Must Love Breeches (40 page)

A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes looked loved to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage bell.
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!
Lord Byron,
Childe Harolde

Phineas stiffened in his armchair at White’s. It could not be the same voice. Surely, he was in error.

He had been sitting for an hour pondering the state of affairs in relation to his pursuit of revenge, as well as to Isabelle, when a conversation behind had caught his attention.

Another voice murmured in reply.

“I said, all is in hand, Chesterton. Good day to you, sir,” said the first voice. Phineas allowed himself a slow smile. It
was
the same voice.

His nerves tingled and came to attention, and he listened closely to the retreating footsteps. Satisfied both gentlemen had exited the establishment, he sprang from his seat and hastened to the entrance. The porter handed him his hat and gloves.

Phineas stepped outside and clapped on his beaver hat. A pair of legs disappeared into a hired hack and the solitary figure of Lord Chesterton retreated down the street. Returning his gaze to the hack, Phineas hailed another and yanked on his gloves. It would not do to follow in his recognizable town carriage.

“Follow that hack. Be discreet about it.” Phineas settled against the squabs inside the carriage and imagined the forthcoming confrontation and subsequent delivery of the case to Isabelle.

What am I doing?

Phineas lurched upward to tell the hack driver to desist. If he stopped this pursuit, Isabelle would be forced to stay. To become his wife.

He sat back down. He dealt the seat a solid blow with his fist. He could never live with himself if he did not do everything in his power to aid her. He must be certain in his mind that she was truly his, not his by default. Knowing a chance existed for her to leave, and she might prefer taking it, would gnaw at him.

His stomach churned like an untried youth at his first game of hazard. He had botched the proposal, of that he felt certain. Ladies appreciated an exhibition of finer feelings. He had incorrectly assumed a practical, intelligent lady from the future would respond to a rational approach. Stupid man.

Twenty minutes later, the hack rumbled to a halt. Phineas opened the trap door to confer with the driver.

“That be it directly ahead, m’lord, at the corner. I parked so’s you could look out your window sly-like, if that’s what you were wantin’. No one’s come out yet, though.”

“Good man, wait here, and if no one emerges before it leaves, follow it again.”

“Aye, m’lord.”

Phineas shut the door and shifted to the window. Just then, the bent shape of an elderly gentleman exited the carriage. Something about his build and gait tugged at his memory.

What the devil?
It was Mr. Mendley, walking into a tobacconist’s shop.

“Damnation!” He pushed open the trap door with a bang. “Are you certain that is the same carriage I directed you to follow?”

The driver jumped in his seat. “It did get a mite jumbled back at the bridge. I had to fall back to keep from being noticed, and some others came in between, but I thought I’d picked up the right one.”

Phineas’s nerve endings pulsed and sizzled out. He pounded his thigh with a fist. So close. He sat back on the seat to regain his composure. He took a deep breath and focused.

Devil take it, nothing to be done about it now. “Take me back to White’s.” He would question the porter, learn what he knew of the gentleman.

However, once back, he discovered his quarry had come inside as Lord Chesterton’s guest, and the porter had never seen him before.

“Was it a Mr. Mendley?”

“I know not, my lord.”

“Elderly gentleman? Still wearing a periwig?”

“No, my lord.”

Phineas muttered a few choice oaths under his breath. The man was like the London fog.

Swirling about the dance floor in Lord Montagu’s strong and capable arms, Isabelle allowed herself to believe and hope. Believe and hope she’d made the right decision earlier that day. When she’d told him she’d be honored to become his wife, his eyes had turned intense, holding her own. He’d raised her hand and brushed a light but sensuous kiss on her gloved knuckles. She’d been a little surprised and disappointed he’d not kissed her for real, but she told herself he was being a proper gentleman. And it had been romantic.

She’d assured him it was purely for safety and convenience, since that was how he’d presented his proposal. She’d also told herself that, to make it easier. She hadn’t revealed to him or Ada the full extent of her feelings, because she needed to protect the embryo of feeling. In the past, it always seemed that when she did expose her feelings for a guy, either to her girlfriends or to the man himself, the relationship fell apart, the cosmos’s ha-ha-gotcha.

In a way, having the case taken away again had simplified everything. She’d worried that she’d affect the timeline if she remained, but with the choice taken away, surely fate was telling her it was okay to stay. She looked into his eyes and her heart gave a short stutter. A flood of giddy bubbles fizzed and popped through her like champagne. She soaked in the moment, in the feel of his presence, in the here and now, at the Metcalfe Ball.

“Penny for your thoughts, Isabelle,” Lord Montagu murmured in her ear. He turned her expertly on the dance floor.

She shivered from his breath’s light caress. “Oh, nothing.”

“Nothing?” His eyes sparked with humor.

“I’m just happy, that’s all.”

“I am gladdened to hear it, in light of the happenings earlier this afternoon.”

The happy bubbles now tickled her stomach. The waltz ended, and he escorted her to the lemonade table. He handed her a glass and they joined Ada, who had also finished dancing with her partner.

“I see Lord Edgerton has arrived. Will you dance with me? If I join the line now, I would be in a perfect position to eavesdrop.”

Isabelle smiled, but her stomach became uneasy. Lord Montagu was determined to find her case, and she wasn’t sure how to interpret that. Plus, she didn’t know this dance. Wouldn’t she draw more attention to them with her bumbling? She said as much, but he dismissed her concerns.

“I shall have to ask someone else, but you worry too much.” He kissed her hand and held her gaze. “We shall practice later.”

