Excerpt of Must Love Breeches by Angela Quarles

A reenactment ball was the perfect setting for romance. Or
not.

Isabelle Rochon fidgeted in her oddly-shaped-but-oh-so-
accurate ball gown, surrounded by women who’d sacrificed
historical authenticity for sex appeal. Red carpet ball
gowns in the nineteenth century, really? Once again she was
like the dorky kid participating in dress-up day at school
when everyone else had magically decided it was lame.

“Gah. I feel like a green robot with strange battle armor.”
Isabelle pointed to her dark green dress, the shoulders
flaring out almost to a point, exaggerating their width.
“What were the fashionistas in 1834 thinking?”

“I have no bloody idea.” Jocelyn squeezed the poof of
fabric at her shoulder. “These huge-ass sleeves are
ridiculous.”

“Ah, screw it, we’re having fun, right? I’m not going to
self-sabotage the ball. Not after all the time I spent
obsessing over my costume.”

“And obsessing over the etiquette rules.”

“That too.” Besides, how fun was it to learn Jocelyn shared
her obsession with guys in period clothes and bodice-ripper
romances?

Isabelle eyed a guy strolling past in tight-fitting, buff-
colored pantaloons. She pitched her voice to be heard over
the string quartet. “Hmm. How about the clothes on that
daring derriere?”

Jocelyn sucked on her olive and plopped the empty stir
stick into her martini. “Oh, yes. Definitely a breech-
ripper.”

Isabelle choked on her Bellini, the champagne fizz tickling
her throat and nose. This was the first opportunity they’d
had to socialize outside work, so she treated this moment
delicately, afraid to puncture the mood. No need to point
out he sported pantaloons, not breeches.

She should ease up on the drink, though. She didn’t want to
get plastered at the Thirty-fourth Annual Prancing Through
History Reenactment Ball. Especially since her new
colleagues would be around. And her boss. She needed to
impress him.

“Look lively,” Jocelyn said, her voice low, with a dollop
of teasing. “Here comes the office hottie.”

She’d been cultivating a mild crush on Andrew since
starting her new job at the British Museum six months ago.
The whole situation was perfect. A guy in the same field
would respect her interests, wouldn’t expect her to give up
her profession for a relationship. He was safe. If it
worked out, great, if not, no biggie. She was happy,
finally, with how her life was working out.

She’d pictured him in period clothing before, looking
resplendent.

He did.

“Hi, Andrew.” Her voice came out a little too high. Jeez,
could she sound any more like a lovesick fool? She always
did this around gorgeous men—went ga-ga as if she couldn’t
rub two brain cells together. She gazed around the Duke of
Chelmsford’s newly renovated ballroom and pretended as if
her breath hadn’t quickened and her body hadn’t heated at
the sight of Andrew.

“Hello, Isabelle. Jocelyn.” Andrew nodded. His smile felt
like a gift for her alone.

Her pulse throbbed. He’d sought her out. Play it cool. Say
something witty. “So, uh, having fun yet?” Having fun yet?

Something, or someone, in the crowd hogged his attention.
She followed his gaze until she found it. Or rather him.
Their boss at the bar.

Andrew faced her and the remnants of calculation on his
hot-as-heck features disappeared behind his over-bright
grin.

He leaned closer.

The artificial tang of his cologne drifted her way. She
wrinkled her nose.

“Well done on the Whittaker exhibit. Finding that journal
was a bit of a coup. It’ll be a fine addition to the
exhibit, once it’s built.”

He’d noticed. She’d worked damn hard. “Thank you.” Why
couldn’t Brits find her Southern accent as sexy as she
found theirs?

“Glad you came across the pond to work with us. That find
should put you in the running for the promotion.”

Good. The promotion would mean she could stay in London.
Well, it would make staying easier. No matter what, she was
determined to remain.

“Of course, you’ll have to beat me out.”

Cold clarity hit her stomach like accidentally gulping a
glass of iced gin instead of iced water, jolting her from
her usual foray into Incoherent Land around attractive
guys. “You’re applying too?” Of course he was.

“Without a doubt. Career changer and all. I’m a shoo-in.
Sure you still want to apply?”

Could she scrub the smug look off his face? She settled for
the less satisfactory, but more controlled, “Yes.”

Now catching her boss’s attention was more important than
ever. Besides wanting to escape into another era, she’d
also hoped her costume would impress him. She glanced at
the wet bar. Drat. Where had her boss gone?

Andrew slipped his hand around her elbow, pulling her
closer. “How about we ditch this party and grab a pint? You
and me.” He ignored Jocelyn, who stared back and forth
between them.

It all made sense—his sudden interest after dismissing her
for months, the calculation she’d caught when he’d turned
back—he thought he’d intimidate and charm her into giving
up the position.

She yanked her arm free, saying, “Fat chance, you smarmy
horndog,” which cut through the room because, of course,
the music had just ended.

Jocelyn snorted her drink, eyes watering, and coughed,
fighting to catch her breath. For a moment, her coughing
was the only sound punctuating the silence.

The curious eyes of the onlookers made Isabelle feel as if
a huge moat had sprung up around her. The moat of Beware,
All Ye Who Enter—Idiot in the Center. If one of those eyes
were her boss…

Andrew trotted out his grin, the one that used to make her
insides hum. “Thought we had a connection. No?” He backed
away, hands up, eyes locked with hers in a you’re-such-a-
fool stare, his heels snapping on the marble floor with
each backward step. “Cheers, then, babe. May the best man
win.” He nodded and sauntered off.

Jocelyn, bless her, completely ignored the Moat of
Embarrassment and stepped to Isabelle’s side. “How had we
never noticed what an ass he was?”