Must Love Breeches

by Angela Quarles

  Just get through this.

  With any luck, he’d prove to be a jerk, show some unpleasant side of himself, and she’d be safe—the usual scenario with guys she dated. She needed to emotionally guard herself better than she had been, though. Oh, God, that kiss...

  Her gaze lingered on the cleft in his chin. She still wanted to lick it, dammit. Put her tongue in the notch and—

  Wait, her tongue... the chin... She had licked it.

  Oh. My. God. She’d dreamed about him last night. Now, the whole dream came crashing back and her traitorous body vibrated in response to his presence across from her. Not only did her body remember how it had felt to be pressed on top of him Saturday night—the energy that sizzled between them—but, even worse: she now remembered the dream. In full. Technicolor. Glory.

  Warm hands had caressed her naked waist. Slid up and gently cupped her breasts. She arched her back, wanting more. His face loomed above her. He murmured reassurances in her ear, made her feel secure.

  Made her feel loved.

  Made her feel as if they understood each other on a fundamental, intimate, soul-deep level.

  Something had disturbed her sleep right before he would have entered her, sealing their bond. She half-awoke, semi-aware it was a dream. She tried not to move, to let her mind ease back to sleep. She just had to pick up where it had left off, but it was no use. The frustration of the lost dream, and its unfulfilled promise, had brought her completely awake. The jolt of disappointment had been cruel.

  Now she sat in the carriage’s close confines, and she had a hard time making herself remember it had not happened. That it had been a dream. That this very real, very masculine man dominating the carriage’s interior was a stranger, not her soul-mate. The emotional bond forged in her dream was at odds with reality. Fantasy versus reality.

  “Is something amiss, Miss Rochon?”

  Crap. Had she sighed out loud? “Oh, no. I’m fine.”

  The heat of a blush crept up her neck. She ducked her head and scooted back into the darker corner, hoping to hide it.

  He remained silent for a moment. “I thought we could attend the theatre at Covent Garden. Tonight is the opening night of King Lear, performed by William Charles Macready.”

  A play performed in historic Covent Garden as it would have been in the 1800s? And poor, tragic Cordelia? She sat straighter; the night was looking better.

  “You are familiar with Mr. Macready?”

  “No, I...” No, I’m from the future and am not familiar with all your day-to-day things, Mister Stuffy, I mean, Lord Stuffy.

  “Perhaps his fame has not reached America. He recently finished a brilliant Macbeth. I look forward to his production of Lear. I am not fond of Tate’s version, but it does please the crowd.”

  Forgetting herself, she replied with the undignified, but semi-expressive, “Huh?”

  “Miss Rochon?”

  “What do you mean, Tate’s version?”

  Lord Montagu frowned.

  Oh, shit, would even a stupid American have known this?

  But he appeared to cast it aside. “My dear, The History of King Lear, as revised by poet-playwright Nahum Tate, is the only version that has graced the English stage in over a hundred and fifty years.”

  Oh. “So what’s so special about Tate’s version?” How could someone mess up King Lear?

  “It has a happy ending.”

  “What? That’s ridiculous.” So ridiculous, her mouth hung open. Okay, someone could mess up King Lear. Now the evening reverted to the Not Promising outlook.

  “Indeed.” The corners of his mouth lifted a fraction.

  They lapsed into silence for the short span left before they pulled up to the theatre on Bow Street.

  He escorted her inside, and she gasped. “Holy cow, this is so different from what I remember.” She clamped a hand over her mouth.

  He frowned, his eyes narrowing. “From what you remember? When was the last time you were here? It has not changed much since Robert Smirke rebuilt it earlier this century.”

  Uh-oh. Obviously, it had been rebuilt again later, and what she’d seen before was a renovation of that version. Good Lord, how to reply to that?

  “I, um... never mind, I think I must have it confused with another theatre.” She crossed her fingers.

  He studied her a moment longer, but resumed leading her inside.

