Paulina Rostakova’s Adventures
JULY 18
6:14 p.m.
Dorcet Hotel, New York City, Room 1107
Tessa told me that the dinner tonight with the production company would allow all the participants to meet one another, and then we’d go off to be measured for costumes. I was going to wear my maxi skirt, but decided I’d better trot out the fancy green dress instead.
“Good idea,” Julia approved, her voice tinny and distant since I had her on speakerphone while I hurriedly got dressed. “Not that the skirt isn’t cute, but you might as well have your first impression be one of elegance and charm.”
“I am anything but either of those two, but thank you for the vote of confidence.”
“You’re welcome. Now go forth and conquer Mr. Right.”
I rolled my eyes. “Tessa said there were some handsome Italians, too.”
“Oooh. I’ll look at the Web site and see if they have their pictures. Just don’t drop a wall down, OK, lovey?”
“A wall?”
“The kind you erect to keep men out of your life.”
“I don’t do any such thing,” I protested.
“You may not know it, but you do. I understand—I really do—but now that you’ve finally made your break from your father, don’t slip into old defense mechanisms. You’re free—let down your hair and enjoy yourself.”
“I’m not as free as you think,” I muttered, and told her about Boris.
“I’d like to say I’m surprised, but honestly, given your father’s behavior, I’m not. Are you sure you ditched him?”
“I hope so. I made it pretty clear I’d have him removed from the area if he tried to follow me.”
“Good for you. Whoops—Sanjay just got here. Have a great time, and text me later, OK?”
“Will do. Laters!”
I’m not a shy person, but I was a bit hesitant about entering the hotel ballroom that had been reserved for the production company. A dozen or so round tables were set up, as were a big whiteboard and a screen for a laptop projector. People bustled about, laughing, chatting, and generally making the sort of happy sounds that indicated a successful party.
“Name?”
I jumped a little when I entered the room and a young man with a clipboard popped up.
“Oh. Hi. Um, Paulina Rosta—uh—” I stopped and remembered that, except with immigration officials, I was supposed to use my mother’s maiden name.
“Paulina Rosta?” The man frowned at his paper and flipped through a couple of sheets.
“No, it’s Paulina Lewes. Sorry.”
“Ah. Yes, you’re here. You’re at table six.” He nodded into the room. “The meet and greet will go on for another twenty minutes; then Roger will welcome you.”
“Gotcha.” I entered the room, my head up, my stomach knotted with nerves, and my palms sweaty. “Steady,” I told myself. “Nellie wouldn’t have blanched at the idea of a bunch of strangers in a room.”
“I totally agree,” a voice said behind me. “Although I don’t know this Nellie person. Is she famous?”
I spun around to see a blond woman in her mid-twenties pouting at her phone, clearly taking pictures of herself. “Hi. Um. Nellie is Nellie Bly. She was an intrepid woman reporter in the 1880s.”
“Oh.” The girl rolled her eyes and took another selfie. “Why do you care what she thinks? She’s got to be, like, almost dead now.”
“She is dead. She died in 1922.”
“So thrilling.” The girl stopped admiring herself in her phone’s camera and looked around the room. “Oh god, they’re here. They’re sure to want to drool all over my tits.”
I blinked at both her comment and the way she hoisted up her substantial bosomage, generously displayed in a skintight spandex dress. “Uh . . .”
“The Italians. They’re animals, all of them,” she said, striking a pose when one of them lifted his hand to wave at her. “All they want to do is get in my pants. As if. I’m holding out for the lord’s brother.”
“The who now?”
“One of the English teams has two brothers of a real English lord on it. Can you imagine being a lady with a real castle? You could totally have a show about that.”
“A show,” I repeated, feeling particularly stupid. “A TV show?”
“Yeah. My dad’s the producer,” she said, suddenly raking me over with a scathing glance. “You one of the crew?”
“I guess so. I’m going to be in the suffragette car.”
