“Ho, don’t get angry, I’m just pulling your finger.” Off he went again, holding on to his stomach while he laughed his guts out. I waited until the worst of it was over.
“Yes, thank you. I’m so glad you found it funny enough to laugh your spleen up. About the horses—”
“Well, you don’t have to get whiffy with me about it!”
He doubled over, snorting in between howls of laughter. I resisted the urge to plant my foot on his extremely attractive behind. “Very clever. Truly, one cannot ever have too much flatulence humor. If you’ve finished, however, I’d like to talk to you about the horses. I’d like to go riding, and—”
“It’s an ill wind that does no one good.”
I sighed and waited patiently for the paroxysm to pass.
“Finished?” I asked as Alec wiped his eyes on his sleeve.
“Yes.”
“Are you sure? I wouldn’t want you to injure yourself by holding back a cutting the cheese comment.”
He snickered for a minute, then took a deep breath. “Oh, God, that felt good. Haven’t laughed that hard in a long time. You’re wanting to know about the horses, then?”
“If it’s not too much trouble.”
“No trouble at all—that’s why I’m here. Come along, we’ll take a look at them. They’re beauties, all of ‘em.” Alec stuck his hands in his breeches pockets and strolled off toward one of the outbuildings. I followed behind, thinking that earthy was exactly the right word to describe him and wondering how long it would take before the women playing the housemaids got into an argument over him.
Alec introduced me to the horses, all five of them. Two were used only with the brougham (the big carriage), but two of the remaining three did double duty as riding horses and horses that could be used with the gig and dog cart. The fifth horse was a particularly bad-tempered stallion named Abou who was intended for Max as his mount.
“Thanks for the tour, Alec. I think I’ll go with Talisman, unless you think Penny would be better.”
“You done much riding?” he asked, his curly blond head tipping to the side as he studied me.
“Lots. My brother-in-law has a cattle ranch. My husband and I used to spend our summers on it.”
“Ah,” he said, and absentmindedly scratched his crotch. At least I hoped it was an absentminded gesture and not some sort of subtle come-on. Not that he’d be coming on to me, since I was at least fifteen years older than him and probably a good twenty pounds heavier, but if he was, I hoped he wasn’t, because I had no intentions on finding out just what exactly what he knew about riding, if you get my drift. If you don’t, well, it’s a double entendre, and we’ll just leave it at that, shall we? “Penny was meant for any novice riders in the house. If you’ve experience, you’ll like Talisman better. When you want to take him out?”
“Oh . . . um . . . probably tomorrow. Early morning? Before breakfast?”
He studied the tips of his boots for a minute with a puzzled frown. “I’m supposed to feed and groom the horses first thing in the morning.”
“Oh, sorry, I forgot the schedule. I have one, too. Drat. I’m not supposed to get up until eight, but . . .” I gnawed on my lower lip for a minute. “Listen, Alec, I know how to saddle a horse. What say I trot down here about seven and take Talisman out for an hour? I’ll have him back in time for you to make him look pretty, and then I can pop upstairs and be where I’m supposed to be. Does that work for you?”
“I can have him ready for you at seven,” he said slowly, then he winked at me and nodded toward the house. “What they don’t know won’t hurt them, eh?”
I hated to enter into a conspiracy, on the very first day, against Roger and the team he had assembled but I have always loved early morning rides, and it seemed like a heaven-sent opportunity to get away from everyone for what I suspected was going to be a much needed sanity break.
I wheezed my way back to the house, making a brief stop to tour the front gardens, then played cat and mouse with Roger and Tabby, wandering around the house by myself, happily spending an hour in the library looking through the period magazines and newspapers Roger had provided. Tea was another filmed session. I had a slight tussle with Barbara over who would pour (I won by virtue of being stronger than she). She paid me back by ignoring me during the tea, chatting vivaciously with her husband (who looked bored), and Max (who wouldn’t meet my eye), batting her eyelashes and sending sickeningly coy looks to the camera. Tabby rolled her eyes when I peeked at her over my teacup, which made me swallow my tea wrong. I hope Roger appreciates the five minutes of film of me coughing and hacking and trying desperately to get some air into my lungs while at the same time getting the tea out of them.
