Must Love Breeches

by Angela Quarles

  “You misunderstand me, Miss Rochon. I do not chastise you for pointing out my rudeness, for indeed I was rude, but rather I mean to suggest you do not have to speak to me in, what I suspect, is not your normal manner. I have observed you lapse only when you become angry or agitated, as you did just now. Hence, why I say it is much better. You do not need to act unnaturally around me.”

  Oh. So he’d noticed. Well, cool, it wasn’t easy to speak without contractions, so if she could add another person to her list she didn’t have to do it around, she was glad. She relaxed back into the crimson velvet cushions.

  “Sorry I hit you.” She reached out and smoothed the arm she’d hit. He winced. “Come on, I know I didn’t hit you that hard.”

  His lips quirked and his eyes held a humorous glint. “Indeed, you did not.”

  “Well, what...” She reached up and grabbed the lantern hanging above her and brought it closer. She sat back and gasped. “You’re hurt. What happened?”

  “Now you have ascertained the reason I could not fetch you myself, Miss Rochon.”

  “Okay, but, what happened? How bad are you hurt?”

  “Nothing to concern yourself with.”

  “We’ll see about that, mister.”

  Isabelle leaned forward again, using the lamp’s feeble glow to light her way. She moved her fingers along his arm to the rip in his evening jacket, revealing a dark, wet glistening. A sharp, tangy smell tickled her nose—copper.

  Chapter Twelve

  When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past—

  For years fleet away with the wings of the dove—

  The dearest remembrance will still be the last,

  Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love.

  Lord Byron, The First Kiss of Love, 1806

  “Blood!” Isabelle jerked back, the lamp swinging, dark shadows careening grotesquely around the carriage’s interior. “Here, hold this stupid thing and let me get a closer look.”

  Hands free, she pulled off her gloves, grappled with her skirts, and knelt beside him. She probed his arm with both hands, the weight of his gaze on them as she explored. The carriage lamp’s sparse light made it difficult to see the wound. What had he been doing at the rout to cause this?

  “We’ll need to take off your coat. And your shirt, of course.” The carriage turned a corner, and Isabelle braced her right arm against the seat.

  Lord Montagu sighed, leaned forward, and placed the lamp on the seat opposite. He gingerly pried off his coat and his cravat.

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Shirt too? Could we not simply roll up that sleeve?”

  “Oh, whatever. Yes, yes, I just need to see it, see how bad the wound is.” The sleeve hung by only a few threads, no sense in saving it. She grabbed the linen at the tear and yanked.

  Her breath caught. “Holy cow, what did you do?”

  A ragged slash sliced across his upper arm. Deep and messy, blood oozed down his arm and dripped onto the seat. What would cause that?

  “I... uh... a sharp metal object protested my departure of the Havershams’.”

  “A sharp metal object...” Isabelle enunciated each word. “Could you be any more cryptic?” She stripped lengths from the remains of his shirt sleeve and applied heavy pressure to the wound. She looked quickly up. “Good God, a knife.”

  “No, not a knife.”

  She returned her attention to his wound. He appeared to not even feel the pain.

  When he didn’t say anything more, she squinted up at him. “If it wasn’t a knife, what was it?”

  Lord Montagu cleared his throat. “An iron rose trellis.”

  Okay, not what she’d been expecting. “An iron rose trellis? Seriously?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right, so... in what manner were you leaving the Haversham residence that you met with the pointy end of an iron rose trellis?”

  Did his lips just twitch? “My method of leaving the rout was by way of a second floor bedroom window.”

  “What?” He remained silent despite her best glare. “Okay, do you mind telling me why you decided going out a window was better than the way us normal folks do it? You know, out the front door?”

  He sighed. “Suffice it to say, I was not where I was supposed to be and was at risk of being discovered. The window was my best means of effecting an escape without detection.”

  Isabelle studied him, and his eyes told her he struggled with something in his mind, whether it was to trust her with what he was up to, she couldn’t tell. Her skin flushed hot—had he been with another woman? No. She shouldn’t be jealous. She had no right to be. She’d stay positive and show it didn’t bother her. Or was he up there for his ‘project’?