  Whew. Isabelle drank her eyeful while they worked their way through the throng of theatre goers. It was all so elegant, the interior mainly yellow with accents in gold. Here and there, Isabelle spotted patriotic touches of a shamrock, or thistle, or rose as ornamentation.

  Inside his private box, Lord Montagu waited until she settled in her seat before taking his. She leaned over the edge and gazed around the horseshoe-shaped theatre. She stifled another gasp—the interior was sumptuous, as were its occupants. It literally glittered and glowed. Directly over the center hung a massive, sparkling, cut-glass chandelier, lit by gas.

  So, here was the social milieu of the nineteenth-century London theatre. Unlike in her own time, the wealthy sat above in the balconies and the poor below. When and how had that shift happened?

  Some folks nearby gazed into their box, whispering and pointing, but she paid them no mind. Let them gossip. The theatre soon darkened and the play began.

  Unlike the gossiping patrons, it proved a lot harder to ignore the presence next to her. His unique scent settled over her. Every shift he made in his seat, every movement, rippled through her consciousness. She closed her eyes briefly.

  Just ignore him, just ignore him. Concentrate on the play.

  When she finally forced herself to pay attention, the overly dramatic actors bothered her. However, the story soon swept her along. So much so, she managed to forget the brooding presence beside her, and to tune out the murmur of conversations in nearby boxes. The actor playing Lear seemed a little nervous, but it was opening night, so she cut him some slack.

  When the curtain closed on the second act for an intermission, her senses zoomed in on Lord Montagu.

  “Well, it appears Tate might be on the wane at last,” he said into the silence of their box.

  Yes. Talk about the play. “There’s no Fool. How can there be no Fool in King Lear?” That had bothered her, despite being wrapped up in the play.

  “There is still that change, and it still appears shorter, but it is deviating from Tate’s standard sentimentality. It makes me anticipatory of the end. Will Cordelia and King Lear die tonight as originally intended, or will Tate triumph, I wonder?” Lord Montagu sounded amused.

  Isabelle could only wonder as well, but the closeness of the atmosphere started to affect her. Thankful for Ada’s advice about carrying a fan, she pulled it out.

  “Are you warm? Do you wish for some refreshment?”

  “I would love something to drink, thank you.”

  He left the box to fetch some punch, and she sat back in her seat, musing on the play and its changes, and on Lord Montagu. If only she could get a better rein on her feelings. Hopefully, the passionate dream’s residual effect would have faded by tomorrow. His friendliness since they’d arrived had put her at ease, but he’d also melded with the dream version of him. It was easy to talk to him, and he respected her ideas and opinions, which was more than she could say about most guys she’d dated.

  “Oh, the irony,” she said.

  “What irony is that, Miss Rochon?”

  Isabelle whipped around in her seat at the unfamiliar voice. There, backlit by the hall sconces, stood Sir Raphael. One hand rested against the doorframe, holding back the curtain, and a lascivious grin adorned his too handsome face.

  Chapter Seventeen

  She was his life,

  The ocean to the river of his thoughts,

  Which terminated all.

  Lord Byron, The Dream, 1816

  Phineas threaded his way through the crowds thronging Covent Garden’s lobby. He ignored the beckoning Cyprians who worked the
theatre, looking for paramours.

  The night had unfolded much better than he had envisioned. Miss Rochon had shed her stiffness and seemed to be relaxing and enjoying herself. He gritted his teeth.

  That was all that mattered. Behave like a gentleman.

  Sitting beside her and not being able to touch her was driving him mad, though, he was sure. He had had a difficult time concentrating on the play. Her views and obvious intelligence did not help matters; it would have been much easier to ignore his desire if she were an empty-headed debutante.

  He had been watching her closely, for the rumors circulating about her had reached him. He paid them no mind. What gossip mongers concocted no longer surprised him. From the future? Ridiculous. He regarded it in the only possible light: an attempt to discredit him, but what a peculiar choice. No need to weigh the merits of speaking of it to her, though. He would continue to monitor her reactions to ensure this latest scandal had no adverse effect upon her.