By the time tea was over, I knew I had to do something about Max. He was not just avoiding looking at me, he looked downright miserable. Yeah, I know what you’re going to say—it was none of my business if he looked unhappy or not, but remember the epiphany I had earlier? Well that made it my problem, especially since I had a suspicion I had something to do with his grouchy look and refusal to look me in the eye.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?” I asked as we left the scarlet drawing room.
His lovely black brows pulled together in a frown.
“Oh, come on, Max, it’s just for a minute. You can time me if you like.”
He slid a glance over my shoulder to where Tabby was following Barbara and Henry out of the room.
“I’m afraid that’s impossible. I have work to do. If you will—”
“Work?” I asked, grabbing his arm and hauling him into the alcove over the stairs so Tabby and Matthew couldn’t pick us up on the microphone. “You’re supposed to be a duke, what work do you have to do?”
His eyes met mine for the first time all afternoon. I didn’t flinch at the look, although I wanted to. I swear there were little icebergs floating around the blue ocean of his eyes. “Regardless of what you think, I have work to do. I can’t let my business suffer just because I’m doing this for a month. Then there’s the estate accounts—Roger dumped the Worston’s books in my lap and told me I have to run the bloody place for a month. If you have experience running an estate this size, you’re welcome to do it. Otherwise, I must.”
“Oh, geez, sorry, I didn’t know.”
“Yes,” he said grimly, shaking off my hand from where it was gripping his sleeve. “There’s quite a bit you don’t know.”
He stalked off, leaving me open-mouthed with surprise, anger, irritation . . . and a raging desire to grab his head and kiss the snarl right off his lips.
“Well, I wanted a challenge. I guess I have one,” I said softly to myself as I watched Max’s back disappear down the stairs.
“Tenner says she doesn’t get him,” Matthew said behind me.
I turned to glare at him. Tabby looked from the stairs to me, her dark gray eyes coolly assessing what she saw. I lifted my chin and looked right back at her, a slow smile curling her lips. “Fifty says does.”
“Fifty? You’re on.” Matthew said with an obnoxious smirk. He looked back at me and smirked even more. “This ought to be good.”
Wednesday
September 1
10:23 P.M.
Curled up in bed
Have I mentioned the toilet facilities? I figured there was a bathtub behind the screen in my room, but it turns out the connecting room between Max’s and my room is the bathroom. That’s bathroom as in a room containing a bathtub and a sink and nothing else. The toilet was an authentic water closet, situated at the end of the hallway in a tiny little room that had probably originally been a maid’s room.
I discovered the WC earlier in the day, at the same time that I discovered that Victorian ladies’ drawers might have been split for convenience, but managing skirt, underskirt, petticoat, and drawers while corseted to the point that it was impossible to bend does not make for a happy experience. The WC itself was actually very pretty, done overall in a blue magnolia design with a polished
oak seat, no doubt worth a fortune to some antique collector, an irony that didn’t escape me as I put it to its traditional use.
Without putting too fine a point on it, I was thrilled to find I was correct with regards to the WC situation— it was for the family’s use, and thus I wouldn’t have to use the commode that sat behind the screen in my room. Ick. It just wasn’t worth thinking about.
So here I am, all tucked up in bed, having spent a good fifteen minutes scratching every inch of my torso after that tortuous corset came off.
Ellis had been less than sympathetic after dinner when I made my way back to my room and rang for her (I have to admit it was a bit fun to ring for a servant).
“I take it Your Grace is ready to retire for the evening,” she said sourly as she closed the door behind her a minute after I rang for her.
“How did you do that so quickly?” I asked, frankly astonished. “You had to run up two full flights of stairs and down the length of most of the house, and you’re not even breathing hard! I had to take an air break coming up from the dining room.”