  She risked pulling the linen away. The flow of blood had lessened. She took more strips, folded them, and put them against the wound. “Hold this in place.”

  His warm fingers brushed hers and settled on the padding, and she shoved aside the spark that sizzled through her. She could sense his dark gaze trained intently on her.

  She tore another strip of linen, wrapped it around his arm and tied it tight over the folded cloth. “Obviously, you’ll need to get that cleaned when you get home. You might need stitches.”

  “I shall manage, thank you.”

  “I know you’re reluctant to tell me what you were doing.” Isabelle sat back and took a deep breath. “Does this have anything to do with your project?”

  He grunted and settled deeper against the cushions, adjusting his shoulder. “If I say yes, will you leave it at that?”

  Isabelle tucked her mouth to the side and narrowed her eyes. “For now, yes.”

  “Thank you.” He tipped his head back and closed his eyes.

  “What I don’t understand,” she said, pausing as his eyes snapped back open, “is how you met with the business end of an iron rose trellis.” She grabbed the last remaining bit of linen and wiped the blood off her hands and the seat.

  Lord Montagu opened a hidden lid in the carriage seat opposite and handed her a stoppered jug and an old blanket. “Water. For your hands.”

  She glared at him. Would’ve been nice to know these supplies were handy earlier. She cleaned her hands and dried them. The lamp she replaced on its hook by her head. Not knowing what to do with the bloodied linen, she wrapped it in the blanket and held it. Lord Montagu looked at her and lifted the lid again. She tossed it inside. She found her gloves and pulled them back on, afraid she’d forget them. All set, she clasped her hands and returned her attention to him, waiting for his answer. Okay, this should be interesting.

  “As you are determined to know, the offending object was directly beneath the window, an ideal perch to make my descent. Unfortunately, I lost my footing and slid down the side. My fall was marginally slowed when I went over the edge and one of its points ripped through my coat sleeve to produce this scratch.”

  “Scratch? You call that a scratch?”

  He shrugged.

  “Gah. Men!” She thwacked him in the chest with her small purse.

  The hand of his uninjured arm shot out, captured her wrist in his strong fingers, and pulled her slightly forward. “Miss Rochon, why do you suddenly have the compulsion to strike me repeatedly?”

  “Sorry, habit.”

  “Peculiar habit.”

  Isabelle’s trapped hand absorbed her whole attention, the purse dangling in a small arc, the meager light from the lamp setting the sewn-in jewels sparkling. Her wrist moved upward, pulled by Lord Montagu, and she followed its ascent, transfixed. He slowly turned her wrist and brushed his lips on the underside, right at the pulse point. Isabelle shivered despite the barrier of her glove. His well-shaped lips, moving oh-so-slightly on her wrist, the scar below his lip, stretching. His gaze holding hers.

  She snatched her wrist from his grasp.

  Her mind caught up to her action. Why, oh why did she always do stupid stuff like that with guys she found attractive? They caused a strange flight response—her curse. Wha
t scared her? Someone give me a Rewind button.

  Confusion flashed across his features, quickly masked.

  “Why’d you do that?” Oh my God, had she just asked him that? Could a black hole open below and suck her in? Please?

  “Why do you surmise, Miss Rochon?” His eyes stared straight into hers, awaiting an answer, searching. His nostrils flared slightly.

  “I, uh...” Oh man, black hole? You there?

  “My apologies, I have caused you discomfort. That was not my intention.” His eyes shuttered and his shoulders stiffened.

  You idiot, Isabelle. What does it matter?

  Here was a chance to let go, without any consequences. Usually she was more at ease, more flirtatious, around men when she traveled—they posed no real threat to her, to her life. So, why not in this situation? She was traveling. Well, time-traveling, but still. This wasn’t her real life. Nothing could come of it, so he was safe. She’d just need to keep her feelings in check and not hurt him.

  He still looked at her, but he did not appear angry or hurt. Maybe a little confused.

