Must Love Breeches

by Angela Quarles

  Screw being a wallflower. She’d had enough of that in high school. And screw him for making her feel like one. She stood and made a quick circuit of the ballroom. Not on the marble terrace... He could be in the gardens, but she had a hunch he was up to the same shenanigans as last night.

  She walked toward the refreshment room, pretending it was her final destination. She retrieved a glass of punch and stood by the door in the back that led to the main hallway, sipping her drink and watching the crowd.

  Confident no one watched, she slipped from the room and strolled down the hall, using the open door to block her from view of the front of the hallway. She peeked into a room on her right, but seeing nothing, moved on.

  A room on the left stood empty. Only one more room on this floor before she’d have to check upstairs, and she really didn’t want to get caught up there. The door to this room was closed. She held her breath, eased it open, and stepped inside. She strode to the middle and glanced around. Empty, dammit.

  She exited and quietly closed the door. Standing in the hallway, she sipped her punch and fanned herself, trying for all the world to look like someone who only needed to get away from the crowd for a moment. In actuality, she was trying to screw up her nerve to go upstairs.

  The main stairs were too public, so that left the servant stairs nearby. But if caught by a servant, she’d have no excuse whatsoever. Maybe pretend feeling a little faint, in search of a quiet place to lie down? And didn’t want to draw attention to herself by using the main stairs? Feeble, but a servant might not question it.

  She eased over and looked up the dark, narrow stairs. No one there, and no footsteps, either. Steeling herself, she counted to ten and sprinted up the stairs, careful not to spill her punch. Well, sprinted as best she could in the heaps of skirts around her legs and the corset strangling her.

  The top reached, she peeked around the corner, took a quick survey, and pulled her head back. Four doors, two on each side. Three were open. If he was up here, he’d be in the room with the closed door.

  Why was she doing this? She should go downstairs and wait. To be caught up here would cause a scandal. She waited for her breathing to settle—running in a corset had been a mistake.

  She peered around the corner again. All clear. She tiptoed down the hallway. No candles or oil lamps illuminated the hall, the only light coming from the end windows. Stupid. Stupid. There’d be no way to see inside the room once she reached it. Maybe the room’s windows would be enough. She wasn’t turning back now.

  The door handle turned easily in her hand and she slipped inside. As before, she went in partway. A candle burned on a bureau.

  Fabric rustled behind her. A firm hand clamped over her mouth.

  Chapter Fifteen

  And to his eye

  There was but one beloved face on earth,

  And that was shining on him.

  Lord Byron, The Dream, 1816

  Isabelle fought to breathe around the hand clamped over her mouth. Another arm gripped her waist, pinning her left arm. Panic ripped through her and her brain went into stun mode. She struggled, but her captor pulled her backwards and eased the door shut.

  Her legs wobbled. She concentrated on breathing calmly through her nose, willing herself to relax and react more effectively. Just like she’d trained after that home invasion.

  She would never forget that one night, returning to her darkened house in a transitional neighborhood in Atlanta, when a gun had been pointed right at her and she couldn’t do a thing. She’d been lucky. He’d only wanted money.

  Relax and concentrate.

  Her lower arm holding the punch cup was free. All right. She gathered her inner strength and splashed the drink at her attacker’s head. Next, she spread her lips wide, bit his hand, and stomped on his foot. She managed to get a good bite in, but she wore stupid soft slippers, not a nice, spiked heel, so the stomp was not as effective as she’d hoped.

  Her attacker jerked in surprise, and she simultaneously buckled her knees as if off balance, causing him to pitch forward. She used his weight and momentum to twist them both around. As she’d planned, they toppled to the floor. Her dang skirts tangled with her legs and she landed on top of him, her back to his front.

  Poised to get a good whack on his shins with the heels of her feet, a familiar voice growled in her ear, “Devil take it, woman, it is I, Montagu.”

  She let her legs fall and her body go limp. He loosened his grip, and she twisted around and glared at him. She also socked him on his shoulder, coming to rest with her hands on his shoulders, and straddling his waist.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Adrenaline coursed through her; her heart beat erratically.