Her lips turned up into what was probably a smile, although I wasn’t willing to bet money on it.
“I am quite used to wearing a corset. I find that it improves my ability to function efficiently. The benefits of good posture on productivity have long been overlooked.”
“Ah. Well, I’m more than ready to get this steel abomination off my body.”
She grimaced at my word choice, but with only a minor lecture about how I’d get used to the corset in time, she removed the red-and-pink velvet evening dress I’d donned earlier. It took ten minutes to strip me down to my combinations, at which point I tried to dismiss her.
“Your Grace will please remember the discussion we had this morning,” she said with more than a little menace in her voice.
I held up one hand, the other being used to scratch my stomach and sides. “OK, time for a deal—I let you dress me in the morning and for dinner, and you let me put myself to bed. I can get into my own jammies.”
“But—”
“And I can comb my own hair. I’ve been doing it for years, now.”
“I cannot allow—”
“Yes, you can,” I said, haughtily looking down my nose at her. “If you don’t agree to leaving me alone after you peel off the Compressor, I promise you that I’ll get dressed by myself every single day.”
Her nostrils, normally thin and pinched-looking, flared. I smiled. I knew I had her. “Do we have a deal?”
“It is not at all within the guidelines of what is permissible for a duchess—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know, but chalk it up to American eccentricities, OK?”
She took a deep breath. “Since you insist—”
“Great!” I said, pushing her toward the door. “Thanks! I’ll see you tomorrow at eight. Have a good night!”
The serious scratching took place as soon as I closed the door and turned the lock (just to make sure she didn’t come back in to force me into my nightgown). After peeling off the combinations and having a good scratch, not to mention a quick check of my ribs in the mirror to make sure they were still in the proper positions, I decided a bath was in order. Fortunately, the bathtub had taps, which meant I wouldn’t have to bother anyone to bring me water.
I slipped into a filmy lace-and-ribbon-bedecked creation that my grandmother would have called a peignoir and spent a moment in appreciation of the wardrobe ladies. I twirled around the room a couple of times, feeling girly and feminine and sexy, then scooped up the matching (equally lacy and ribbony) nightgown.
I belted out a few stanzas of “I Enjoy Being a Girl,” then danced a seductive dance to the bathroom, chuckling to myself. “This little outfit brings new meaning to Victoria’s Secret.”
“Do you think so? I’d say it leaves little left secret.”
I spun around, my frothy nightie falling from where I was about to hang it on a hook.
Max was in the claw-footed bathtub. Naked. Wet. With one soapy knee showing above the rim. My tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth as my eyes bugged out while they took in the magnificent sight of his bare chest. His wet bare chest. All if it, every blessed square inch of it, and there was a lot of chest.
“Um,” I said, my brain having overloaded and gone into emergency shutdown at the first appearance of carnal thoughts about a man I’d met just the day before.
“Was that you singing?” One glossy black eyebrow raised in question. “You have a lovely voice.”
“Um.”
“I didn’t recognize the song, although I agree with the basic sentiments.”
“Gark,” I said, just for variety.
Max’s beautiful chest rose as he took a deep breath. My tongue swelled up and filled my mouth as one bead of water broke free from his collarbone, swept down the swell of his pectoral muscle, winding its way through the scattering of dark hair, pausing a moment to cling to the very tip of a little brown nipple nestled in the damp curls before it flung itself off the edge and rolled down his belly, finally merging into the soapy water that lapped at his belly button.
I seriously thought I was going to pass out from the desire that exploded to life within me.
“Is there something in particular you wanted, Tessa, or did you come in here just to ogle me?”
“Can I?” I asked breathlessly, gathering up the lacy peignoir in order to plop myself down on the curved corner of the tub next to the taps.
He stared at me for a moment, then waved a hand around at the water. “I’m taking a bath!”
“Yeah, I know. You do it really well.”
