mother and youngest sisters, the short distance from his apartments at the Albany a convenient, brisk walk. More an opportunity to spend time with them, than for the fare. However, his want of sufficient sleep had rendered the purpose of the ritual pointless.
“If you will excuse me, Mother, I have an errand to attend to.” He tucked his napkin under his plate rim.
“What? So early?”
He rose and inclined his head. “Indeed.”
“I wish you would stay. You look rather peaked.”
Only several hours of sleep will do that to a fellow . “I am afraid it is rather urgent. Now, if you will excuse me.”
His mother’s eyes narrowed, the tiny laugh lines near her eyes crinkling. At fifty-two, she was still beautiful, but the loss of his father two years past had made advances on her visage. “Not so quickly, my dear. Please tell me you have forsaken this revenge business?”
Phineas locked his knees. Why could she not understand?
A delicate puff of air escaped her lips. “Well, I can plainly see you have not. I must admit, my expectations were raised when you attended Chelmsford’s ball last night and planned to attend Lady Huxton’s tonight.” She darted her gaze to the side. “It is about time you settled down, but with what you did to your reputation, I am beyond hope.”
He gritted his teeth against the pulse of guilt for the distress he caused his beloved parent. “It was my choice, Mother.”
“I realize that, dear.” She returned her gaze to his. “Unfortunate Miss Trowbridge was not in attendance last night. I hear she has finally returned for a Season. It nigh broke my heart your suit failed two Seasons ago. What happened?”
Phineas balled his fists. “I have not the time to discuss this, at present.”
“And I have not the time to wait for grandchildren.” Her tone was soft and teasing, taking the sting out of her words. He loved his mother, and it surprised him she was pushing him in this regard. Under normal circumstances, she wielded a light touch with her children. “If not Miss Trowbridge, then is there not some other young lady who would suit?”
Unbidden, Miss Rochon’s face flashed through his mind. He ruthlessly set the image, and the surge of interest, aside. He had to stay focused on his project: revenge. Anything that did not further that goal must be ignored. Edgerton and his cohorts must pay.
Lord, why couldn’t she have gone back to a different time? Or not at all?
Isabelle smoothed the folds of the hastily altered day dress she wore and stared in the full-length mirror on a wooden stand in the corner. Last night’s dress was bad enough. The mustard yellow sleeves of this dress not only flared wide at the shoulders, they now came all the way to her wrists, and her bodice rode high on her neck. How did women wear these things? And what if the weather turned warm?
Thankfully, Mrs. Somerville found the dress in the recesses of a wardrobe, and her lady’s maid set about making alterations immediately.
It had been strange allowing another to dress her and do her hair. Isabelle kept silent, trying for all the world to appear as if this was quite a normal thing for her. Judging by the maid’s suspicious looks, she’d failed. Miserably. The vast array of underclothing the maid draped, tied, and tucked on her was more than she’d imagined―no wonder ladies of this era had people to dress them.
Isabelle turned from the mirror and grasped the bedroom door handle, her heavy skirts swishing. Ada and Mrs. Somerville waited for her in the drawing room. And Lord Montagu would stop by. A flutter threaded through her. How would he act? Had her behavior freaked him out? Would she still find him attractive? And why the heck was she even wondering this?
A sob escaped Isabelle’s throat and she gripped the door handle tighter. She was stuck in the past. In 1834. How? And, more importantly, how could she get back? Was that even possible?
She had to find a way back.
To her house,
“If you will excuse me, Mother, I have an errand to attend to.” He tucked his napkin under his plate rim.
“What? So early?”
He rose and inclined his head. “Indeed.”
“I wish you would stay. You look rather peaked.”
Only several hours of sleep will do that to a fellow . “I am afraid it is rather urgent. Now, if you will excuse me.”
His mother’s eyes narrowed, the tiny laugh lines near her eyes crinkling. At fifty-two, she was still beautiful, but the loss of his father two years past had made advances on her visage. “Not so quickly, my dear. Please tell me you have forsaken this revenge business?”
Phineas locked his knees. Why could she not understand?
A delicate puff of air escaped her lips. “Well, I can plainly see you have not. I must admit, my expectations were raised when you attended Chelmsford’s ball last night and planned to attend Lady Huxton’s tonight.” She darted her gaze to the side. “It is about time you settled down, but with what you did to your reputation, I am beyond hope.”
He gritted his teeth against the pulse of guilt for the distress he caused his beloved parent. “It was my choice, Mother.”
“I realize that, dear.” She returned her gaze to his. “Unfortunate Miss Trowbridge was not in attendance last night. I hear she has finally returned for a Season. It nigh broke my heart your suit failed two Seasons ago. What happened?”
Phineas balled his fists. “I have not the time to discuss this, at present.”
“And I have not the time to wait for grandchildren.” Her tone was soft and teasing, taking the sting out of her words. He loved his mother, and it surprised him she was pushing him in this regard. Under normal circumstances, she wielded a light touch with her children. “If not Miss Trowbridge, then is there not some other young lady who would suit?”
Unbidden, Miss Rochon’s face flashed through his mind. He ruthlessly set the image, and the surge of interest, aside. He had to stay focused on his project: revenge. Anything that did not further that goal must be ignored. Edgerton and his cohorts must pay.
Lord, why couldn’t she have gone back to a different time? Or not at all?
Isabelle smoothed the folds of the hastily altered day dress she wore and stared in the full-length mirror on a wooden stand in the corner. Last night’s dress was bad enough. The mustard yellow sleeves of this dress not only flared wide at the shoulders, they now came all the way to her wrists, and her bodice rode high on her neck. How did women wear these things? And what if the weather turned warm?
Thankfully, Mrs. Somerville found the dress in the recesses of a wardrobe, and her lady’s maid set about making alterations immediately.
It had been strange allowing another to dress her and do her hair. Isabelle kept silent, trying for all the world to appear as if this was quite a normal thing for her. Judging by the maid’s suspicious looks, she’d failed. Miserably. The vast array of underclothing the maid draped, tied, and tucked on her was more than she’d imagined―no wonder ladies of this era had people to dress them.
Isabelle turned from the mirror and grasped the bedroom door handle, her heavy skirts swishing. Ada and Mrs. Somerville waited for her in the drawing room. And Lord Montagu would stop by. A flutter threaded through her. How would he act? Had her behavior freaked him out? Would she still find him attractive? And why the heck was she even wondering this?
A sob escaped Isabelle’s throat and she gripped the door handle tighter. She was stuck in the past. In 1834. How? And, more importantly, how could she get back? Was that even possible?
She had to find a way back.
To her house,
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