Must Love Breeches, A Time Travel Romance (Excerpt)

Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE

The night
Hath been to me a more familiar face
Than that of man; and in her starry shade
Of dim and solitary loveliness
I learned the language of another world.
Lord Byron, Manfred, 1817

Feeling simultaneously bereft and relieved, Isabelle watched Lord Montagu stride away without another word. Weird, but Ada and her chaperone acted as if this were normal. Why hadn't the organizers said there'd be a buffet dinner? And the period fanatics had taken over, just as Jocelyn had said. Unease settled in her stomach like a lump.

She shouldn't have had that last drink. Not on an empty stomach. She glanced down. Aaand, she had only one glove on. She yanked it off and stuffed it in her purse. Probably a good thing she hadn't run across her boss.

"I do not believe I have seen you yet this Season," Ada said. "Judging by your accent, you are an American? Have you only lately arrived in London? Who is your escort to the ball? She must be positively anxious about you."

"Oh, I came by myself, though two of my co-workers are around here, somewhere." Isabelle craned her neck but saw no one familiar. She swallowed hard and turned back to Ada. "And to answer your other question, yes, I'm an American. Came over in December to work at the British Museum."

Ada's eyes grew rounder with each word. Isabelle intended to say more, but stopped. What was with her inability to communicate lately without disturbing folks? The tight lump of nameless tension in her belly grew heavier.

Ada's mouth opened and closed several times. Her eyes fluctuated from shock and disbelief to growing admiration and curiosity. She turned to her chaperone—to gauge her reaction?—but her gaze snagged on the space over Isabelle's shoulder. Without turning, she knew who it was, as if some kind of homing beacon had been planted in her when she touched Lord Hotpants and now her body hummed, sensing his approach. He came into visual range, and her heart pitty-patted faster. He held a large plate, mounded with food, in one hand, and an event staffer set empty plates and several glasses of lemonade on their table.

Jeez, they're in costume, too?

With a practiced and oh-so-elegant flip of his coat tails, Lord Montagu sat beside her. His body dominated her left side, his scent and heat buffeting her. He didn't seem inclined to talk, so Isabelle nibbled on the food set before her, half of which she had trouble identifying. A solid white substance appeared harmless, her pokes not turning up anything scary, so she sampled it. Nice, with an almond flavor that lay delicately on her tongue. She ate the rest, as well as the fruit on her plate, hoping to dilute the alcohol in her system. And maybe whatever this Lord Montagu attraction thing was. And maybe this uneasiness she didn't want to explore too closely.

No one spoke at their end of the table, though all the other party goers filled the room with their laughing and animated conversation. The situation rapidly approached the Awkward Stage.

"Well, that was quite a storm earlier, wasn't it? Luckily, my friend Jocelyn had a ginormous umbrella, or I would've looked like a drowned rat." Her attempt at small talk garnered only a round of stares—so much for the vaunted weather conversational gambit. Lord Montagu now sported a scowl.

Alrighty, then.

She'd handled him and the whole situation wrong, she just knew it. He seemed to give off an I'm Interested vibe—whenever she glanced in his direction, she'd catch him looking away—but otherwise his body language screamed Not Interested. Well, as far as she could tell. She sucked at reading signals. And giving them, too. Did she really care about impressing him?

Erg. She was over-analyzing again. She'd been enjoying the ball since meeting Ada and Lord Montagu, but keeping up with such pro reenactors—and obsessing over the hunky guy next to her—was becoming too much. She still didn't feel well, either. She needed to leave. But, she didn't feel like meeting Katy and her friends at The Mad Martini for a chilly glass of Pinot Grigio. No—she closed her eyes—a good cozying up in front of her library fireplace, with a smexy romance and a cup of hot chocolate.