Must Love Breeches, A Time Travel Romance (Excerpt)

Chapter Four

I stood

Among them, but not of them, in a shroud

Of thoughts which were not their thoughts.

Lord Byron, Childe Harolde, Canto III, 1816

The rhythmic pounding in her head expanded and contracted with each heartbeat. Isabelle rose from unconsciousness, and her awareness coalesced into thoughts: Why? Head injury? Or, was this the Hangover to End All Hangovers? She didn't remember drinking that much. She raised her eyelids a fraction and winced. Too bright. She groaned and squeezed her eyes shut.

She'd been at the ball. Yes. And it had become overwhelming... and Lord Drool-Worthy and the carriages... the odd imaginings. Had someone spiked her last Bellini with some hallucinogen? She'd been queasy for a bit there, but—

She tried to harness and ride the insistent pounding. Part of her head felt bruised, painful. Wait, that must be why her head hurt; she'd fallen at the ball, bumped her head, and the rest was her over-active imagination.

Wherever she was, it was soft. And stationary. Yep, she'd open her eyes and be resting on a couch in the Ladies' Room at the ball, a museum co-worker helping her.

How embarrassing.

A distant staccato sound intruded into her consciousness.

She groaned. No, no, no! It sounded suspiciously like horseshoes clip-clopping over cobblestones, trotting in syncopated time with her pounding headache. She moved her head from side to side. A tickling of nausea tripped through her stomach.

"I think she is awake," came a gentle, feminine voice to the left. Skirts rustled and a door snicked open and shut. The voice sounded familiar.

Where am I? Isabelle tested her senses further. She lay on a soft bed, not draped on a couch. The heavy covers anchored her in a way that negated her body below the neck. And she was thirsty as all get-out.

Well, nothing for it but to open an eye.

Through the dry, sleep-coated blur of a contact lens, Isabelle got a vague impression of a bedroom drenched in daylight. She inhaled deeply—fresh linen smell. Clean.

She risked opening the other eye and blinked until her lenses cleared, adjusted position. Thank God for extended wear lenses.

An over-bright glimpse of a gorgeously decorated bedroom done up in soft pinks and Regency-era antiques swam into view. The chirp of a bird called for attention. A yellow canary fluttered back and forth, up and down, in a white ornate iron cage in a corner.

Someone had nice taste and a great eye for detail. She found the source of the voice from earlier: Ada Byron sitting in a chair, her brow furrowed. Then who had left the room?

Isabelle groaned. "Where am I?" She kept her head still, using only her eyes, so as not to tempt her nausea further. No more head shakes.

"Thank goodness you are well. We worried we might have to send for Dr. Somerville. You are in a guest bedchamber of his house in Chelsea."

Isabelle digested this. Dr. Somerville? Oh yeah, Ada's chaperone was a Mrs. Somerville. "What happened?"

"You see, when the footpad made off with your pretty silver case, you hit your head. After the horse bumped you, that is."

Not the best question to have asked, then. For her sanity's sake, anyway. Footpad? Horse? Fabulous.

Isabelle clamped her eyes shut. When she reopened them, she'd be back in her home in Guildford. Or, draped on that couch at the ball. Anything.