She stared at me for a minute, then made a disgusted noise in the back of her throat. “No offense, but you aren’t at all the sort of person who should be in my car.”
“Your car?”
“I’m the lead suffragette.” She tapped at her phone, sliding through a number of texts. “Dad was going to make me be in the U.S. car, but Mom put a stop to that. As if I was going to ride around in a car where you can’t even see me?”
“I don’t think I know what you’re talking about,” I said, confused. “You mean the car had a top? I thought they were all convertibles back then?”
She flipped through more text messages. “The U.S. car—you know, the modern one?” I must have looked as puzzled as I felt, because she continued, with another irritated noise. “There are two races. One for the old cars, and one two months later for the new ones. Mom says the cameras are going to be on the old cars more because we’ll be wearing costumes, and it’s all very Downton Abbey, and people like that sort of thing. The new-car race is just a race, you know.”
“Huh. I had no idea there were two separate races, but I guess it makes sense.”
“So.” She tucked away her phone and gave me a pointed look. “You’ll be on my team, then. Naturally, I’ll be the driver and the spokeswoman for the group, and the English girl said she can do the navigation stuff, which means you get to be the mechanic. I hope you’re handy with tools.”
“Uh . . .” She sashayed off before I could answer, making for a cluster of men in identical shiny midnight blue suits. I gathered by the way they greeted her that they were the Italian team, and had to admit that Tessa was right—they were easy on the eyes.
Just as I was thinking of joining the group in order to meet my fellow race contestants, a small gaggle of women and a man entered the ballroom. The man stopped to talk to the guy at the door, but the three women made a beeline for the Italians, who greeted them with cries of joy.
“Well, hell,” I said aloud to myself, my spirits dropping at the sight of the women clinging to the men. “There goes my shot at sexual gratification with a handsome foreigner.”
I felt a movement at my side and turned to see the man who had entered with the women was now next to me, giving me a quizzical look that included a raised eyebrow.
“Tell me you didn’t just hear me say that,” I said, blushing like crazy.
“I’m afraid I did.”
“Oh god. And you’re . . . British?”
“I am,” he said, inclining his head in agreement. One side of his mouth twitched. “I believe that, technically, that makes me a foreigner.”
“Oh god,” I repeated, and covered my face.
He gave a hoarse little chuckle, a sound that was oddly pleasing despite the fact that I wished the ground would open up before me so I could fling myself in. “I’m sorry—that was unfair of me.”
“Unfair?” I opened my fingers so I could look at him through them. “How so?”
“‘Unkind,’ perhaps, is a better word,” he said after a moment’s thought. “I’ve embarrassed you either way, and for that I apologize.”
I dropped my hands and considered him. He was a little taller than me and had short auburn hair, hazel eyes that were mostly grayish blue, and a strong jaw that made my stomach quiver a little. “I’m the one who says something inappropriate, and you apologize? You definitely are British.” I smiled to make sure he understood I was gently teasing him, and added, “I’m Paulina Rostakova, by the way, but I go by Paulie. Oh crap. I meant Paulie Lewes.”
“Indeed?” He looked somewhat surprised by my correction.
“Yeah, it’s a bit complicated. My dad won’t let me use my name because . . . well, because reasons.”
He offered his hand, which I shook while he said, “I’m Dixon Ainslie. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Paulie Lewes.”
“Oh, you’re one of Mercy’s brothers-in-law.”
He froze for a couple of seconds. “You know Mercy? Do you also know Alice?”
“I can’t say that I do. Know anyone named Alice, that is.”
“Good,” he said, relaxing. “I thought she might have decided that since Rupert wasn’t answering . . . I thought you might be . . .”
I waited for him to finish. “What?” I asked when he didn’t continue.
He made a face. “My sister-in-law has a habit of trying to pair off all of us. My brothers and me. She’s been riding on a high ever since she sent Mercy down to help Alden, and lately she’s turned her attention to my brother Rupert and me.”
