Must Love Breeches (2 page)

See you there. No hotties yet.

Men in tails kissed their partners’ hands and bowed, elaborate ball gowns in jewel tones swirled with a rustling of fabric, the quartet played a quadrille, and here she carried a glaring anachronism. She slipped the phone back into her purse—no, her reticule—and pulled it shut.

The quadrille ended, and the musicians left for a break. The dance floor cleared. Where was her boss? She rubbed her bare thumb over the engraving on her calling card case, the action oddly soothing. If only she could have lived back then. Experienced a real ball, not this playacting.

“Wouldn’t that be amazing, to truly be at this ball in 1834?” she whispered. The silver under her thumb flared with heat.

The room spun; the air, colors, and sounds muted, as if she were inside an abstract watercolor painting. Her heart—Oh, God—spun, swirling about to match the room, each beat a slow
thunk
, stretched.

Shit, the room spun faster. She flung out a hand to steady herself against the wall and met only air.

What the—? She slammed her eyes shut and fought a slug of nausea.

I had a dream which was not all a dream.
Lord Byron,
Darkness
, 1816

Isabelle slowly opened her eyes and brokered an uneasy truce with her stomach. The colors and shapes seemed overexposed, too sharp. Nearby, French doors led to the balcony.

Fresh air.

Legs shaking, she stumbled toward the opening and leaned against the doorjamb.

Whoa, she’d never gotten that dizzy before. Had the bartender added a jigger of grain alcohol? Good thing she’d not had a third cocktail. She
really
should have eaten before she came, but she’d been too anxious. Cool night air soothed her flushed skin and filled her lungs. Tables, palms, people snapped back into focus. Okay. She faced the ballroom, hoping concentrating on the crowd would provide an anchor.

Keep breathing. In. And out.

Calmer, she glanced at the person beside her.

Wow, this girl knew her stuff. Finally, someone else took the ball seriously. Jocelyn had said the period fanatics usually came later to reenactment balls. The girl had the big skirt, tiny waist, and wide shoulders popular in the early 1830s. Her stylist had gone all out with her up-do, too. Were those peacock feathers in her dark hair?

“Love your ball gown. Mind if I post it?” Taking her head tilt as agreement, Isabelle dug out her phone and snapped a picture. She sent it to her online profile with the caption:
Loving the detail at the ball. Who’s jealous?

“Cool, thanks.” Isabelle tucked her phone away, the upload progress bar still chugging away. She looked at the girl, who leaned away, eyes blinking from the camera flash. Isabelle smiled and gestured toward the dress. “So, where did you get it? Did you make it yourself?”

Isabelle loved seeing someone so young getting into a historical reenactment. The dark-haired girl couldn’t have been more than eighteen. Her elaborate hairstyle set off her patrician nose, delicate mouth, strong jaw, and almond-shaped eyes. Eyes sparkling with intelligence and curiosity. Like Isabelle, she’d also gone without makeup, in keeping with the era.

The girl took in Isabelle’s appearance, from toes to hair. She replied in a soft voice, “Madame Frenchet on Bond Street.”

“Awesome. Looks like she knew what she was doing.” Isabelle tried to maintain her I’m-confident-and-not-still-slightly-out-of-it smile. “I consulted old fashion plates and went to the seamstress we use at the museum. She makes these things all the time for the docents. She did a pretty good job, don’t you think?” Isabelle spun about, smoothing her hand down the billowing skirt.

“Yes,” the girl replied, the word drawn out.

Isabelle held out her hand. “I’m Isabelle Rochon,” she said, pronouncing her last name with a soft
sh
sound.

Her new acquaintance stared at the hand, then darted her gaze back to Isabelle’s. Finally, she clasped her palm. Tentative at first, then firm. “Miss Ada Byron. My chaperone should return momentarily.”

“Oh, wow. Byron, as in Lord Byron? Is he an ancestor?”

A slight look of distaste mixed with confusion crossed the girl’s face. “Yes. Lord Byron,” she answered, her tone measured as if it cost her to say each syllable.

