Must Love Breeches

by Angela Quarles

  “What else can we do?”

  A surge of well-being at her usage of ‘we’ caught him by surprise—to be her partner in all things felt right. “I have some ideas in that direction. I intend to keep a close eye on Lord Edgerton. Of the lot, he has the weakest resolve and may slip.”

  “Let me know if you need me to distract his wife.”

  They rode in companionable silence, though the knot in his stomach took on ballast. Now was the time to broach his question, but it stuck in his throat, scared to be brought to life. He braced himself.

  “Miss Rochon. Isabelle. About how circumstances between us stand. I am fully aware that in your era, such an action on my part is unnecessary. However, since you find yourself stranded here, I feel it incumbent upon me to do so. Particularly, since it is my fault you find yourself in these distressed circumstances.” The guilt of her sacrifice still overwhelmed and humbled him. “Lacking someone to ask leave to pay my addresses, I hope you will forgive me for approaching you without it.” He took a tremulous breath. “In short, Isabelle, will you do me the great honor of accepting my hand and becoming my wife?”

  “You’re—You—” Isabelle shifted in her seat to look at him better. His convoluted sentence structure had taken her a moment to unravel, but she finally understood his full meaning. “Let me make sure I understand. You’re asking me to marry you, for real this time, and it’s out of a sense of obligation?” She didn’t mean for her voice to pitch quite so high at the end. Too late.

  His jaw tightened. “Not precisely a romantic proposal, to be sure. I apologize. The fact remains, in my world, you will need my name’s protection. You cannot remain forever with a sham proposal, nor can you remain dependent on the Somervilles’ hospitality. We can marry by special license on Saturday, the day of my mother’s ball. I am offering you the opportunity of becoming my wife.”

  What the hell? “The opportunity? As if I can’t fend for myself? You’re right, I can’t continue remaining with the Somervilles, but I can get a job and live on my own.” Isabelle hadn’t yet mentioned her conversation with Mrs. Somerville and her need to leave.

  “That would not be wise.”

  “Wise, what’s not wise? I lived on my own quite fine, thank you very much.” Why was she acting so peevish? Was it because he hadn’t dropped to one knee and confessed his undying love?

  She closed her eyes and poked. Yes. That’s what it was. Not very liberated of her. Get real, Isabelle.

  The horse in front of her twitched and flicked its tail as if in admonishment.

  “I have no doubt.” His rich voice carried over the clatter of the carriage wheels. “However, that occurred in your time. Acceptable practices differ greatly here. I realize this is difficult to reconcile for a lady accustomed to independence. In this era, if you lived alone, you would immediately face several obstacles that would make your life miserable. Firstly, there are only three respectable employments for a lady—governess, lady’s companion, or school teacher.”

  “I could open a shop.”

  He glanced at her, eyebrow arched. “What kind? Do you have a skill you can offer?” His eyes studied hers, a touch of sympathy in their depths. “Even if you did, a tradeswoman’s lot is very rough. You would also find yourself vulnerable as a single lady.”

  Isabelle’s chest tightened, the carriage seat too confining. What to do? No sense in barreling forward with a plan when someone told her not to. Her well-being was at stake, possibly her very life. Like in any other era, money equaled better health and comfort. She already had to do without modern medicine, central heat and air, running water, and a host of other conveniences she’d taken for granted. If she had to struggle to earn a living, the inconveniences would be more acute, and some would just plain suck. Still, she had her pride.

  “What about—What about opening a shop that bought and sold antiquities?”

  Lord Montagu remained silent and looked at her. A tinge of hurt suffused his eyes before he looked away. “Does the thought of marrying me so repulse you that you would rather go into trade?”

  When he put it that way, she had a hard time replying. To go into trade would mean she’d no longer be in the same social circle as Ada and Lord Montagu. But jumping into marriage, and in a time when she couldn’t easily divorce, made her a little wary. Talk about surrendering her sense of self.

  “No, it’s not that, it’s just... it’s, well, it’s hard for me to be dependent on someone else. I’d feel so guilty doing so, to not pull my own weight.”