  “What am I doing? What are you doing up here?”

  “I asked you first. Why did you sneak up on me like that? Like to give me a heart attack.”

  “I did not realize it was you, initially. I was leaving when I saw the door handle turn, and I hid behind the door. I leapt forward to incapacitate the intruder. When I saw it was you, I did not wish for you to scream.”

  Her hands tightened on his shoulders. “You didn’t answer my first question.”

  He sighed, his warm breath brushing her cheek. “I thought it was one and the same. If you mean, what was I doing up here, suffice it to say I was engaged in the same activity as the night before.”

  “I thought so. I hadn’t seen you in a while.”

  “So, you came to look for me?” A note of incredulity tinged his normally smooth voice.

  What the devil had prompted her to seek him in this manner? Had she truly managed to pull him to the ground? Phineas glared at his supposed intended and became acutely aware of their position; specifically and suggestively their position in relation to each other, her soft curves pressed against his torso, her hips, with twisted skirts, cradled by his, their thighs...

  Their labored breathing commingled. Shivers coursed through his body. If he had been tempted by her proximity during previous encounters, this eclipsed those. Her heat and scent settled over him, his heart beat faster. Pure lust shot through his veins. He detected in her eyes, hiding behind her spectacles, the moment she also became conscious of their position. Their dangerous position. On the verge of suggesting she arise, he saw the glint from the candle on the dratted door handle as it moved again.

  Damn and blast. He grabbed the back of her head, his fingers spearing into her hair, and brought his lips to hers, while the little that remained of his reasoning pointed out how unwise a move this was for him personally. However, they needed an excuse for their presence in this chamber. Luckily, they lay at such an angle, and the room lit by only a single candle, he was rather certain their identities were safe from discovery.

  She responded to his kiss immediately, opening her mouth in invitation. Liquid fire pounded through him at this surprising response, awakening a part of him he had not realized slumbered. With a groan, he slipped his tongue inside and explored her welcoming mouth, teasing her, tasting her, cool and fruity from the punch.

  As anticipated, the intruder opened the door and quickly shut it upon discovering them in such an intimate embrace. Miss Rochon flinched slightly, breaking contact. “What was that?” she breathed.

  “Nothing to worry about.” His voice was pitched lower and rougher.

  “Oh, good.” To his complete shock, her lips returned to his and she whispered, “Now, where were we?”

  He smiled. “I believe I was about to do this.”

  He angled his head and nibbled on her lower lip. A small moan escaped her. Emboldened, he deepened the kiss and found she did not hesitate to explore on her own.

  Blood rushed to his groin and stiffened his arousal. Never had he met a lady so comfortable with her sensuality.

  Part of his mind attempted a feeble protest, prudently reminding him they had been seen and must return below with all possible speed. It also cautioned against feeding his lustful impulses. The ton believed them engaged, but some
lines one did not cross at a ball. If quick enough, they might escape suspicion.

  Ignoring his rational side, Phineas wrapped his other arm tightly around her waist and reveled in the feel of her soft curves pressed so deliciously against his hard body, his painful erection fitting snugly against her.

  Her tongue ceased teasing his and curled up to stroke the roof of his mouth. A sizzle of sensation sparked through him and she breathed in, the soft air caressing the sensitive skin of his mouth, further spiking his desire. He shivered, groaned and flipped her onto her back, not breaking contact with her devilishly delectable lips.

  Urgency and need roared through his veins and muscles. An urgency and need for her. He moved his hand up her waist, his fingers aching, straining, to caress and stroke her breast, to make her nipple hard, but hesitant to rush matters. Slowly he went until his fingers gently cradled the underside of her luscious breast. Ah, bliss.

  However, the rational part of his mind finally screamed at him.

  What are you about?