He looked like he didn’t know whether to yell or laugh.
“Laughter’s better for you,” I pointed out helpfully, then leaned over and snagged the sponge that was floating around his knee. “Want me to wash you?”
“What?”
“Wash, you know,” I held up the sponge. “I’d be happy to do your back. And your front. And, um . . .” I couldn’t help but study the water that hid his lap from me. It was too soapy to see through, drat it all.
“Tessa, I . . . I . . .” He blinked a couple of times, then made a helpless gesture with his hands and let them fall. “I don’t know what to say. I’ve never had a woman proposition me while I was taking a bath.”
“Oh, I’m not propositioning you,” I said quickly. “I’m not suggesting we have sex. I’m a widow, you know.”
Both his eyebrows went up. “I didn’t know.”
“I am, and although my husband’s been dead for three years, and he told me over and over that last year that he wanted me to find someone else after he was gone, I’m not ready for that. Sex, that is. Well, I am ready for it, I mean. I’m only thirty-nine, and there’s times when I’m really . . . Well, you can imagine. So I’m interested in it, and I like it and everything, but emotionally, I’m not ready to take that step. It’s a big step, you know.”
“I know,” he said.
“Do you? Most men don’t. Most men think with their penises. At least the ones I know do.”
He leaned back in the tub, his arms stretched along the sides. I really liked what that movement did to his chest.
“You don’t look thirty-nine.”
“Really?” I looked down at myself and noticed that the peignoir was almost transparent where the water dripping off the sponge had dampened it. A little thrill went through me at the look in his eyes, leaving me feeling very naughty and wicked. “It’s because I’m . . . um . . . you know.” I waved a hand vaguely over my torso.
He frowned. “Brunette?”
I gritted my teeth. Did I have to point this out to every man I met? “Chunky.”
He looked the available parts of me over. “You’re not chunky.”
“I am, but that’s sweet of you to say I’m not. How old are you?”
“Thirty-four.”
I dropped the sponge. “Oh, my god! You’re five years younger than me!”
His eyebrows bobbed u
p and down as his soapy knee disappeared into the water. “Is that a problem?”
“You’re just a baby! I can’t think about seducing you if you’re five years younger than me.”
He opened his mouth to say something, closed it, shook his head, then said, “I thought you said you weren’t propositioning me.”
“I’m not, but I can think about it, can’t I? Except now I can’t.”
“Because you’re five years older than me?”
“You don’t have to say it like that,” I said, frowning. “You make me sound ancient when you say it that way.”
“My apologies. I can see that you’re anything but ancient.” His eyes dipped to where my breasts were thrusting themselves forward against the silk of the peignoir, demanding that I put them into his hands.
“Are you ogling me now?” I asked, aware of the warmth that started at my chest and rippled down to my groin, but ignoring both it and my breasts’ demands.
“Yes, I am. I thought it was only fair.”
“Oh. OK. I just wanted to know. I’m afraid I’m not as good to ogle as you are. I don’t suppose you’d like to stand up and let me see the rest of you?”
He stared at me for a minute, then laughed. “Tessa, you are one in a million.”
“Is that a no?”
“No, it’s a compliment. If you want me to stand up, I will, but I will warn you, I might shock you.”
“Really?” I looked him over, the parts I could see. Everything looked fine to me. “Why, do you have three balls or something?”
He laughed again, then suddenly lunged forward and got to his feet.
“Oh! I see! You meant I’d be shocked because you were—wow. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen one of those. Hoo!”
“Three years?” Max asked, standing in the middle of the tub, water and soap caressing his flesh as it slithered down his body.
“Longer. Peter—my late husband—had cancer for two years before he died. He was sick most of the time. Boy, you’re really . . .”
“Aroused?”
“Big.” I eyed the rest of him, feeling it was only polite to ogle all of him, not just his chest and penis. “Are you really, or do you just have to pee?”
Corset Diaries Page 9
