Must Love Breeches

by Angela Quarles

  Dang, of course that was the reason he’d called. She shouldn’t be disappointed. Besides, hadn’t she resolved to ignore her attraction? She should be happy he diligently pursued her calling card case and not herself.

  Isabelle stood. “Oh, yes, of course. That is very nice of you.”

  Hands shaking, she grabbed a sheet of paper and a nib pen from the desk behind her. She sketched her case, taking care to include the initials engraved on the outside. The whole time she worked, she could feel his gaze on her, and she tried to keep her facial expressions and body language nonchalant, but was sure she only succeeded in drawing attention to herself, as if she were performing on a stage.

  At last satisfied with the sketch, she handed it to Lord Montagu, who folded it in half and placed it in his breast pocket. The close-cut coat showed his broad shoulders to perfection. And his chest. And—Isabelle mentally slapped herself. In addition to her Curtsey-No-Contraction mantra, she needed to add a No-Ogling-the-Period-Hunks policy. Oh, who was she kidding—a No-Ogling-Montagu policy.

  Ada spoke into the silence. “May we offer you tea, cousin?”

  “Thank you, no.” He rubbed his temple. “Actually, I hoped to entice Miss Rochon into a turn around Hyde Park in my curricle. It is a lovely day outside.”

  Alone? With him? Her traitorous heart beat faster, as if it were trying to run to him and leap into his lap. Yikes, no, she needed to keep her distance. Wait, she had an out—surely it wasn’t allowed. She threw a questioning glance at Ada, who smiled and nodded.

  Oh, right. It wasn’t until the Victorian era they got more anal about that sort of thing. Didn’t Catherine Morland in Northanger Abbey ride alone in an open carriage with an admirer? There went that excuse.

  She took a deep breath. “I would love to.”

  His body relaxed a fraction, she’d swear it. She exited the room with him, and he said, “Will you not need a parasol?”

  Another mental slap. “Oh, yes, of course.”

  She turned back into the room, but Ada, close on her heels, whispered, “You can use mine. Here.”

  Isabelle couldn’t resist wearing the new mantelet he’d given her. She couldn’t directly thank him, so perhaps this would let him know. She glanced to the side and met his eyes, which flared briefly with heat. Her insides swirled and did a yes-please dance, and she beat down the reaction.

  A small corner of his mouth turned up. He tugged the coat from her grasp and stepped behind her, his heat palpable against her back, his breath brushing her neck. He placed it around her, and was it her imagination that his fingers seemed to linger on her shoulders? She closed her eyes and shivered.

  Twenty minutes later, Lord Montagu’s curricle rattled alongside all the other stylish carriages that crammed Rotten Row in Hyde Park. Isabelle clutched the seat’s edge. Elegantly dressed women strolled along the lane, or chatted in small groups; men and women trotted on horses; and, to Isabelle’s astonishment, tradespeople and servants lined the edges here and there, staring and pointing, as if the promenaders formed a parade for the less fortunate to gawk at. And the way the promenaders behaved—strutting, gossiping with others they met on their amble—it reminded Isabelle of cruising in cars.

  Ahead, a knot of garishly dressed men in their early twenties—real live fops! She stifled a giggle, and angled her head to keep them in view as Montagu’s curricle passed. They looked quite pleased with themselves. The cut of their coats was way more exaggerated than Montagu’s, their shoulders extremely wide, waists pinched.

  One of them returned her stare. She faced forward. Her heart pounded and she squirmed, feeling exposed in the high seat of Montagu’s curricle. Surely one of them would point and whisper—interloper, faker. She was probably even sitting wrong. Though, hot damn, it was cool to discover what it was like to ride in this, the nineteenth-century equivalent of a modern-day sports car. Kind of thrilling, too, but, Lordy Pete, she was glad when he slowed from the fast clip he’d been maintaining.

