Must Love Breeches (25 page)

Unbidden, the scene in the room at the ball played again in his memory. A surge of heat pulsed through him. His fist pounded once against the empty seat beside him. Bloody hell.

He forced his mind to concentrate on the next stages of his ‘project’, as he had termed it with Miss Rochon.

His flesh fought, but his mind prevailed. It would have been disastrous to pick her up in such an aroused state.

One thing he could ill afford at this juncture was allowing his passions to rule him. After all, his project owed its birth to that damnable emotion. Cause and effect. To become what he despised most about his enemies—unthinkable. No, he would be the master of his passion; he would not permit it to rule another’s will. He was
not
that kind of man.

All the evidence he required to bring down the group of men—he refused to honor them by the term gentlemen—who had caused his sister’s ruination was almost within his grasp. His hands curled into tight fists. The choking impotency he always felt, the guilt, nearly overpowered him. He had been powerless to save her.

He forced his hands to relax and wiped them on his trousers.

It mattered not he had been serving his king—more specifically, Lord Palmerston—hopping around the Continent from the newly minted Kingdom of Belgium, to Portugal, to Spain, to the Ottoman Empire, and south to Egypt. It had been essential to maintain the balance of power established after the Napoleonic Wars. He knew that. The information he had gathered and forwarded had assisted Lord Palmerston in his machinations for peace and stability. It also allowed him to travel parts of the world he had not visited on his Grand Tour.

But, oh, that day in Constantinople. The letter from his mother informing him his father had died and his eldest sister required his protection. He had extricated himself from his duties and hastened home as swiftly as the travel arrangements and modes of transportation allowed.

He had been too late.

Where had Sir Raphael been? That was a question that still boiled his blood.

The carriage slowed, pulling him from his morbid thoughts. He donned his gloves and jumped out before it stopped, eager to stretch his limbs and disperse the gloominess that possessed his mind.

He was determined to stay focused and act the gentleman tonight.

Isabelle sat back against the seat of Lord Montagu’s carriage. The man himself vaulted inside and took the seat across from her.

“How are you this evening, Miss Rochon?” His voice sounded even, almost detached. He inclined his head in her direction.

So, still going with the Stiff and Formal routine? Fine.

“Very well, thank you for asking.” There. She studied the streetscape passing outside her window. That oppressive silence settled between them, as if it had lain in wait in the carriage since Saturday night. Her hands tightened in her lap, and she made herself relax them. Man, was
this
going to be a long evening. As Ada would probably say, it would be insufferable. Perhaps even vexing.

She’d watched him closely when she changed his bandage yesterday to see if he’d read the article in the paper, but he treated her the same as before, which, unfortunately, was rather distant because of the kiss.

Her edginess hadn’t been helped by her visit to Mr. Podbury either. She needed time to think, dammit, about his stunning announcement. And whether to trust him with her secret. Not be distracted by a certain yummy specimen.

Said specimen adjusted position, and a waft of his masculine scent enfolded her.

How was she going to pretend Saturday night hadn’t curled her toes and every other curlable part? Every time she reviewed The Incident, her own forwardness loomed large—she sifted and dug for evidence of his attraction for her during that kiss, but she always pulled a blank. She would try, then the evidence of her own brazenness would seep into that blank spot, like an ink stain, obscuring it, coloring it, preventing her from being objective.

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.

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.