  “But you would contribute. You would manage my, our, household. Not a trivial task, I assure you. It would entail managing the servants, overseeing the household accounts, looking after the tenants, plus deciding the menus, and organizing the social occasions we decide to host.” He cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders. “Believe me, it is not simple. I have the estate you saw in Surrey, which has thirty servants, plus the townhouse, where my mother and sisters reside. When I marry, I shall make it my home while in town. I will also assume my responsibilities in the House of Lords, which means entertaining in town, in addition to house parties during the off season.”

  A lightheaded feeling bubbled up into her head, listening to his job description of wife. It sounded challenging, though. There would be so much more to learn, especially if he had political aspirations. A bumbling hostess would spell ruin.

  The lightheadedness threatened to swell into a heavy numbness. Too much at stake. She needed time. To make lists, weigh the options, and then sleep on it. To make such a momentous decision on the spot? Her breathing quickened. Bad things happened when she followed her whims—rationality was key.

  “Lord Montagu―”

  “Phineas,” he interrupted, softly.

  “Phineas, I want you to know I’m honored by your proposal and, well, you’ve given me a lot to think about. Can I give you an answer later?”

  “As you wish.” His voice sounded a little rough.

  What should I do? Isabelle trudged up the stone steps of Somerville House. She couldn’t pin down any one thought or feeling long enough to analyze it. If Ada was home, Isabelle could talk to her, get her advice, and then find alone time to think this through. If Ada wasn’t home, then a nice hot bath. Yes, that would be perfect.

  Graves, the butler, let her in, and she headed for the stairs. When she reached the second floor, Mrs. Somerville poked her head from the drawing room. “May I speak to you for a moment?”

  Oh, no. Not now, please. “Yes, of course.” Isabelle squared her shoulders and joined Mrs. Somerville in the drawing room.

  “Miss Rochon, it pains me to mention this again, but it has been two days since our discussion. Have you made any progress in locating another position or situation?”

  Shit, shit, shit. “I understand. No, I don’t have anything yet, but I will let you know as soon as I do.”

  “Are you making inquiries? There are agencies you can solicit for employment. Have you canvassed those?”

  “No.”

  “Miss Rochon, it does not appear you are looking.”

  Well, you know, I did have to deal with a kidnapping.

  Erg. Should she tell her about Lord Montagu’s proposal? No, best keep that a secret. “Actually, I may have a situation to go to. If it works out, I will be gone by Saturday, if I may trespass on your hospitality until then?”

  Mrs. Somerville regarded her steadily. “Very well, but I expect that to be the absolute last day. You ought to pursue an alternate situation, just in case.” Her face softened slightly. “I do have good news, however. I have negotiated with Lady Byron to allow Ada to remain until Sunday so she may attend Mr. Babbage’s Saturday night soiree.”

  “That is good news. Is she here? I have some developments I need to talk to her about.”

  “Yes, she arrived a half hour ago. She is upstairs.” Mrs. Somerville waved her hand and frowned.

  Poor Mrs. Somerville, being pushed by that witch Lady Byron couldn’t be a tray o
f sweetcakes. She was right, though. If Isabelle didn’t accept Lord Montagu’s proposal, she needed to find an alternate situation. Isabelle curtseyed and ran up the stairs to their rooms. Ada would know how realistic her chances were to strike out on her own. Or, what she could expect if she married someone like Lord Montagu.

  She found Ada in their sitting room, and they ordered a pot of tea and a plate of sandwiches. After listening to Isabelle vent for half an hour, Ada took a deep breath. “Is your main objection to marrying him because you feel as if you should be on your own?”

  That gave Isabelle pause. “Um, well, yes, I guess it is. It goes against everything I know not to take care of myself.”

  “From what I have gathered, that seems normal for your time. But in this one, well, not only is it not expected―”

  “But―”

  “Let me finish. It would not be expected, but it would also not be possible. Unless you wished to live in markedly different circumstances than you do now. Remember what happened at the bank? Trust me, what frightens women in our time is the thought of not having an independence.”

  “But that’s what I want. Independence.”

  “I do not mean physical independence, Isabelle, but financial. To work for a living might be fulfilling in your era, but not here. One point you should keep clearly in your mind, as it is vital you understand—if you work for a living, gentlemen no longer look at you the same. Most will regard you as fair game for their desires, and you would have no legal recourse.”