  “You took me by surprise, is all.” She let her gaze linger over his strong cheekbones, down to his lips and the scar.

  Okay, just do it.

  She reached up to touch his scar. Man, her hand shook a little, but too late to turn back now.

  His eyes darkened, the hazel one almost matching the brown one in color. Interesting. The space between them, so large, the time it took for her hand to reach him, embarrassingly slow. Oh, Lord, and she was leaning at an awkward angle toward him. To remain steady, she put her left hand down on the seat.

  Finally, the gloved finger of her right hand reached his face and traced a path to the cleft in his chin, a feature on any man that made her want to go ‘Rowr!’

  He was not. Doing. A thing. He only stared back. God, where was that black hole? So much for trying to take control, pushing past her fear.

  She closed her eyes and let her hand drop, swallowing her mortification. Her breath hitched—something warm grazed her upper arm, while a hand grasped her wrist. Her eyes flew open. His fingers paused for only a moment as they delicately passed by her elbow’s inner curve.

  Shivers flitted through her body and erupted as goose bumps on her skin. When had that body part become so sensitive?

  The light touch of his fingers brushed down her gloved arm and slowly enfolded her hand in his. He turned it slightly, so her palm faced up, exposing the soft part of her arm. When the warmth of his lips met the tips of her fingers, her breath caught.

  Somehow she’d moved closer to him on the seat, and as she gazed at his lips, transfixed, he moved his head lower and kissed her palm. His head moved a fraction and he placed another soft, tender kiss on her wrist. Her fingers curled inward.

  Oh, God. Breathe. Air. In lungs.

  No one had ever done this to her.

  And it was so, so, well, so erotic. Who knew?

  She couldn’t tear her gaze away from his slow progression. His delectable mouth moved up her arm with soft kisses until it reached the end of the glove, right below her elbow. He paused. His warm breath caressed her skin, raising more hairs across her body. What would he do next? Then, his lips touched her bare flesh for the first time, just on the inside of her elbow.

  Heat seared around her chest and speared downward. Where had all the air in the carriage gone? Her head—fizzy. Their breathing filled the coach, heightening, joining, wondering. An urge to push him back against the seat and jump his bones gripped her.

  Slowly, he raised his head. What would those painstakingly tender lips feel like against her own? She moistened her lips with her tongue, and his gaze snapped to them. It seemed like forever since he’d placed that last kiss on her arm. His head inched forward, his eyes roaming her face before meeting hers...

  The carriage clattered to a stop and jolted her sideways. His strong hands grasped her waist, steadying her.

  “Miss Rochon?”

  She couldn’t catch her breath, but he seemed calm enough, the bastard. She pushed back to her side of the seat and took deep breaths through her nose, trying hard to look as if she were doing nothing like that at all.

  Evidently, they’d reached Mrs. Somerville’s house.

  The carriage lurched as someone jumped off, and then the creak and clatter of the steps lowering, hopefully covering the sound of her breathing.

  “My apologies for not assisting you.” Lord Montagu’s voice sounded lower, rougher, than she remembered, sending fresh chills skimming over her, dammit. “I have enjoyed a pleasurable evening.”

  “Uh, yes, see you later, thanks, bye.”

  Time to leave. She stood and stepped on her dress hem, and a ripping noise filled the carriage. She’d totally forgotten about her torn dress. “Oh, no.”

  She twisted to look behind her, but the folds of her wrap thankfully covered any hole she’d created and now enlarged. She lifted her wrap and explored her waistline with her fingers until she found the tear. Whew. Not large, and along the seam. She could risk walking to her door without the skirt coming down entirely. She pulled her wrap tighter around herself and fled the carriage, too mortified to say anything more.

  She bolted up the steps, feeling like a damsel in some historical romance, all hot and bothered over a roguish lord. Taking a deep, fortifying breath, she willed her stupid racing heart to still. He’s a man from a different time. Don’t let him get to you.

  Dread tightening her stomach, she stopped at the top step and spun around. Uh oh, he’s a man from a different time...

