Corset Diaries

by Katie MacAlister

  The smile she sent the camera was so cloying it could have choked a horse. A big horse.

  “Um—”

  “Good, that’s settled, then. Max, be a love and tell Palmer that I’ll want the open carriage this afternoon. Now, I must be off. I have so much to do this morning. I’m behind on my letters, and that housemaid did a perfectly appalling job mending a petticoat I tore last night, and I thought I would pop in and see how Melody is doing with Mademoiselle, and of course, I will do the flowers, as I always do, and oh, a million other things that keep us ladies busy. Such a slave driver you are, Tessa! Do let me know if you need my help going over the accounts with Mrs. Peters. I am, as you know, completely at your service with regards to those little things in managing a large and important household that might have escaped your training in the States. Somehow, I will find the time to assist you. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me . . .” She rose gracefully from her chair, then stood for a moment, sending very pointed looks at the two men, until Max, with what I was willing to bet was a stifled oath, got to his feet. Henry lumbered to his as well, and Barbara, girlishly blowing her husband a kiss, bustled out of the room.

  “Wow. She’s good, isn’t she?” I asked.

  Tabby shook with silent laughter.

  Max dabbed at his lips, those wonderful, warm, expressive lips, and came around to pull back my chair. “I will see you as soon as I can, my dear,” he said loudly, for the camera’s benefit, then lifted my hand to kiss my fingers. “I’ll find you as soon as I finish,” he added softly, for my ears only.

  He kissed my fingers then, his eyes holding mine as he lifted my hand to his mouth. I knew it was just part of his ducal duties to make nice to the duchess, but I doubted if any Victorian duke kissed his wife’s hand the way Max did mine. It wasn’t so much a kiss as it was a tasting, the very tip of his tongue flicking between my fingers in a way that was utterly shocking, utterly . . . wonderful.

  “Holy cow,” I breathed, unable to take my gaze from his, a little tremor of pleasure rippling down my back.

  “I just thought you’d like to know what my tongue can do when it puts its mind to it,” he said, his eyes dancing wickedly.

  “Gark.” A wild desire to taste him—all of him—flared to life.

  His smiled deepened as he made a little bow, then he nodded to the camera and headed out the door. Henry followed him out of the room, leaving me alone with Tabby and Matthew. I looked straight at the camera and gave it a feeble smile.

  “The duke is a very wicked man,” I told the would-be audience of millions of viewers. Tabby grinned at me when I added, “It’s one of the things I like best about him.”

  After breakfast I met Mrs. Peters in the morning room for menu planning and accounts checking.

  “How are the spirits this morning?” I asked politely as I waved her toward a chair. She stiffened up and glanced back at Sam, who with Wilma was filming our consultation. “Please, Mrs. Peters, sit. I can’t possibly do the accounts with you lurking over me.”

  “The spirits are most unhappy, Your Grace,” she answered, perching warily on the edge of a blue embroidered chair. “The footmen mocked them last night. One of the spirits, Sir Ranleigh, was so offended that he wouldn’t rap at all.”

  “Maybe he’s into hip-hop instead,” I joked, chuckling to myself.

  She stared at me with eyes that resembled the boiled sweets in a bowl on a nearby gateleg table.

  “Rap? Hip-hop? Get it?”

  Evidently, she didn’t.

  “It is just such a reprehensible and frivolous attitude that the spirits find objectionable. They are not to be taken lightly.”

  I tried to look suitably chastised. I doubt if I succeeded, but I did try. “I would never want to offend a ghost.”

  “I should hope not,” Mrs. Peters said, her hands folded nicely in her lap. “Not only is it extremely ill-mannered to mock someone just because he’s dead, but the spirits have ways of making their displeasure known to their critics. I cannot imagine someone foolish enough to willfully incur their wrath.”

  I pushed down the snicker that was trying to free itself and forced my lips to stop twitching. “No, indeed, that would be the sheerest of follies. I myself live in perpetual dread of encountering otherworldly wrath. I imagine the titled ghosts, like Sir Ranleigh, are particularly vengeful.”