  “I know, I believed that if I ever lived back in time, as a woman, I would want to be wealthy, not because of what I could buy or anything like that, but because of the horrible conditions women were subjected to otherwise.”

  “Indeed. Now you know why the Marriage Mart is such a serious pursuit.”

  Isabelle sipped her tea while a maelstrom of thoughts and feelings whirled in her mind.

  Ada shifted in her seat. “Isabelle, what of your feelings for Lord Montagu?”

  Isabelle fiddled with the spoon on her saucer. Now she was getting to the meat of the problem. “I, um, I am very attracted to him.”

  “I observed that, yes.” Ada smiled. “You appear quite compatible.”

  “But, that’s a long way to jumping into marriage.”

  “Most marriages are based on less.”

  “In my time, people date, sometimes for years―”

  “Date?”

  Isabelle answered her increasingly curious questions on the concept of dating, which seemed to blow her mind, especially when she heard it was quite normal for couples to live together to test their compatibility before marrying.

  When Ada thought that must mean marriages in Isabelle’s time were well-matched, Isabelle snorted. “Hardly.”

  “But you have so much time to get to know one another, and you can marry for love.”

  “You’d think it would be that way, but the divorce rate is quite high. I was one of the few kids I knew growing up whose parents were still married.”

  Ada’s mouth dropped open, her eyes round. “Your time period does not sound as ideal as I first thought. How opposite it was for me—I am the only one I know whose parents separated.”

  Isabelle had no answer for Ada. Or herself.

  Ada continued, “Here, once we marry, we marry for life, and you endeavor to find someone whose temperament suits, so you can become companions. But since marriages are typically brokered for dynastic reasons, a married couple can live quite separate lives. Particularly once an heir is produced.”

  “That also doesn’t sound ideal, Ada.”

  “Let me ask you something. What is your assessment of Lord Montagu?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, what are his traits and are they ones you would wish for in a husband?”

  “Hmm, he has honor and integrity, which is hard to find in my time. He has a good sense of humor. Open-minded, forward-thinking, actually. Even tempered, respects my intelligence...”

  “Then where is your concern? Especially since you have an attraction?”

  Yes, what is the problem? Isabelle turned the spoon around several times. She dropped it onto the saucer. “That’s a good question...” That knot of tension twisted again, and she teased it apart, inspecting.

  Scared. She was scared of the risk—the risk of giving herself to someone so completely. Loving them. Committing. And then being rejected. The plunge. Oh God, could she do it again?

  Ada cleared her throat and squirmed in her chair.

  “What is it, Ada?”

  “I beg you to forgive me for being so forward, nevertheless, I would be remiss if I did not point out other aspects of your situation.”

  Isabelle took a deep breath and clasped her hands. When Ada didn’t continue, Isabelle prompted, “Of course, you won’t offend me—I’m from a different culture and time. I know things are different. I need you to point these out to me.”

  “Well, how old are you?” she blurted, flushing a deep red.

  Isabelle smiled, but she needed to hear what Ada was getting at. “Twenty-nine.”

  Ada’s eyes grew round. “That old?”

  “Come, Ada, I’m hardly nearing death’s door.”

  “My apologies. I know not how it is in your time, but to many gentlemen, you would be considered ineligible.”

  “’Long in the tooth’, or ‘hopelessly on the shelf’, if I remember my Regency romances.”

  “Yes, indeed. To be quite frank, your age is one of the main impediments to your receiving another eligible offer, if you refuse Lord Montagu.”

  “One?” Isabelle tried to keep her voice even.

  “Your lack of a dowry and family connections would be another.”

  “Oh, God, true.”

  “So, you see, since most marriages are contracted for dynastic reasons—to buttress the family coffers and to beget heirs—your age and lack of fortune would make it extremely difficult for you to receive other proposals. You would have to depend on a love match, and that is difficult to secure.”

  Isabelle’s stomach tied into a double knot. Well, that’s a depressing thought.

  Yes, she had her options laid out. She could make a decision. In the morning, she’d know her gut and could give him her answer. To make him wait longer would not be fair.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  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 pursui
t, 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.