“A matchmaker, huh? I have a friend like that, only she just wants me to hook up with people. Hence the comment about getting it on with a handsome foreigner.” It struck me at that moment that he was the man who I had dibsed on the race Web site, which of course made my blush go even hotter. “Well, this is definitely going to be one for the journal.”
“Pardon?”
I shook my head and made a vague waving gesture. “Just ignore me. The jet lag has clearly turned off the filter between my brain and mouth.”
“I understand that.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s the middle of the night for me.”
“Ugh.”
“Are you a writer, then?”
“Me? No.”
“You mentioned a journal, so I thought perhaps you were a writer, too. My brother writes thrillers.”
“Very cool. I’m a cozy mystery lover myself, but every now and again I dip my toes into thrillers. What’s his name?”
“Elliott. Are you one of those . . . what do they call them . . . scrapbookers?”
“I wish I was—some of those people go crazy wild with decorations and things. My journal is new—I’m recording everything that happens during the race. All the conversations, all the stuff I do and see, all the exciting adventures we have. And then, when it’s over, I hope to publish it. I’m a big fan of Nellie Bly—have you heard of her?”
He shook his head, so I spent a few minutes telling him about her and her exploits.
“She sounds quite intrepid. The journal idea is . . . interesting.”
“You should do one as well,” I told him, smiling. “You could do the man’s perspective and publish it, too!”
He looked thoughtful. “It’s something to consider. I’ve always liked record keeping, and in fact one of the few perks of my job is annotating Elliott’s estate books with notes about the tenants, crops, and so on.”
“You work on an estate? Oh, that’s right—your brother is a lord.”
“Just a baron, actually, and yes, I’m the estate manager.” His expression warned it wasn’t something he enjoyed.
“You don’t look like you’re super happy about that fact,” I said.
“It’s a job. We all have them,” he pointed out.
“Not me.” I made a little grimace. “Unless you call being a serial volunteer a job, which I guess in a way it is. So you like journaling—have you done much of it?”
“None. You?”
“I’m a journaling virgin, too,” I said, excited to have a journal buddy. “You can always give it a try, and if you don’t like it, let it go.”
“I’ll give it a thought,” he said. “So you don’t know Alice, but you are a friend of Mercy? I’ve only met her once, but she makes my brother very happy and is quite charming.”
“I don’t know her, as a matter of fact.” Together, we strolled toward one of the tables set up with a variety of beverages. “She’s the niece of my stepmom. I chatted with her via e-mail, but that’s about it. Why, is she a matchmaker, too?”
He gave a faux shudder. “Not that I know of. I take it if you’ve been in contact with Mercy that you’re the American she mentioned who is joining the women’s team?”
“Suffragettes, that’s right. I just met the leader of the team.” I dropped the volume of my voice, glancing around to make sure no one could hear me, and leaned in to him to whisper, “She’s a bit of a diva, I think.”
Dixon, to my horror, stepped back just as if I had been covered in cooties. I blushed again and busied myself with examining the bottles and glasses on the table, telling myself that I was a fool, a big, awkward, idiotic fool who spoke without thinking and leaned close to men who didn’t like that sort of thing.
“Sorry,” Dixon murmured, looking extremely uncomfortable.
“No, it’s my fault,” I said, taking the high ground and apologizing. “I shouldn’t have leaned into you that way. Not everyone likes it. Just so you know, I have a couple of gay friends.”
His eyes widened. “I’m not gay.”
“No? Well, then I guess it’s just me.” I swallowed down the hurt sting of that knowledge and turned away to grab an open bottle. I had no idea what was in it, but at that moment I didn’t care so long as it was alcoholic.
“This is horribly awkward. I suppose I should—”
I didn’t find out what he should do because at that moment a man with a fringe of red hair around a mostly bald head tapped on a microphone set up in the middle of the ballroom and said, “Hello? Is this on? Ah, it is. Hello, old friends, members of the crew, and new recruits. Welcome to what is going to be the greatest show on earth! If I could get everyone to grab a seat, we can get on with the orientation.”
