Must Love Breeches, A Time Travel Romance (Excerpt)

Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

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?"