lack of forbearance had upset her. Guilt lashed him—for her sake, he must calm himself.

They had met in the drawing room as planned and in silence ate some of the repast Cook prepared. He felt he should let her broach the topic that had her so concerned, and waited patiently.

Telling him she had something to confide in him, something he would have a hard time crediting, she had extracted a promise from him to be open to what she was to reveal. He had agreed without hesitation.

And now he had broken his promise.

He went to her and put his arms around her from behind, holding her. She stiffened. “I am sorry, Isabelle.” He pressed his head against hers and spoke in her ear. “Can we begin anew? I wish for you to start from the beginning and explain your trouble, help me to understand.”

She turned in his arms, looked at him, and sniffed. “I’m not sure I can trust you.” Her voice wavered. “I made a big mistake sleeping with you, I just felt so lost, and I...”

He deserved that, he supposed, since he had interrupted her with his ill-advised and ill-mannered outburst. However, hearing her speak of their time together as a mistake did not sit well. He did not view it as such. Quite the opposite.

“My dear, I promise to listen fully this time.” He took a deep breath and held her tighter, tucking a stray hair behind her ear, his fingers tracing the delicate shell. “If it helps, know that I grew up with four sisters, and have an idea of some of the trials ladies face.” He clenched his jaw, thinking about what Letitia had borne. “Trust me. Whatever situation you found yourself in, in the past, or still find yourself in now, I understand. I will not blame you. I promise.”

She pulled away. “Blame me? You won’t
blame
me? For
what
? You think I’m ashamed of something and don’t want to talk about it?” She crossed her arms below her chest. “What the hell are you imagining?”

He stepped toward her. “You are not listening, Isabelle. I am telling you that you need not be ashamed.”

“Of what?” She flung her arms into the air. “You seem to already know what I’m going to tell you. Care to enlighten me, because I’m at a loss. Truly.”

Phineas took a deep breath and let it out, running a hand through his hair. She was going to make him say it. He cleared his throat. “Isabelle, it,
ahem
, it did not escape my notice that I was not,
ahem
, your first.”

She frowned at him. “Huh? My first
what
?”

He pivoted and paced to the other side of the room. She could be so exasperating at times. He supposed it was her American upbringing. He turned back, determined to see this through.

He gentled his voice. “I want you to know I fully understand. Someone of your years, a spinster, to discreetly take on a lover, I think it is understandable. I know many gentlemen who would not, but I believe they are hypocrites.”

Her face turned a charming shade of red. “Oh. My. God. This is about the fact I’ve had
sex
before? You think I have some big secret about that and was ashamed to tell you? And where do you get off calling me a spinster, for God’s sake? I’m only twenty-nine!”

Now he was truly perplexed. “Well, yes.”

To his surprise, she sat quite abruptly in a nearby armchair and laughed hysterically. So hard, he wondered if she was not crying.

“Oh, this is rich,” she said between gasps, a giggle escaping.

So, she was laughing. He supposed that was better than crying, but devil take it if he could comprehend what she found so amusing.

“Oh God, I keep forgetting how you guys
were.
At least you guys aren’t as bad as Victorian men will get.”

“Victorian?”

This sent her into further fits of laughter.

“Miss Rochon, I do not understand what you mean. You make no sense.”

At hearing herself addressed formally, she paused and hiccupped. “I know, to you I make no sense. And to me, you make no sense. So, you see, this is why it was such a big mistake to get more involved with you. Because it can’t work.”

And to his great distress, she burst into tears.

He bounded across the room and knelt before her chair, gathering her in his arms. She stiffened at first, but leaned down and wrapped her arms around his neck and cried against his shoulder. He cradled her until she regained control. What
else
could he do?

Her tears eventually subsided. She straightened and dried her face with the handkerchief he handed her. He stood and poured her a glass of sherry, which she sipped, obviously endeavoring to regain her composure.

She sniffed, and said, “Thank you. Will you, uh... oh man, this is hard, but, will you promise me you will sit over there and listen to me, really listen to me?”

He nodded, “I promise, Isabelle.” And damn, he would. She deserved it of him. He had behaved abominably by not fulfilling his promise of earlier.

After he took his seat, she drew a deep breath and looked him in the eyes. “I was born in the year nineteen hundred and...”

He would not say anything. He would not.

Who hath not proved how feebly words essay
To fix one spark of beauty’s heavenly ray?
Lord Byron,
The Bride of Abydos,
Canto I

Three hours later, Isabelle felt as if she’d been extruded through a straw and left to quiver in the open air before the fire. They were on the rug by the hearth, and Lord Montagu sat very still, very quiet, and very subdued. It had taken a while to explain, but eventually, gradually, he started to, if not quite believe, at least seem to give her the benefit of the doubt. That small concession allowed her to think of examples and lines of reasoning to further her case.

But now he stared. In complete silence. No protests, no questions, just... silence.

Would he cart her off to Bedlam? She had no more arguments to make. She stared back at him, willing him to understand, to believe. If he didn’t... Her breath hitched.

His eyes tracked to her nose, to her lips, to the rest of her. She shifted under his silent, penetrating gaze, a shiver going through her. His eyes returned to hers, and an element of wonder flickered within. Was it possible? Did he believe her? A bubble of hope peeked out from where it had taken cover in her heart.

“I am, I-I am at a loss for words.” His roughened voice cut through the space between them. “I-I believe you,” the last stated as if caught by surprise. “Difficult as it is to believe, to explain, I believe you.” He took her hands in his, warm and comforting. Accepting.

A lightness swept through her. She went limp. Multiple emotions crowded her, clogging her throat. She swallowed hard and blinked several times. He believed.

“Now, things I found puzzling about you make sense,” he continued. “It is as if—as if the world shifted slightly, and those puzzling things about you I found so mysterious, suddenly fell into place and became clear.” He looked her up and down again, eyes wide.

Isabelle cleared her throat. “Now you understand my predicament. I need to return to my own time. I don’t belong here. This isn’t—it isn’t my reality.” She flinched at her words; surely they hurt him.

Pain flared in his eyes. Pain she had caused.

“Please understand, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I care about you. A lot. But, oh God. It’s... it’s not meant to be. We’re from different times.” A ragged sigh escaped her. How could she make him understand? “Things you take for granted are seriously out of date for me.”

His eyes shuttered, an emotional barrier erected. Oh, man. Now she had really hurt him. She held on to his retreating hands, gripping them harder.

“In other words, Miss Rochon, I am out of date. I am not modern, in your sense of the word.” He chuckled. “This is humbling, indeed. I always considered myself a forward thinker. And now to hear I—I am not forward thinking
enough.
That times have changed so significantly I have been left behind?”