  He jerked his head up as if his mind had shouted the words aloud. He looked down at Miss Rochon’s flushed face. Forcing himself to steady his breathing, he also forced himself to say, “We must stop.” He raked in another breath. “Someone saw us, and if we do not wish to create a full blown scandal, we must return downstairs with all due haste.”

  “What? Oh.” Her hands dropped to the floor and her flush darkened.

  Just seeing that made him ache to witness her, in a future time and place, beneath him and flushing, not from embarrassment, but from bone deep pleasure he had given her, right before finding his own, deep, deep inside her. He shook his head in an attempt to dispel the lusty image.

  He tried to clear his throat, but it was more like a dry rasp in the execution. “The kiss gave us an explanation for our presence here. However, we ought not be absent too long, or it shall cause talk.”

  He levered himself up and discreetly adjusted his pantaloons. He reached down and helped her stand. She appeared flustered, but they had no time to delay, and he was also rather worried about his control when it came to her. At this moment, he did not trust himself to be alone with her.

  “Come, let us depart at once. Meet me downstairs by the punch bowl. I shall take the servants’ stairs.” He grabbed her hand, opened the door, verified no one was near, and stepped into the hall.

  “Wait, the punch,” she said.

  He stopped. What the devil could be bothering her?

  “I missed most of your head, thank God, but some did splash onto your hair and your, uh, your cravat.” Her hand smoothed back part of his hair, the act so intimate it threatened his resolve.

  “Devil take the cravat, we have not the time.” He sounded gruffer than he had intended, but there was no help for it. They must return downstairs. Immediately.

  Oh My God. Had she really thrown herself on him like that? What must he think of her? Isabelle watched Lord Montagu disappear down the back stairs, and her skin flushed.

  These men were more prudish than those of her own time, though thankfully not as much as they would become during the Victorian era. But, still. And here she’d been stupid enough to believe it had been a naturally motivated kiss, not something he’d done to give them cover. Sure, he had a hard-on—couldn’t help noticing that through all her skirts—but guys got those easily enough. Couldn’t read too much into that, other than he was a hot-blooded male. He must have seen the door opening.

  That overdue black hole needed to open now, or whatever had magicked her here needed to send her back to her own time now.

  Right now would be good. Yep, very good.

  But no, no such luck. She tried to look nonchalant and graceful as she descended the front stairs. She adjusted her glasses so they sat on her nose more firmly, patted her hair. The excitement in the room and her brief rush to the steps left her a little breathless, and she worked on breathing through her nose to calm herself. She seemed to be doing that a lot tonight.

  She wandered through the ballroom and found him in position near the refreshments. His profile reminded her to try to look as calm and collected as she could. Yeah, right.

  Someone had seen them? Were they being gossiped about right now?

  She reached his side, and his rugged face dipped down. His low voice in her ear sent a fresh wave of chills through her, “Hold your head up, behave as if nothing has transpired. We shall find our hostess and take our leave.”

  Oh, man, she’d totally thrown herself at him like some floozy. She felt cheap and dirty. She hated feeling cheap and dirty. She couldn’t wait to get to her room at Mrs. Somerville’s and crawl into bed, hide under the covers. Too bad bars of chocolate hadn’t been invented yet. Did they have Pinot Grigio?

  She followed his lead, though, and kept her chin up. They attracted some attention, but nothing too crazy. They thanked their hostess, and Isabelle managed to find Ada and let her know they were heading home.

  All this time, he had her hand tucked securely under his arm, but damn if she’d let the rest of their bodies touch. Couldn’t have him think she’d read more into it than he intended.

  At last, she climbed into his carriage. Fortunately, she was on her way home, to solitude. Unfortunately, she’d be sharing the space with Lord Montagu. Alone.

  She sat on the forward-facing seat, assuming he’d sit across from her; however, he squelched that hope by sitting on the same side. She inched away as far as she could get, clasped her hands in her lap, and tried to pretend the scenery outside was just the coolest thing she’d ever seen in her life.