  She peered suspiciously at me to see if I was mocking her (I wasn’t, although I was gently teasing her a bit). “That is to be expected, of course. The noble ghosts have a much finer sensibility than . . . you know . . .”

  “The peon ghosts?” I asked helpfully.

  Wilma made snorting, gasping, choking sorts of sounds indicative of someone stifling laughter.

  Mrs. Peters tightened her lips. Her hair, I was secretly pleased to notice, was escaping its intended confinement, a fact that made me feel a bit better about my flyaway appearance earlier. “I wouldn’t go so far as to call them peons,” she answered. “They are simply not gentlefolk. Their manners are not quite as nice as those spirits of bluer blood.”

  “You know, I find this really interesting that you’re so willing to perpetuate a class division, even among the dead. Certainly, you’re not old enough that it was something you grew up with, and yet . . .” I glanced at the camera and decided that my observations would have to be saved for a less public airing. “Right, well—”

  “You will find that there is little difference between the living and those who have passed over to the other side,” she said primly. “Just as it is in the living, some spirits have that certain something, that innate sense of grandeur, that natural quality of superiority that sets them above lesser beings.”

  “You’re kidding—ghostly snobs?” I couldn’t help but ask.

  Her hackles rose as she snarled out, “There can be nothing snobbish about the recognition of quality, be it among those of flesh and blood and those occupying less corporeal bodies.”

  “Er—right.” I glanced at the camera again and decided to change the subject before she went over the edge. “So, what does Mrs. Billings have planned for lunch and dinner today?”

  She eyed me suspiciously for a moment, but evidently the innocent look I’d slapped on my face did the trick because she let her hackles deruffle. “Luncheon will be ragout mutton, oyster fritters, dressed cucumbers, French bread, Vienna twist, sponge cake, and blackberries and cream. Dinner will be dried pea soup, roast tame duck, browned potatoes, string beans, baked tomatoes, lettuce with mayonnaise, baked lemon tart, peach meringue, and feather cake.”

  “Ah. That sounds wonderful, although I wonder whose tame duck we’re having for dinner?”

  Mrs. Peters didn’t rise to the bait. “I couldn’t say, I’m sure.”

  The next hour was spent poring over the books with her, although by the end of the hour it was fairly clear that neither one of us really knew what we should be doing. That didn’t stop us, however, and since the TV show was fronting the money to run the household for a month, I figured it couldn’t hurt if I lavished a bit extra on things like additional helpings of butter and cream for the servants, as well as the purchase of new uniforms for all the servants, linens, mattresses, and copper laundry tubs. I knew that none of them would really be ordered, but I had fun indulging in a little make-believe Victorian shopping spree.

  I don’t think Mrs. Peters had fun at all. She didn’t crack a smile once, and my suggestion that we could make up the difference between the monthly household allowance and the amount I’d been authorized to spend in my shopping spree by charging people to see an authentic English ghost was met with icy disdain and a chill “I think not.”

  Call it a hunch, but I get the feeling Mrs. Peters doesn’t like me.

  Max made an appearance at lunch but left immediately afterward, saying he had important work to do. I was more than a little bit disappointed by his defection. I had wanted to investigate his lips a bit more, not to mention explaining how, statistically speaking, he was as old as I
was, but I couldn’t very well do that while he was elsewhere. My At Home time was scheduled to begin at 3:00 P.M. and run through tea, so an hour before I was due to take up my spot in the gold drawing room, I escaped the house and went for a walk down by the small lake.

  It was a fabulously gorgeous late summer day, warm but with enough of a breeze to keep it from being really hot, the sky a pure, perfect blue that inevitably made me think of Max’s eyes, the birds doing their swooping, fluttering, chirping thing, the air filled with the scent of tea roses that lined the walk down to the lake . . . everything that would have made for an absolutely perfect day if I hadn’t been strapped into a sadistic monstrosity of lace and steel, topped with about thirty-five pounds of pale blue-and-white cashmere.

  I know what you’re thinking—cashmere on a summer day? This is the very question I put to Ellis earlier in the day when she was dressing me.