  Several gentlemen stopped to converse, but Phineas broke away as soon as propriety allowed; it unsettled him to leave Miss Rochon alone, even for a short time.

  Punch cups in hand, he strode down the hall. A familiar male voice drifted from his box. Tiny icicles crystallized his blood.

  Sir Raphael.

  Jaw clenched, Phineas swept inside. Aware others in the surrounding boxes watched, he kept his face and voice neutral. “Sir Raphael. What do you think you are doing here?”

  Phineas dared not look at Miss Rochon, or his fragile calm would shatter.

  Sir Raphael pivoted. He executed a slight and stiff bow. “Montagu.”

  “I asked you a question, sir.”

  “Nothing that concerns you.” He turned to Miss Rochon with an oily smile. “Right, my dear?”

  The chill in Phineas’s veins instantly flared hot, his stomach churned. He looked at Miss Rochon. She appeared baffled and gave him a slight head shake.

  Phineas’s unease lessened, replaced by the satisfaction of knowing he was able to communicate so easily with Miss Rochon. The searing anger remained. Obviously, Sir Raphael had hoped to inflame his jealousy and make a scene. Did the bastard wish to provoke a dawn appointment? The devil knew, Phineas would be only too happy to oblige.

  “You will leave us now. This is a private box. My private box.”

  Sir Raphael remained stationary for a long moment. Would a scene transpire after all? Sir Raphael needed to push him only a little more.

  In the event, Sir Raphael appeared to think better of it and kissed Miss Rochon’s hand. Phineas’s lip curled.

  Sir Raphael gave a curt “My Lord” and swept from the box.

  Isabelle watched Sir Raphael leave. She itched to know the story between these two. Was it tied to his project? Lord Montagu’s jaw muscles worked, and she knew he’d been close to losing his control. A shiver went through her.

  Sir Raphael’s visit had been strange. Wary at first because of Lord Montagu’s reaction at Lady Huxton’s ball, as well as Sir Raphael’s unnerving study of her at Babbage’s soiree, she had soon relaxed. He had kept the conversation to the weather, the play, and other safe topics, not once making any advance or broaching any kind of intimate talk. It was as if he had only marked time.

  “Did he harm you?” Lord Montagu strode to her side and sat. He handed her a cup of punch and leaned toward her.

  She took a small sip of the fruity drink. Warm, but refreshing. “Me? No.”

  A new level of awareness, of understanding, hummed between them now, she could sense it. It made her feel warm inside.

  “Did he act unseemly?” His eyes roamed from her lips, her neck, an ear, and then snapped back and held her gaze. His gloved hand flexed on his knee.

  She stifled a smile and the warmth within coiled further. “No,” and she related the extent of their interaction.

  He lapsed into a brooding silence and she sipped her punch. They’d been having a great night until Sir Raphael’s appearance. Maybe she could recapture their earlier rapport. “Tell me more about the Tate version.”

  He cocked and bowed his head slightly. They discussed the changes, though she compared the play to the Shakespearean original, and Lord Montagu compared it to Tate’s.

  “What worries me is the audience,” he said a short while later, his moodiness brought on by Sir Raphael’s visit now gone. “Breaking from Tate was attempted before, and the audience was not pleased. They seem sadly quiet tonight. If they are not swayed, the English stage will be doomed to play Tate’s version for another hundred and fifty years, I am afraid.”

  But after the third act, the crowd visibly reacted. People down in the pit made participatory noises. It was like folks who talk to the screen during movies, giving advice and shouting encouragements. By the conclusion, it was clear Tate was on the outs. It ended with the usual body pile after a Shakespearean tragedy, and the crowd roared its approval. Isabelle had been riveted. It had changed it for her, to know this version had a chance for the characters to live, and so made their deaths more poignant.

  Like after a really good movie, Isabelle was reluctant to move back into life’s regular chatter. So, she stayed in her seat and let the experience wash over and through her, nurturing the sensation like a new-born thing until it could be safely absorbed before anyone could pollute it.