“Oh, that’s neat. You must be named after Ada Byron Lovelace? Or are you reenacting Ada’s persona? She’s always fascinated me. First computer programmer in the world, an’ all.” Good Lord, she was babbling. Deep breath.

Now Ada looked even more confused. “I-I am sorry. I do not understand. The words you say are altogether strange.”

I’m such a dork.
She’d made Ada glassy-eyed. Not everyone gobbled up historical tidbits.
Oh, wait.
The girl must be playing out her persona. “I take it you’re from around here. You’re used to these kinds of things? The ball?”

Ada blinked and stepped back.

Before Ada could reply, a frisson of awareness streaked down Isabelle’s spine. A dark shape filled her vision. Sandalwood and a hint of something else, something elemental, wafted over her. Isabelle gazed up. And up. And—Holy Pete. She clenched her teeth to hold her chin in place.

My God, what gorgeous hair! Long, black, and wavy, it caressed the guy’s shirt collar, making her want to plunge her fingers through it. Frolic in it. Twine her fingers around and sniff it.

He’d grown sideburns for the event, and his prominent chin had that sexy little indentation. Could she nibble on it? The high cheekbones and hooded eyes made her insides all squirmy. Gorgeous men always made her uncomfortable, and this one was one notch shy of being too, too perfect. Which left her trying to remember where she was, and why.

Oh, yes. Ball. At a ball in London.

A reenactment of a ball held in 1834, London, England.

Would this man look equally exquisite on the streets in blue jeans and T-shirt, or were his kind of looks enhanced by the period clothing? She’d seen that phenomenon before: someone who looked absolutely yummy in a historical flick and, when wearing modern clothes, appeared positively humdrum.

But never mind that. Right smack in front of her stood a man at noble ease in form-fitting pantaloons and coattails. The black coat molded to his frame, and the starched white collar poked just high enough to accentuate his jaw. With a hand-tied cravat to boot. Hoo! Which brought her to his deliciously sculpted lips, one side cocked up a smidge.

Above those lips and proud nose, his eyes stared right at her. Oh, oops. A fuzzy warmth spread across her chest. This was awkward. His gaze shifted to Ada. Isabelle tried not to look like, well, like a cartoon character knocked on the head, with big X’s for eyes.

“Miss Byron. Always a pleasure.” He gave a perfect bow, not at all cheesy, as though he practiced bowing. Definitely not his first reenactment ball. “May I have the honor of an introduction?” He raised a brow at Ada.

May I have the honor? Really? She was starting to enjoy the whole reenactment thing, but this was a tad over the top. So, he was handsome. Well, okay, drool-worthy. Maybe she
would
cut him some slack on the over-acting bit.

“Miss Isabelle Rochon, may I present Lord Montagu,” Ada went right with the flow. “Cousin, Miss Rochon.”

Isabelle stuck her hand out to shake his. Lord? Okay, cool.
Lord
Drool-Worthy’s penetrating eyes held hers. He lightly grasped her hand, the warmth permeating her glove. Without losing eye contact, he slowly raised it to his lips and feathered a kiss across her knuckles.

Electricity spiked up her arm, stealing her breath. Her knees telegraphed:
Yep, can’t handle this, checking out now
.

Isabelle managed to turn the knee-buckle into an awkward curtsy, but who cared since this was all pretend, right? Must have worked, because His Hunkiness smiled, the corner of his mouth quirking, as if he sensed her distress.

And that mouth had been moving only a moment ago. Damn, he’d been talking this whole time? Something about dancing?

“D-dance?” Her stomach back flipped. Other couples headed for the center, and the quartet, back from their break, took up their instruments.

He held out his hand, open, waiting.

Oh, God. Her palms were sweating. Was that why ladies wore gloves?

Smart ladies.

She placed her hand in his, and he led her onto the dance floor. If she could focus. Tune out her surroundings. Detach. Not grab the moment too hard, or she’d get so nervous, so flustered, she’d be a pile of goo. A slippery hazard on the marble floor.