A quick glance at Dixon showed me he was avoiding looking at me, which stung even more. I headed off to the nearest table, still yelling at myself mentally, although, to be honest, I couldn’t figure out what I’d done that had so offended him. Maybe I smelled of body odor?
I took my seat and used the opportunity of setting my purse on the ground to take a covert sniff of my armpits. Nothing was amiss there, so I pulled out a small pocket mirror and made sure I didn’t have anything unsavory poking out from my nose, or obnoxious eye grit, or potatoes growing out of my ears.
Dixon took another seat at my table. Not next to me, but one away, and just as I was thinking of how to say something to him, Tessa bustled up with a tall dark-haired man in tow. “There you are! We were looking for you. Paulie, this is my husband, Max.”
“Pleasure,” Max said, giving me a little head nod before holding out a chair for Tessa. She sat directly next to me, chatting happily as her husband took the chair on the other side of her. I looked at Tessa and, suddenly feeling annoyed, looked at Dixon and cocked an eyebrow at him.
His jaw tightened, but he couldn’t do more because at that moment Tessa asked his name and he had to respond.
“You must be the third English team! Max and I and a friend are in the duke’s car. Awesome. Jeez, Roger, keep your knickers on! We were just meeting and greeting!”
The last was in response to the bald man saying pointedly into the microphone that they would get started just as soon as the noise died down.
The man—who must have been Roger d’Espry, the producer—made a face at Tessa. She blew him a kiss.
“Welcome, again, everyone. I’m so glad to say that, as of four o’clock this afternoon, we’ve filled the last position of team members. The modern race teams are still being pulled together, but as they are being filmed by a different production company, we will have little to do with them.” He gave us a warm smile. “I think we all know which race the public will prefer! Now, I thought we’d have some brief introductions first, just so everyone knows who everyone else is. I am Roger d’Espry, producer with Vision! Studios, and this is Graham Strey, our resident mechanical genius responsible for our fine mostly vintage automobiles. Graham, stand up.”
A harassed man of about fifty or so stood, a pair of glasses pushed to the top of his head. He waved wanly.
“Next is our beloved crew. Tabby, Sam, Dermott, and Clarissa are our film-and-sound teams, and they are the people who’ll be capturing your every word, so make sure they’re good ones.” Roger laughed heartily. There were a few polite titters, but most of us just looked uncomfortable.
Four people who were at the far table stood up and waved. One of the women pointed at Tessa, who gave her a thumbs-up.
“There are seven production members connected with the studios. Stand up, gang.”
I kind of zoned out at the introduction of a bunch of people who were evidently responsible for all the work to keep the production going, as well as a handful of race officials who would be keeping tabs on the racers.
“More about that later at the race meeting,” Roger said when the five men and women who were the officials retook their seats. “And now, the talent! I see that you’re somewhat mixed up at various tables, so if you’ll just stand when I call out your team names, we can zip through the intros. First we have the Essex Esses: Samuel, Stephen, and Sanders. Gentlemen, if you would stand . . .”
Three men in their mid-thirties stood, their hands held up in triumph.
“Next we have the Ravishing Romeos, our friends from Italy in the form of Carlo, Luca, and Francesco.” The three dark-haired men rose and bowed. Several women cheered loudly, which made them preen.
“The fine country of Germany has given us the Hessen Hausfraus: Anna, Martina, and Claudia. Ladies?”
Three women rose, all of them in their forties or later, and each wearing an identical purple tracksuit. They looked like comfortable moms, and I wondered what on earth they were doing on an around-the-world race. “Empty nesters, do you think?” I murmured to Tessa.
“Probably. I bet they’re going to be hellish competition, though,” she whispered back. “They look sweet, but that probably means they’re ruthless and will beat us all.”