  His arm brushed hers and her pulse thumped. She sighed. She could no longer deny her physical reaction to him, not when sitting this close. Not that she’d had much success in doing so. On the ride to the park, she had no idea what he expected, so she’d kept quiet. But she also had a hard time keeping her seat, and more than once the carriage’s jolting bumped her against him. Perhaps this explained why the young blades of the ton preferred a curricle. So their ladies would accidentally brush against them. Or to give the ladies an excuse to seek their beau’s protection, with a Pretend Squeal thrown in?

  Without looking at him, she registered every movement he made in her consciousness, every head tilt to a passing male acquaintance, and a few darting glances at her.

  And during the whole ride he hadn’t said one word.

  Weird. So, this was a date? Well, as close as it got with these people? The idea almost made her laugh, but it really wasn’t that funny. This slower, more distant courtship was much more stimulating, more exciting. And oddly, more intimate. How was that possible? Oh, girl, this isn’t good.

  On a less populated stretch, his body stiffened. He cleared his throat. “Miss Rochon, we have spoken frankly in the past, and I wonder if I may presume to continue with that freedom?”

  Now she was intrigued. “Of course.”

  He paused. “Am I correct in assuming you have not been entirely forthright concerning your present situation? Obviously, I know you are not a cousin of Miss Byron, since that was not the relationship given when we were introduced.” He peered sideways at her and did the swoopy thing with his eyebrows.

  Isabelle tensed. Her breath caught in her throat. Uh-oh. What to say? Where to look? Oh, shit, too late. Her eyes were locked with his in a staring contest, anchoring her to her seat.

  He broke eye contact and administered a slight adjustment to the reins of his perfectly matched grays. She used the opportunity to gaze forward.

  “You see,” he continued, accurately reading her reaction, damn the man, “I have a good memory, and though I never met my great uncle nor any of his siblings, I do not recall that a sister moved to America. I rather thought I remembered it being Ireland, but I could be mistaken.”

  “I... uh...” Isabelle glanced around, as if the answer lay in the tinkling pebbles in their lane, or the deep, deep green of the passing leaves. Was he about to chastise her for lying? To protect Ada? How stupid of her to think this was a date.

  “Do not distress yourself. I do not require specifics. I trust Miss Byron’s judgment, and she must have good reason to befriend you, to provide shelter.”

  Isabelle let herself relax.

  “However, it occurs to me I might be in a position to aid you, as well as to relieve my cousin from the monetary responsibility she must be shouldering.”

  “Thank you again, though I do not know how you can help.”

  He remained silent for a long time. Was he going to continue? What could he be offering? A job? A loan?

  Finally, he said, “I should like to propose something. You see, I have a... project... I am engaged in, indeed, have been these two years. At this stage, I need the respectability that would be mine if I were to take a wife.”

  Isabelle’s breath hitched, and her stomach’s contents took up jumping jacks for recreation. Good Lord, was he serious? Had she found herself in the middle of some Regency Romance plot?

  “However, upon further consideration,” he continued, and her stomach settled, “I realized my goal can be achieved if it is merely believed I am to wed. In short, I wondered if you would be amenable to posing as my betrothed.”

  Isabelle’s stomach went back into panic mode. What? She wanted to say “Run that by me again?” She settled for gaping at him. And he hadn’t looked at her once since that brief staring contest.

  He continued, “I am unfamiliar with how matters are handled in your country, but in England, as the lady in the relationship, you would be at liberty to jilt me before the actual wedding, so it does not proceed further than eit
her of us desires, and with no harm done to either reputation. I would, of course, not sue you for breach of promise.”

  Huh? What the— All right, silence seemed like a good option right now.

  Lord Montagu went on, not budging an inch on the seat, “In return, I offer you enough pin money for your support in comfort until such time as our arrangement ends. You would be required to appear as my betrothed at only a few social functions.”

  Isabelle still had no clue how to respond.

  Lord Montagu, perceptive guy that he was, obviously realized more needed to be said. “If I have offended you, please, I beg your forgiveness. I regret exploiting a weakness in your situation for my benefit. However, please know I would not have dared, if I did not sense you are a lady who, while you may be beholden to Miss Byron’s charity, is possessed of a lively mind and great sense.”