  “That’s a lovely dress, but don’t you think it’s a bit too hot to wear in this weather? I’d hate to sweat all over that pretty cashmere.”

  Ellis is a woman without mercy. “You’re having your first At Home today. It’s important that you make the proper impression.”

  “Yeah, but I’ll get all hot and sweaty if I wear that outside.”

  She slipped the dress—for you Victorian aficionados, it was a neo-Greek design of a pale blue skirt draped over a white train, trimmed with gold embroidery done in a square Greek key pattern, with a blue bodice (square neck), and transparent white silk sleeves, edged with gilt braid, adorned by a pointed apron bit that layered over the skirt, finished with pleated white silk at the hem (whew! Say that three times fast!)—over my head, and basically ignored my objections. “Then don’t go outside. You have no need to take your guests outside.”

  “I don’t care about my guests, I want to go outside. I like taking walks. I need fresh air.”

  “You may request one of the footmen to open the window if you need air.”

  “I’m not a mole; I like to see the sun occasionally.”

  “The sun is bad for your skin.”

  “I don’t care if I get sunburned. I just don’t want to be lugging around a hundred pounds of dress on a hot day.”

  She did the narrowed lip-flared nostril thing at me. “Did you or did you not sign a contract agreeing to participate in this project to the utmost of your abilities?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “The dress is suitable for an At Home,” she said, her lips closing tightly over the words as she snapped them out. There was a note of finality in her voice that told me that argument would not do me any good. I debated whether or not I wanted to go to Roger to complain, then decided that I wouldn’t. I wasn’t a wimp. I would just tough this out.

  I glared at her as she tugged the pointy apron bit so it draped gracefully over my hips. “You are such a bully. I’m not going to forget this.”

  “Your opinions do not concern me in the least,” she answered, then moved around to the back to hook me up. “My job is to see you dressed properly, and that is what I will do, regardless of your approval.”

  It was a very pretty dress, and I have to admit that Ellis did a lovely job twining gold cord through my hair in a way I’d never be able to duplicate myself, but even so, I seethed as I picked out the Etruscan gold necklace and earrings that she offered from the jewelry case.

  By the time I strolled (elegantly, and armed with a parasol that Ellis insisted I take if I went outside), the sweat was rolling down my back beneath my corset, little snakes of perspiration trickling from behind my ears. I was hot. I was cranky. I was frustrated at my inability to best Ellis. In short, I was spoiling for a fight.

  It’s rather ironic that the first person I saw as I rounded a dense crescent of trees was the last man I wanted to argue with.

  “Hello. That’s a very pretty frock. Greek, is it?”

  I stopped in front of where Max sprawled on the grass, a fishing pole in one hand, a book in the other. “What are you doing out here? I thought you had tons of work to do.”

  He grinned up at me, an endearing grin, a boyish grin, a grin that was filled with conspiratorial glee. If I hadn’t been so blasted uncomfortable, I would have grinned back at him. “I decided I needed a break. Are you out for a ramble?”

  “Yes, despite Ellis’ warnings that five minutes in the sun will result in inoperable skin cancer.” I nudged his ribs with the toe of my shoes. “You could have told me you were going to play hooky today. I want to talk to you.”

  “Do you? How nice. I’d like that. Sit. If you behave yourself as a proper duchess and amuse me with witty anecdotes and amusing repartee, I’ll even allow you to hold my pole.”

  The wicked glint in his eyes told me he was well aware of the double entendre of his comment.

  “Do you go around offering pole holding to every woman you meet, or is it confined to just those of us lugging around two hundred pounds of cashmere?”

  He tipped his head to the side and looked puzzled.

  “Oh, stop it, that’s only cute when my rib cage hasn’t been crushed into powder. I can’t sit, you boob. I’ll get my dress dirty, and then Ellis will have the hissy fit to end all hissy fits. She’s already told me that she had to spend hours cleaning the blouse of my riding habit, and I only had it on for a little bit.”

  Max set his book and fishing pole down, stood up, shook out his coat—lying over a branch—and laid it on the ground, gesturing toward it in the best Sir Walter Raleigh manner. “My lady, if you please.”