“Representing Britain we have three teams. First up is the Engaging Englishmen in the form of brothers Dixon and Rupert, and a man who is no doubt familiar to anyone who watches reality TV, star of both Strictly Come Dancing and the hit reality show Three Men in a Flat: Kell! Gentlemen?” With a little sigh, Dixon got to his feet. Across the room, a man I assumed was his brother bobbed up, while seated centrally to Roger was a third, a goateed man with long blond hair pulled back in a man-bun. He rose, waved, blew some kisses, bowed, and made the Namaste gesture before bowing a few more times.
“The ham element of the show,” Tessa said in an undertone.
“You think?” I asked, not at all impressed by Kell.
“Oh, definitely. Roger told us he made all sorts of demands about guaranteed amount of time on camera, saying he was bringing his sizable audience to the show.”
“So he’s a real celebrity, not just one of those reality people who like to post pictures of their asses on social media and believe their every move is of vital interest to the world?”
“On the contrary, he’s exactly like that. He was thrown off of the Three Men show after the fourth week, and likewise only lasted a few weeks on the dance show. Roger said it was because he kept having meltdowns over the costumes.”
“Ugh.”
“Exactly. I feel for Dixon and his brother having to ride with him.”
We both turned to look at Dixon, who did a double take at the sudden attention, and in response looked moderately startled.
“Now we have a couple that I’m sure I need not introduce to anyone—Team Ducal Daimler with our former duke Max Edgerton, his lovely wife, Tessa, and Abbie Teller, who played Alice the maid on the award-winning A Month in the Life of a Victorian Duke.”
Tessa and Max stood to genuinely enthusiastic applause. Across the room, another woman rose and waved before sitting down.
“How do you feel being back on camera again?” I asked Tessa quietly.
“So long as I don’t have to wear the Victorian corsets, I’m fine with it. The wardrobe group did an astonishing job the last time, and I’m sure the Edwardian clothes will be just as gorgeous but a lot comfier to wear.”
“Our French cousins are amply represented by the Gallivanting Gourmets, who are Armand, Etienne, and Yves.” Three men who were at one of the beverage tables clearly flirting with the women waitstaff turned and waved, then resumed their previous activities.
“And last but certainly not least, we have Team Sufferin’ Suffragettes, with Melody Edgerton—whom I’m sure you all remember from Life of a Victorian Duke—Paulina Lewes, and my own daughter, Louise d’Espry.”
Louise shot up from her seat at the table and smirked, waving and doing a 360-degree survey of the room, blowing kisses to all and sundry, and generally eating up all the attention. Across the room next to the woman named Abbie, a dark-haired girl rose and gave a cursory wave. I could see she had a port-wine stain on one side of her face and a serious mien that warned she was not at all in the same attention-seeking class as Louise.
“Well, that, at least, is reassuring,” I said under my breath.
Dixon must have had very quick ears, because he glanced at me, but the second our gazes met, his dropped, leaving me feeling like I’d been punched in the gut.
And how ridiculous is that? I thought to myself an hour later when I stood in nothing but my underwear and bra in a room filled with racks of partially finished clothes, stacks of shoes and boots, and boxes and boxes filled with large-brimmed hats. I held my arms out obediently while two different women took my measurements. I felt more than a little self-conscious, but mostly distracted by how upset I was over Dixon’s reaction to me.
“It’s not like I really do have cooties,” I said to myself.
“No, of course you don’t,” one of the wardrobe ladies said absently, jotting down a note about the length of my upper arm. “Right. Let’s have you without your bra. We’ll need to make sure the corset fits right.”
“Ugh. The corset. Tessa warned me about it.”
“I don’t doubt it. She really hated wearing it during the Victorian Duke show.” The woman handed me a kind of linen undershirt, which I slipped on after peeling off my sports bra. She then held up a corset that wasn’t yet finished and consulted with another woman while they held it on my torso. One of them said, “Well, let’s see if Tessa’s old corset will fit.”