  At the mention of Ada’s charity, Catholic guilt flooded Isabelle. Lord knew how much those dresses and other accessories had cost Ada. Isabelle planned to repay her, but how?

  “In short, Miss Rochon, what I propose is a business arrangement.” At this last, he finally looked at her, seemingly searching for an answer in her eyes.

  Okay, he was serious about this. Holy cow. Just trying to fully process what he was saying left her stunned. Forget about how to answer. Didn’t she need to lessen her interaction with him, not increase it?

  “You expect me to ally myself with the Vicious Viscount? Surely someone of my sense would not do so. My lively mind is envisioning so many reasons not to.”

  He flinched and stiffened his back, the muscles of his clenched jaw rippling.

  Maybe she’d been a bit harsh?

  Oh, you deserved that. Phineas almost let her rejoinder be his answer, almost flicked his reins to take her back to Mrs. Somerville’s townhouse without another word. Except, he detected a slight flash of panic and fear in her eyes when he dared look. It went against his nature to be the cause of such distress. Especially to her.

  He suspected her retort to be born of those emotions. If she were truly to be a party to this, she deserved to know some of the truth. Devil take it, he needed her. Now that he had hit upon this answer to his problem, he could envision no other. His goal was too close to suffer delay. It had nothing to do with needing to be near her.

  “Touché, Miss Rochon. I am inordinately proud of that nickname, though I find it trying of late.”

  She shifted in her seat and faced him fully. “You are proud of being the Vicious Viscount?”

  “I admit to being proud of the nickname. As I should, since I am its creator.” He studied Miss Rochon to gauge her reaction, but her lovely face registered only confusion. She now wore spectacles. For some odd reason, the fact pleased him.

  He continued, “You see, I have taken great pains to make the ton believe all manner of nasty tales about me.”

  Strangely, he wanted—he was relieved—to tell her; his carefully-crafted façade sat uncomfortably on his skin in her presence. It itched, irritated; it obscured where he desired clarity. Bloody hell, was it possible it rankled that she might believe the “Vicious Viscount” to be a true reflection of his character?

  “Are you telling me none of the tales are true?”

  “Indeed.” He risked another glance at her and saw amazement layered atop the puzzlement. An improvement, at least.

  She adjusted her spectacles, revealing little red indents where they had pinched her nose. He found he wanted to rub his finger and thumb there to help ease the pressure. Her voice brought him back to his senses. “You spread the rumors yourself?”

  He rubbed a hand on his thigh and accidentally brushed against her skirts—that was not her firm thigh he felt. He gritted his teeth. He was in control. He had to be. “Not personally, but I outlaid a significant sum to certain persons to put these rumors in general circulation, yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Ah, that is the question, is it not?” He hesitated. No, this was the right thing to do. He could not say why, but he trusted her. “I had reason to, as a sort of... foil... to ingratiate myself with a certain segment of society, and thereby secure the access I required to achieve certain goals of my... project.”

  Feeling Miss Rochon’s gaze on him, he shifted in his seat. He spied a slight opening in the crush of carriages and swung onto a less-traveled path in the lane. He snapped the reins, urging his horses into a brisk trot. Though the ruse’s exposure to Miss Rochon was what he desired, it left him feeling vulnerable.

  Strange. He had moved among Polite Society so long with that false shell, it had melded into an odd shield. It had come to define him, so now he felt bare—hollow—without it.

  “I have noticed others seem to avoid you.” She paused a moment. “Was it worth it?”

  Yes, it was, damn it. He responded aloud with a terse, “Yes.”

  “This... project must be very important to you, then.”

  He looked at her again, searching her eyes. For what? He chided himself for being ridiculous and said, “Yes.”

  He concentrated on directing his grays down the lane. The feel of the leather ribbons grasped lightly in his gloved fingers, each slight adjustment instantly communicated and obeyed, helped to center him.

  “And you are not going to tell me what this project is, are you? Is it illegal?”

  His hands tightened on the reins. “No, I cannot elaborate. It is too dangerous. However, I am nearing the end now. You will not be required to do anything illegal. As I stated, I feel this reputation I have saddled myself with is now a hindrance to my goals.” He kept his gaze on the path, on the backs of his grays, on the ribbons.