The first notes from the musicians floated through the air. A waltz.

Lord Montagu bowed.

Isabelle curtseyed and stifled a giggle. Oooh, boy, she could get used to this treatment.

He swept her into a dizzying swirl of sound and color. His confident fingers on the small of her back shot warmth up her spine. Subtle pressures guided her through the music and crowd in a way she’d never experienced, so very aware of his body, of
him
. She’d thought the waltz quaint, but she was stunned.

Well, not stunned, but... aroused.
Who knew this dance could be sexy?

This—her heart pounded, pounded, pounded—this was what she’d pictured. All the preparation, the diligent work on the dress and hair and shoes, had led to this moment. Because, yep, as usual, she’d built an expectation for this ball.

Until this moment, she’d wanted to curse her imagination. It was wonderful to finally have an experience at an event match up.

She let the moment etch into her memory, a rare, sparkling gift to savor. The soft, mellow glow of nearby candles, the glint of jewels, the murmuring voices—the occasional titter of laughter—her partner’s intoxicating scent, and the notes from the violins intertwining through all, through
them
, while they rode its rhythm. She grinned like an idiot but didn’t care.

He wasn’t much for small talk. Amazing, and a smidge intimidating. He stared at her while he whirled her around the floor, mesmerizing her with those eyes. They strayed from hers to linger on her neck and slowly travel to her chest and waist.

Each area of her body tingled as if he’d touched her, and her heart thumped against her chest as if seeking his notice too. Damn heart. Something was different about his eyes, and she couldn’t figure out what it was in the dim lighting. Someone must have finally doused the electric bulbs.

She couldn’t look away.
Weird
. Her stomach did another flippin’ flip. Not for the first time, she wondered where her confidence traipsed off to around attractive men.

The last guy who’d hit all her lust buttons had derailed her life back in the States. She’d never let that happen again. So, she fought against the too-strong-to-be-safe attraction by doing what she sensed would most likely break the spell, and perhaps turn Lord Laconic from her: talking. Anything to deflect, protect.

“So, is this your first time at one of these shindigs?” She hoped her voice didn’t sound quite so shaky to his ears.

She tore her gaze from his to see if she could spot Andrew. Or Jocelyn, to give her the lookee-what-I-have-here face. Or her boss. She must stay focused on her goal. A flash of bright red hair in the corner. Jocelyn? But the next turn whipped the red hair from view.

“Shindigs?” He pronounced it carefully, drawing her attention back to him. His eyebrows swooped closer together, the inside edges slanting up.

Okay, that was adorable, dammit. “Yeah, you know, these reenactments? You seem quite a natural.” The words sucked up what air was left in her lungs. She concentrated on breathing through her nose.
Stay calm.

And—he was still staring at her.

Oh great, did she have something in her teeth? Did she have stinky breath? Did he think she was some uncouth American and regret asking her to dance? She ducked her head and checked her teeth with her tongue and nearly stumbled. She swung her gaze back to his face to regain her rhythm.

He cocked his head to the side. “I am not at all sure what you believe we are reenacting, but unfortunately, I find I am expected to be at these balls with an appalling regularity.”

He had the period syntax and cadence down pat. “Wow, you’re quite good at this. Don’t worry, I’ll try to play along.”

Her partner did the eyebrow-slanting-up-in-the-middle thing and looked away. She could have sworn he muttered ‘Colonials’ under his breath.

Huh? Wait, he was referring to her. “Hey, no need to be rude, and I’m not a Colonial. We soundly beat your hides and settled that score, like, two hundred years ago.” She gave him a playful swat on his shoulder. “Man, you British can sure hold a grudge.”

His head whipped back, and he gawked at her. “Two hundred years ago? Are you daft, woman?”

Surely, she looked like a candidate for the poster child of dumbfoundedness: mouth agape, brow creased.
Oh.
She chuckled. “I get it. Man, you
are
good. You don’t break character, do you?”

He continued to stare at her as if she were the one who was nuts. Her smile slipped. She looked away and muttered, “Reenactors.”