“It’s the wrong shape, though,” the second woman objected.
“I know, but at this point a corset is a corset is a corset.”
“Huh?” I asked as they fished a pretty pink brocade corset out of a wicker basket and deftly wrapped it around my torso. It wasn’t bad until they started tightening the laces at the back, and then all of a sudden I felt as if a piece of steel had me in its grip, crushing my ribs, squeezing my guts together, and pushing my boobs higher than they’d ever been. “Dear god. Are those my boobs?”
“A good corset does wonders for the girls,” the main wardrobe lady (who I later found out was named Joan) said, grunting a little when she hauled on the corset laces. “Right. I think that’s as good as we’re going to get. What do you think, Maeve?”
Maeve, a young woman with red hair and a plethora of freckles, tipped her head to the side and considered me. “I think we should be able to get her into the premades without too much trouble.”
“Premades?” I asked, wanting desperately to take a breath but knowing without a doubt that I’d never get actual air into my lungs while wearing the corset.
“The frocks,” Joan said, waving toward the racks of clothing. “We make them roughly to your size and finish them up once we have you try them on. Right. Let’s start with the main driving dress.”
Maeve went to fetch a dress. I stood in my underwear and corset and eyed myself in the full-length mirror that was propped up against a wall. Behind me, the door opened and a man walked into the room, a piece of paper in his hand.
“I believe I’m supposed to be—” He stopped when he saw me, his eyes widening.
It was Dixon. And facing him, with appalling nakedness, was my butt. I met his gaze in the mirror, then whirled around so he couldn’t see how big my ass was, which of course meant it was reflected back to him.
“Eek!” I said, unable to think of any actual words. My hands went first to cover my boobs, then my crotch, and then finally behind me to my butt. I couldn’t decide what I wanted to cover more, so my hands fluttered back and forth for a few seconds.
“Sorry. I thought . . . I was supposed to get fitted . . . Sorry,” he stammered, and spun around to march out of the room.
“And there goes Mr. Right,” I said with a sigh, knowing that I’d just lost any chance I ever had with him. Not that I really had a chance—or for that matter wanted one—but still, it dinged my pride to know that he found me so repugnant he couldn’t even be bothered to ogle my boobs.
I looked down at the girls and sighed again. I had a feeling the monthlong race was going to end up feeling more like half a year.
JOURNAL OF DIXON AINSLEY
20 July
9:44 a.m.
New York City
I’m not quite sure how to start this. Or why I’m doing it, other than that it will be a good way to track expenses. And I suppose experiences.
JOURNAL OF DIXON AINSLEY
20 July
9:46 a.m.
New York City
I suppose I could write down my expenses. That would be a reasonable thing to track.
Expenses to date:
One journal, bought in hotel gift shop, $15
Three-pack of pens (black), same, $7
I guess that’s really the sum total of my expenses, since the production company is paying for lodging and food. I don’t know what else to write.
JOURNAL OF DIXON AINSLEY
20 July
10:13 a.m.
New York City
The weather is nice. Very sunny. Heard it’s raining back home.
JOURNAL OF DIXON AINSLEY
20 July
10:14 a.m.
New York City
Maybe this journal thing isn’t for me. I can’t think of anything more to talk about.
What I just wrote looks so lame. I wish I knew how people did this.
Those last two sentences also look lame.
JOURNAL OF DIXON AINSLEY
20 July
12:55 p.m.
New York City
Google has a lot of examples of people’s journals. Most of them are too . . . personal. But there was a nice example of a travel journal that a man did about his family’s journey across the States, so I will try to emulate him. He had conversations, and maps, and drawings, and lots of observations. I can’t draw, but I can find maps, and I have a good memory, so I should be able to write down conversations. Plus, I’m used to observing people.
OK. Decision made. I will make a travel journal.
I have to go back a little bit, though. Damn. I could have postdated this if I’d thought about it.