  Her silence alerted him to his error in disclosing his project as dangerous. Stupid man. “However, I assure you, if you do accept my offer, there will be no danger to you whatsoever. I promise you that much.” He looked to her now and tried to catch her gaze to impart the earnestness of his promise.

  “I appreciate you telling me this,” she replied, though her gaze eluded him. “But I will need to think about it. Do you understand?”

  “Certainly. I await your answer with anticipation,” he replied, while he fought the disappointment of his present hopes. Had he expected instant acceptance?

  “I hate to ask you this, but I have my reasons. Is it all right with you if I discuss this with Ada?”

  He looked at her sharply, but she appeared sincere. He nodded.

  With that, he drove her back to Mrs. Somerville’s townhouse, studiously ignoring the closeness of her body, of her, as she swayed against him with the motion of the carriage. He also resisted further discourse. That she come to this decision on her own was important to him. To push her was out of the question; he required a willing accomplice.

  Chapter Ten

  Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart.

  Lord Byron, Childe Harolde, Canto III

  An hour later, Isabelle brushed aside the carriage window curtain: premature darkness from the storm cloaked the road. Lightning cracked, and she flinched. The sharp smell of ozone tickled her nose. Ada and Isabelle had jumped into the Somerville carriage on her return so they could have a private chat while walking around Hyde Park, but the skies had opened up right before they’d arrived. Now they were having the driver take the long way back, though Isabelle felt sorry for him and the footmen on back.

  Isabelle had finished telling Ada of her weird conversation with Lord Montagu. She made sure to tell her his reputation as the Vicious Viscount was all manufactured by the man himself. The proposal shocked Ada, but the revelation about his reputation had not.

  “I knew it had to be a nasty rumor. However, I had no idea he was the author of it. Whatever can he be about?”

  “He wouldn’t say,” Isabelle replied, speaking loud enough to be heard above the pelting rain.

  “What will you do?”

  Isabelle shifted in her seat and let the curtain drop. “He does have a point. I am a burden to you.”

  Ada waved a ha
nd in dismissal. “Please, do not say so.”

  “Well, it’s true. Besides, it would give me a certain freedom as well. I do need to find my way back to my own time. I don’t belong here. You know that.”

  “I know you are from another time, but you could belong here. This could be your home.”

  Hell, no. “No, I need to find my way back, and if I accept his proposal, I’ll have money if I need to buy the silver case back, or hire more investigators.” Isabelle pulled her Montagu coat, as she now called it, tighter and lapsed into silence. She listened to the thunderstorm rage outside. After a moment, she asked, “How well do you know him? Do you trust him?”

  “Oh, yes, I have known him all of my life. Whenever he visited, he would sneak me a natural or scientific curiosity, or rare book, as a present, listen to my schemes and dreams. He did not tease me like the other boys. He is one of the few people I do trust, in point of fact.”

  “Hmmm...”

  “What will you do?”

  “I’m not sure. I need some time to mull this over. It still feels so weird.”

  Isabelle took another peek outside. A rivulet of water elongated on the window glass, touched another, jerked sideways, rolled slower—the carriage’s motion spawning smaller, spiky tendrils. With a finger, she followed one of the trails, the glass cool to the touch. Her emotions and thoughts converged, twisted—a jumbled mess dependent for its shape on the unseen forces that surrounded her, brought her to this place and time.

  When Lord Montagu had explained his situation, Isabelle’s initial shock and sense of unreality had morphed into curiosity.

  Whatever his project, it drove him, defined him. He’d endured public censure for it. Self-imposed at that. So, just what was his project?

  But the danger he represented. Not a physical danger, but an emotional one. She couldn’t afford to fall in love with the guy. And how easy that would be. She’d promised herself after the horrible break-up with Billy she’d never again sacrifice so much of herself for another man. She’d let too many of her own interests slide—his interests had become hers. She’d left her friends and family in Mobile and moved to Atlanta to be near the jerk. She’d been such a fool.