  “That’s Your Grace to the likes of you, buster,” I said, a bit mollified. The thought of spending the next hour alone with Max did a lot to make up for being bound into a garment more suited to the outer reaches of Mongolia, and if I was a bit less than graceful as I sat on his coat, he didn’t say anything.

  “I thought you said I got to hold your pole?”

  He grinned. “Shall I leave the choice of which pole you wish to hold up to you, or would you like me to choose?”

  “You ought to have your mind washed out with soap,” I answered, and held out my hand for the fishing pole.

  He lay back on the grass, his eyes closed, his hands clasped behind his head. “Now that you have my pole firmly grasped, your fingers wrapped lovingly around its base as you caress its length with long, firm strokes, you may begin the amusing anecdotes and witty repartee portion of the afternoon.”

  I laughed and pinched a section of silk waistcoat that covered his side. “You’re incorrigible.”

  “Yes, but that’s what you like about me.”

  “You’re also conceited.”

  “No, I just have a healthy appreciation for what a passionate woman can do with my pole in her hands.”

  His eyes were still closed, but he was smiling.

  “How do you know that I’m passionate?”

  One eye opened and stared at me in surprise. “You are passionate.”

  “I know I am, but how do you know that?”

  “I’m a man. I know.”

  “Oh, right, it’s one of those man things; thinking with your penis again. Ha. I scoff at your man thing.”

  He rolled onto his side and trailed a finger down the thin, translucent silk of my elbow-length sleeve. I shivered despite the heat of the afternoon sun. “You weren’t laughing at my man thing last night.”

  I set down the pole and turned to face him. “Sirrah, are you trying to seduce me, a duchess, right here in the open, with scandalous talk of man things and poles and long, loving strokes of my hands and mouth thereupon?”

  He tugged me down until I was lying next to him, our mouths an inch apart. “If I thought you would appreciate my advances, yes, I would seduce you right here where we are hidden away in our own little bower, with the sun shining down on those beautiful breasts of yours.”

  “You like my breasts?” I asked against his lips, unable to stop myself from taking little nipping kisses.

  “Very much,” he answered, his hand sliding down the cur
ve of my hip, pulling me closer to him.

  “How sweet of you. I’ve named them, you know.”

  His eyes widened. “You named your breasts?”

  I smiled, allowing myself to melt into him as he rolled onto his back, holding me on top of him. “Well, no, I haven’t really, but I might someday. Max, let me go. If someone came around those trees, they could see us. Besides, I’m way too heavy for you.”

  “No, you’re not.” His hand slipped down my thigh, tugging up my dress.

  “Yes, I am. I’ll squash you flat.”

  The fingers of both hands were involved now, underneath my skirts, sliding up my thighs, burning a trail even through the thin linen of my combinations. “You went riding this morning?”

  “Yes,” I answered, distracted by the sweet kisses, the heat of his mouth that seemed somehow to be connected to the fire his fingers were generating.

  “If you sit up . . .” he said, his fingers discovering the slitted part of the drawers. I shivered with delight as he stroked his way up the last little bit of my thighs, more than a little surprised at the strength of my reaction to his touch. I wanted him to touch me, burned for him to touch me. “. . . you can go riding again.”

  I pushed myself off his chest a bit, moaning as his fingers found the sensitive little parts of me. “Maximillian, that was another proposition.”

  “Yes, it was. Do you like me doing this?” His fingers caressed my hot, humid flesh that had all but started dancing in its delight with his actions.

  “Yes. Yes, I do. Do it some more.”

  He did. I melted.

  “This is a very intimate act, Tessa.”

  I rocked my pelvis against his hand. One finger slipped inside me. “Holy cow! Yes, yes, oh yes, it’s very intimate. Can you—oh, my!”

  “This is surely as intimate an act as kissing with tongues.”

  It took a minute for his words to make sense, so caught up was I in admiration for the sheer brilliance of his finger work, but when they did, I shook my head. “No. That’s more intimate. This is . . . oh, baby! . . . this is . . . I think . . . I think . . . good lord, man, your fingers ought to be illegal!”