  Phineas moved to the other side of the carriage to watch Miss Rochon safely into her home. He sighed and rubbed his forehead. What the devil had come over him?

  What transpired was not what he had in mind when he entered into this arrangement with Miss Rochon. Or was it?

  He groaned. She stirred dangerous eddies within him, disturbing the calm control with which he faced the world. Furthermore, she trusted him, which confounded him. A balm to his jaded soul, as if in agitating the packed silt within, she reached through and soothed the self thus exposed, something he—

  A pounding on the carriage door and words exchanged outside interrupted his thoughts. The door flew open with a bang and Miss Rochon stared up at him, her eyes round. He gazed back in amazement.

  “Antibiotics—Your arm—Y’all don’t know anything about that stuff yet!”

  “I beg your pardon?” The confounding creature had run; by the carriage lamp’s dim light, he could see how it had lent color to her cheeks. And how her delectable bosom heaved as she fought to catch her breath.

  A curious look crossed her face, as if she had said something she should not. She bit her lower lip. “Never mind, but, sorry, Lord Montagu, I need to clean your wound.”

  To say her statement surprised Phineas did not begin to encompass his feelings at the moment. However, she was extremely agitated.

  He sought to calm. “I am gratified by your concern, but my surgeon will attend it. You need not worry.”

  “Oh God, a surgeon?”

  Her face and tone of voice, the expression of both, imparted the idea he had said he would rip a horrible monster from the bowels of hell to clean his wound. She had the strangest notions he had ever encountered.

  “Yes, my surgeon is quite capable, I assure you.”

  “They don’t still believe in leeches for that particular wound, do they? I can’t remember...” A frown creased her brow and a look of concentration crossed her face, as if reviewing her memory. This woman puzzled him indeed.

  “No doubt probable for this type of injury, to prevent inflammation. Quite routine.” He hoped his tone of voice and the words themselves reassured her.

  She reeled back as if struck, her face contorted. “You cannot be serious.”

  It was his turn to frown. “Of course. I am unacquainted with medical practices performed in America, but I assure you, my surgeon is one of London’s best. I daresay superior to any you h
ave there.”

  She curled her hands into fists and propped them on her hips. “Wow, of all the arrogant—you don’t know the half of it—And I can’t even―”

  Her arms came toward him, and he honestly thought she would strike him again. Instead, she tugged on the cuff of his trousers.

  “You’re coming inside right now, mister, and I don’t want to hear anything more about it.”

  Phineas glanced at his coachman, who stood behind her and looked at her as if she were a candidate for Bedlam.

  Phineas hated scenes.

  He grabbed the leather strap near the door with his left hand to steady himself and stood. He might as well go inside, if only to continue the discussion in a less open place.

  Isabelle crossed her arms. “Finally, you’re using some sense.”

  Phineas stared at her, at a loss for words. In his entire life, he believed it was safe to say, no one had ever said such outrageous things to him as she. What next? He placed a boot on the top step.

  “I’m glad you stopped being so pigheaded.”

  Poised to take another step, he stopped, looked at her, shook his head, and came down beside her. “Shall we continue indoors, Miss Rochon?” he managed through gritted teeth.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I loved her—love will find its way

  Through paths where wolves would fear to prey

  Lord Byron, The Giaour, 1813

  In the hallway, Isabelle told the butler what was happening and asked that the cook bring a bowl of boiling water, some soap, as well as fresh, clean linen. Mrs. Somerville was already in bed, but she worried Dr. Somerville would choose to come home early tonight of all nights; he would definitely prevent her from doing this herself.

  Meanwhile, she rushed to her room to fix her skirt. Thankfully, it wasn’t as bad as she feared, and she closed it with a few well-placed stitches. Her hands shook, though—what if she needed to use this needle on him? The specter of infection loomed in her mind, how behind medicine was. She could write her medical experience on the cotton batting of a medium Band-Aid, but it was better than some leech-wielding quack. She believed in germs, for Pete’s sake.