ripping a seam. Unable to adjust without attracting notice, she needed an excuse to stand. “Do you have a book I can read, too?”
“Of course, help yourself.” Mrs. Somerville waved to a Hepplewhite side table stacked with books. “If you do not find anything that strikes your fancy, there are more in the library. We are avid readers.”
Isabelle stood, adjusted her dress, and walked to the table. She choked back a squeal.
Her holy grail lay nestled among the books stacked and scattered haphazardly on the table: the 1833 Bentley edition of Jane Austen’s novels. The edition that launched her to fame. Easily worth $6,000 in Isabelle’s time. So strange to see them, and everything else, brand new, instead of mellowed with age and loving use.
Isabelle pulled out her favorite, running her hand across the calf-bound spine and the shiny, gilt letters spelling Persuasion below Northanger Abbey. She opened the book and stuck her nose inside, inhaling the crisp, inky smell of new-book, instead of the expected mustiness of old-book. Smiling, she went to her seat with her selection.
The familiar words of a much-loved story helped to anchor her, and she fell under the spell of Austen.
A footman entered some time later, interrupting them. Drat―she’d finally gotten to the heroine.
“Lord Montagu,” he announced.
Butterflies took up residence in Isabelle’s belly and flapped as if their lives depended on it. She snapped her book closed, placed it beside her, and clasped her hands tightly in her lap.
“Ladies.” He swept into the room behind the footman. In his hand he carried a box tied with string. “It is a pleasure.”
His rumbling baritone agitated her butterflies further. She kept her eyes on Lord Montagu, admiring him all over again.
Her mouth went dry. Keep it together, Isabelle.
He, however, hadn’t glanced her way―obviously he had no trouble resisting her.
Just as well. When she crushed, she crushed hard.
Mrs. Somerville and Ada stood and greeted him. Isabelle hastened to follow suit, mimicking their curtsey. The older lady instructed the footman to have the tea things sent in.
Ada stepped forward. “Lord Montagu, you remember my cousin, Miss Rochon?”
Isabelle curtseyed again, unsure if she’d executed a premature curtsey earlier.
He stepped forward, his gaze still on Ada, his eyebrows arched in surprise. “Cousin?”
Lord Montagu was Ada’s second cousin on her maternal grandmother’s side of the family, so Ada had decided Isabelle would be one from her maternal grandfather’s side. While it would have been much easier to pretend a connection from Lord Byron’s side, Ada had assured Isabelle it would have been too unbelievable; Ada rarely associated with relations from that branch since her mother’s separation with Lord Byron.
“Yes, Granpapa’s sister Amelia emigrated to America and married a Frenchman in Mobile, Alabama. Miss Rochon has journeyed here to visit us for a while. She is to be my companion.” Ada stared at him, eyes narrowed.
His piercing gaze finally left Ada’s and trained on Isabelle’s, burrowing within. He then surveyed her form and the same frisson of excitement zipped down her spine as last night.
Isabelle locked her knees and when his gaze returned to hers, she added her silent plea to Ada’s. At this distance, she couldn’t get a good peek at his eyes to see if she’d imagined their differing colors.
He bowed. “Indeed, welcome. I do not know my great uncle’s side of the family well, but I am at your service.”
Isabelle did her best to curtsey again. Those hours and hours of re-watching the BBC’s Pride and Prejudice just might pay off.
His focus switched to her hands. She clasped them together, grateful again to Ada for loaning her gloves. He returned his gaze to hers and held. But—weird—he looked both relieved and disappointed, a low heat simmering in the depths of his eyes, causing an answering flare of warmth within herself.
She sat
“Of course, help yourself.” Mrs. Somerville waved to a Hepplewhite side table stacked with books. “If you do not find anything that strikes your fancy, there are more in the library. We are avid readers.”
Isabelle stood, adjusted her dress, and walked to the table. She choked back a squeal.
Her holy grail lay nestled among the books stacked and scattered haphazardly on the table: the 1833 Bentley edition of Jane Austen’s novels. The edition that launched her to fame. Easily worth $6,000 in Isabelle’s time. So strange to see them, and everything else, brand new, instead of mellowed with age and loving use.
Isabelle pulled out her favorite, running her hand across the calf-bound spine and the shiny, gilt letters spelling Persuasion below Northanger Abbey. She opened the book and stuck her nose inside, inhaling the crisp, inky smell of new-book, instead of the expected mustiness of old-book. Smiling, she went to her seat with her selection.
The familiar words of a much-loved story helped to anchor her, and she fell under the spell of Austen.
A footman entered some time later, interrupting them. Drat―she’d finally gotten to the heroine.
“Lord Montagu,” he announced.
Butterflies took up residence in Isabelle’s belly and flapped as if their lives depended on it. She snapped her book closed, placed it beside her, and clasped her hands tightly in her lap.
“Ladies.” He swept into the room behind the footman. In his hand he carried a box tied with string. “It is a pleasure.”
His rumbling baritone agitated her butterflies further. She kept her eyes on Lord Montagu, admiring him all over again.
Her mouth went dry. Keep it together, Isabelle.
He, however, hadn’t glanced her way―obviously he had no trouble resisting her.
Just as well. When she crushed, she crushed hard.
Mrs. Somerville and Ada stood and greeted him. Isabelle hastened to follow suit, mimicking their curtsey. The older lady instructed the footman to have the tea things sent in.
Ada stepped forward. “Lord Montagu, you remember my cousin, Miss Rochon?”
Isabelle curtseyed again, unsure if she’d executed a premature curtsey earlier.
He stepped forward, his gaze still on Ada, his eyebrows arched in surprise. “Cousin?”
Lord Montagu was Ada’s second cousin on her maternal grandmother’s side of the family, so Ada had decided Isabelle would be one from her maternal grandfather’s side. While it would have been much easier to pretend a connection from Lord Byron’s side, Ada had assured Isabelle it would have been too unbelievable; Ada rarely associated with relations from that branch since her mother’s separation with Lord Byron.
“Yes, Granpapa’s sister Amelia emigrated to America and married a Frenchman in Mobile, Alabama. Miss Rochon has journeyed here to visit us for a while. She is to be my companion.” Ada stared at him, eyes narrowed.
His piercing gaze finally left Ada’s and trained on Isabelle’s, burrowing within. He then surveyed her form and the same frisson of excitement zipped down her spine as last night.
Isabelle locked her knees and when his gaze returned to hers, she added her silent plea to Ada’s. At this distance, she couldn’t get a good peek at his eyes to see if she’d imagined their differing colors.
He bowed. “Indeed, welcome. I do not know my great uncle’s side of the family well, but I am at your service.”
Isabelle did her best to curtsey again. Those hours and hours of re-watching the BBC’s Pride and Prejudice just might pay off.
His focus switched to her hands. She clasped them together, grateful again to Ada for loaning her gloves. He returned his gaze to hers and held. But—weird—he looked both relieved and disappointed, a low heat simmering in the depths of his eyes, causing an answering flare of warmth within herself.
She sat
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