  Thankfully, Lord Montagu remained seated, too, and five minutes passed in friendly silence. Then Isabelle realized he wouldn’t stand to leave, since she hadn’t. Wow, something to be said for manners. But he also didn’t give the impression he was impatient to leave. Previous dates would have already stood and made her feel selfish for attempting to stay. She turned her head and his lowered, angling toward her, looking down at her.

  He slowly smiled, and his mismatched eyes caught the low light and sparkled. “Did you enjoy it, Miss Rochon?”

  Her stomach slipped. “I did, thank you.” She crushed Ada’s poor fan with her fingers.

  “My pleasure.” He turned his body toward her, his knee brushing her leg. “Do you wish to remain for the farce?”

  “The farce?”

  “The next item of entertainment, I understand.”

  Good Lord, they’d already been here for hours, and there was more? “I’d rather not, if that’s all right with you. I don’t want it to spoil what we just saw.”

  Isabelle stood and he tucked her arm under his, ushering her out to London’s noisy streets. Yes, she decided, she liked this arm-tucking business. By the time the coach arrived and they were inside, she felt ready to talk about the play and its merits. They had a lively discussion on the way back to Mrs. Somerville’s.

  When the carriage arrived, Lord Montagu hopped out and turned. His fingers lightly grasped, almost possessed, her own, and sent a cool tingle up her spine. Her predicament crashed back to the forefront of her mind.

  She faltered at the top of the steps and looked at him. He gazed back at her, eyes dark and unreadable.

  “Thank you, Lord Montagu, for a wonderful evening,” she managed to say. Amazingly, she also managed to get down the steps without tripping.

  “Until tomorrow, Miss Rochon.” He bowed.

  “Have you given any further consideration to my proposal to wed my son?”

  Isabelle squirmed in her chair. Lady Montagu had called the next morning, taking Isabelle by surprise. They were alone in the drawing room. To be honest, she’d forgotten about his mother. How could she possibly answer this woman without upsetting or insulting her? “I have not had much time to consider it yet, my lady.”

  “How much time could you require?”

  “It is complicated.”

  “How so?”

  Wow. This woman was like a determined bulldog. Isabelle liked her attitude. If only her tenaciousness were directed elsewhere. “I cannot say right now, but there are circumstances outside my control that prevent me from considering it.”

  Lady Montagu looked at her steadily, the delicate lines around her mouth becoming more pronounced. “H
mmm.”

  “I assure you, my lady, as soon as things clear up, I will think about it.” What was she saying? She’d never have that chance. “However, you should know, it will likely end as prearranged, as there are circumstances...”

  “Yes, yes, beyond your control. Miss Rochon, I do hope things ‘clear up’ for you. I take liberty to say that you have been good for my dear son. He has not been the same since his sister’s death.” She gazed off for a moment before focusing on Isabelle again. “He has shared with you this charade’s purpose, has he not?”

  “Only that he has some project that consumes all his attention and energy, but nothing more. What is he up to?”

  Lady Montagu studied her, lips pursed. “That cagey boy.” She shook her head. “I cannot divulge it if he has not, though it pains me. He is a good man, despite what the gossips say.”

  “He did tell me he manufactured the Vicious Viscount persona.”

  “Good to hear. When Miss Trowbridge cried off and his ‘project’ consumed his time and energy, I had despaired of him ever making a match. Especially with the reputation he fostered. I do wish to say, however, lately he has shown a spark I thought lost forever. I believe you are the genesis. He has even taken an interest again in his antique book collection.”

  He collected antique books? Isabelle stifled a groan. Could he be any more perfect?

  She took a deep breath, “I understand, Lady Montagu.” But what had she said? “Who is Miss Trowbridge?”

  “I am sorry. She and my son had an understanding two years back, but she inexplicably broke the connection. That, of course, lent verisimilitude to his false reputation. Now, about the ball.”

  “Lady Montagu―” She couldn’t possibly be expected to process all she’d heard in the space of a second.