  He didn’t say anything, and the silence, far from being comfortable, grew, stretched, and took over the whole carriage interior, crowding her. She shifted in her seat. She put her hands on her knees. She would not be the first to puncture the silence. His presence also seemed to grow with it; she was acutely aware of his body in relation to hers.

  After some minutes elapsed, Lord Montagu cleared his throat. “Miss Rochon, about what transpired. I apologize for taking such liberties without your leave. I am―” He coughed.

  She hated looking like a fool. She had to make him believe she understood the reason behind the kiss and had played along. She hadn’t really thought he had kissed her for real.

  That she had would be her own secret. She’d been right, too: he was a damn good kisser.

  Dammit.

  “Please, don’t worry about it.” Her voice came out a tad too high; she lowered it to its normal pitch—she hoped. “You did what was necessary to divert suspicion from the real reason you were there. I understand. No need to discuss it anymore.” There.

  His gaze held hers for several moments. He seemed on the verge of saying something, but changed his mind.

  Finally, he simply said, “As you wish,” and looked out his window.

  That was what she wanted, right? Then why did she feel so miserable? And confused?

  The carriage came to a stop some time later. He stepped out and helped her down.

  “Oh, what about your arm? I didn’t pull out any stitches earlier, did I?”

  “I believe not. It is fine. Until Monday night? I thought we could attend the theatre.”

  The pace of her heart picked up again. Theatre? She nodded. “Except, don’t forget to come by in the afternoon tomorrow to get your bandage changed.”

  “How could I forget?” he responded, voice flat. He bowed. “Until tomorrow afternoon, Miss Rochon.”

  Isabelle scanned The Times at breakfast the next day, and, yep, it was crisply ironed, fresh from the butler. Thank God, Mrs. Somerville subscribed to a paper, unlike most of her female contemporaries. The paper’s format took some getting used to, with no large photos, and a lack of well-placed white space. Just tight columns of text divided by thick black borders. A small headline in the gossip section caught her eye. She choked on her tea.

  “Anything wrong, Isabelle?” Ada set down her fork, brows furrowed.

  Isabelle coughed, widened he
r eyes, and darted them from Ada to Mrs. Somerville and back. “No, just swallowed wrong.” She quickly read the article.

  Mrs. Somerville wiped her mouth with her napkin. “Miss Rochon, I have a few items I would like you to procure today.”

  “Certainly. What items?” Isabelle kept reading the article, her limbs growing heavy, her heart tightening.

  “I have created a list. I shall say good day to you both and repair to my study, if you have need of me.” Mrs. Somerville slid a piece of paper across the table and left the room.

  The door shut and Ada put down her knife and fork. “What is it? I am perched on pins and needles. Quickly, before the rest of the family comes down.”

  “Look at this article.” Isabelle handed her the paper and pointed to the offending column. “Someone overheard our conversation last night at the ball and, unfortunately, the bit about the future.”

  Ada gasped, her eyes huge. She gripped the paper.

  Isabelle continued, “They refer to me only by my initials, but as I’m probably the only American cousin visiting a respectable member of the ton, everyone will know whom they are referring to.”

  Ada turned ashen as she read the article, muttering the whole while.

  Isabelle stood and threw her napkin on the table. “They pretty much say I should be locked up in Bedlam. They also managed to squeeze in the little fact Lord Montagu and I had been seen in each other’s arms.”

  Ada continued to read, her finger moving down the column. “They say I am humoring you in your belief you are from the future.” She inhaled sharply. “They dare allude to my father? Oh, my. The nerve. ‘With her weak mind, and tenuous grasp on reality, it is obvious which side of the family this cousin hails from.’ Oh, I will, I will... Oh, I do not know what, but... Oh!” Ada slapped the paper down onto the table.

  “My thoughts exactly. Even more worrisome is this.” She picked up the paper and read aloud:

  And gentle readers, the device that transported her through time? A silver calling-card case! Which she has conveniently misplaced and searches for in earnest. Clearly, the young ladies have too fertile of an imagination, a fault, no doubt, of a liberal education and indulgence in the gothic novels too prevalent by half in today’s society.