A gentleman engaged Ada for the next set. Feeling a little exposed, and wanting to avoid participating in a country dance she didn’t know, Isabelle strolled to a small alcove hidden from the rest of the room by a large potted palm.

So nice to have a moment to herself. She sipped her lemonade and pushed aside the disturbing thought of Lord Montagu’s search for her case and focused on future plans. She’d told him about the situation with Lady Byron and Mrs. Somerville, so they’d agreed to marry by special license on Saturday morning, the day of Lady Montagu’s ball—it would now be a wedding ball. So much to do. She should call on Lady Montagu and throw herself at her mercy; she had no idea how a wedding was done properly in 1834, even one by special license.

At first, she tuned out the voices of two ladies on the palm’s other side, but when she caught her own name and Lord Montagu’s, she straightened and slowly inhaled.

“To be sure, that is Miss Trowbridge he is dancing with. Such a lovely girl. What he sees in that Colonial, I know not. She must be an heiress to have him ensnared.”

Isabelle’s thoughts plumed as if someone had poked a bee hive. They couldn’t be talking about Lord Montagu.

“It breaks my heart, looking at them dance. Miss Trowbridge was all but promised to him, you know.”

A small gasp, “I knew she had a
tendre
for him two Seasons ago, but I had no idea.”

“Her older brother and Lord Montagu were fast friends at Harrow and Oxford. They traveled together overseas, too. The brother died of a fever in Italy, though. Apparently, Mr. Trowbridge asked Lord Montagu to look after her right before he died.”

“Oh, how tragic!”

“Indeed, my dear. However, what does he do when he comes back? He becomes a rake of the first order.”

Whatever. Isabelle knew the full story and was confident he didn’t still have feelings for the woman.

“Well, I am certainly glad Miss Trowbridge returned this Season after missing the last. Too bad it was not before Lord M got himself entangled. I never did believe those vicious rumors. He cannot jilt the Colonial, so he is most definitely stuck. Miss Trowbridge would have made a much better wife. Miss Rochon will be an embarrassment for him.”

Isabelle’s insides withered. What had she been thinking? Lord Montagu was just the sort of guy to marry someone out of a sense of misplaced chivalry. Could that be why he was still pursuing her case? As an out? Images flashed in her mind: one of the coolest guys in high school saying that yes, he’d go with her to the Sadie Hawkins dance—a teammate on the volleyball team, her mouth agape. “Scott said ‘Yes’? To you?”—walking proud across the quad amongst the bursting spring flowers—then, whispers reaching her ears that he’d rather go with Tiffany. She’d approached him the next day on the quad’s emerald grass, legs shaking, and calmly told him he was off the hook.

Trying to shake off these old feelings, she took calming breaths. When finally alone with Lord Montagu, she would act with dignity and strength.

My heart is feminine, nor can forget—
To all, except one image, madly blind;
So shakes the needle, and so stands the pole,
As vibrates my fond heart to my fix’d soul.
Lord Byron,
Don Juan
, Canto I

Isabelle spewed lemonade all over Lord Montagu’s immaculate evening kit. Granted, it wasn’t on purpose, but still, not the dignified approach she was aiming for. She’d been taken by surprise by his response, is all.

“Oh, my God, I’m so sorry.” She rushed forward and wiped ineffectually at his jacket with her gloved hand, spreading the juice further.

Lord Montagu grabbed her wrist. “Leave it.”

Wait, she was mad at him. She yanked her wrist from his grasp and stepped back, lifting her chin for that dignified look. Better late than never, right? “What did you say? I want to make sure I have it right.”

Slowly and deliberately, Lord Montagu replied, “I said I have no intention whatsoever of releasing you from our engagement.”

“Are you serious? Don’t you want out of it?”

“When have I given you that impression? In what possible manner?”

Isabelle took a tremulous breath, her legs shaking. “Perhaps this isn’t the time to talk about it. Can we leave?”

“Assuredly.” Lord Montagu clasped her arm and tucked it under his.

Ten minutes later, they finished their goodbyes. Lord Montagu helped her into his carriage and stepped in behind her, his large frame dominating the space.

“Do you mind telling me what this is all about, Isabelle?”

She glared out the window. Usually she got entangled in a situation without appreciating all the facets and only later realized how she should have reacted. Regrets sucked, especially ones involving relationships. The short time that had elapsed since their scene at the ball had given her time to reflect.

She steeled herself to be completely open.

Not quite able to look into his eyes, she turned to him. “I would hate to be in a marriage when the other doesn’t truly wish it.” There, she’d said it.

“Isabelle, to what do you refer?”

“I, uh, found out about your relationship with Miss Trowbridge, and I, uh, I want you to know, I’m freeing you from the engagement.”

“Am I to understand that you are of the opinion Miss Trowbridge and I have warm feelings for each other, and that I prefer her to you?” He spoke in an even tone, though a slight note of strain threaded through it.

“No.” She’d only said it to give him an out.

“Then what is the issue?”

She bit her lip and looked away. She could do this. He deserved honesty. “I don’t want you to feel obligated to marry me. I’m all wrong for you. You said it yourself—you want to become more involved in the House of Lords. You need a wife who’ll enhance your career. Not someone like me, who doesn’t know the first thing about your world. If you—” She stopped herself from saying
if you loved me, that would be different.
He hadn’t said it, and she wasn’t sure of it. She’d told herself she was okay with that, but then to realize how unsuitable she was for him. “If you are worried about me, don’t be. I can survive on my own.”