JOURNAL OF DIXON AINSLEY
20 July
1:01 p.m.
New York City, day one
“You need a vacation, Dix,” Elliott said in April. I was working on the projections for the upcoming wedding season, and although I’d already printed out the summary of our reservations for the Dower House bookings for the next six months, as well as the crop forecasts, livestock assessment, and income due in from tenants, I felt I was missing something.
“I had a vacation,” I said, hitting the print button on a pie chart illustration of the various sources of estate income. I hated pie charts. I also hated crop forecasts, livestock assessments, and tenant income schedules.
“Two years ago. It’s time for another.”
“I’m busy,” I said, waving my hand at the printer. “We’re coming up to summer, and you know how popular the Dower House is for weddings.”
“You have everything planned to an inch. Besides, Alice is itching for something to do.”
“Surely Jenna is keeping her busy?”
“Yes, but as Alice is the first to say, there’s more to life than chasing after our daughter.” Elliott gave me a look that was part pity and part warning. “I’m obligated by brotherly love to warn you that if Rupert continues to resist her attempts to make him settle down to just one woman, she’s planning on turning her sights on you.”
I dropped the printout I’d just plucked from the printer and spun around to face him fully. “What? Why? She knows about Rose, doesn’t she?”
“Yes, but she considers nine years long enough to move past your grief at losing a fiancée to cancer and opening yourself up to love again. Those are her words, not mine, by the way.”
“She has nothing to do with the matter,” I said firmly. “My romantic life is none of her business.”
“Not strictly so, I agree, but you know Alice—she wants all my brothers happily paired up with the woman or man of their choice.”
“Choice being the key word of that statement,” I said with surly distaste, and typed furiously at a report on the status of the fields currently lying fallow.
“Which is why I suggest you take a vacation. For about six weeks.”
“What? I couldn’t possibly be away that long,” I said, waving my hand at the computer.
“Why?”
“I’m the estate manager,” I said, glaring a little at him. Elliott might have been my elder brother, but he was also woefully ignorant as to what it took to run an estate this size, especially since now we were focused on tourists. “I have things to manage.”
“Fine, but I warn you—Alice is already reaching out to friends to find someone for Rupert. She’s even drawn Mercy into the scheme, and you’re next.”
A sort of dread-riddled panic filled me at the thought of the two women joining forces to match me up. “But I don’t want to find a woman! I’m happy on my own. And I had a woman I wanted. She died. End of story.”
“Not so far as Alice is concerned,” Elliott said, perusing some of the charts I’d printed out. “Looks to me like things are in pretty good shape and that you could easily take six weeks off for the race.”
“Race?” I snatched the papers from his fingers and put them into a file folder. “What race?”
“Some around-the-world thing that Roger d’Espry is doing. You remember him?”
“No.”
“That’s right—you were gone when the film crew was here watching Gunner and Lorina dig up Roman remains. Well, it’s the man who has a production company that specializes in reality TV reenactments of a sort. They did one with a Victorian setting, and now they want to do a New York to Paris race that follows the route of a 1908 race.”
“Hrmph,” I said. “Not interested.”
“You would get to race in an authentic period car,” Elliott said in a persuasive tone.
That made me sit up. There’s nothing I love so much as antique cars. “What kind of authentic period car?”
“Er . . .” Elliott pulled a folded scrap of paper from his pocket. “Nineteen twelve De Dion-Bouton.”
“What?” I took the paper from him and whistled. “It has an Antoinette aircraft engine. This is amazing. The car should be in a museum.”
“I gather that d’Espry made arrangements to have cars restored that were in bad shape, so it’s not in original form.”
“Still, parts of it are real.” I pursed my lips and thought. “What’s this race entail?”
He told me. In fact, he dragged me back to his office, where, after working our way through the obstacle course of baby toys, he pulled up an e-mail and let me read all about it.
I decided that it might be fun and, after making sure that Alice (who volunteered as my replacement while I was gone) was up to speed on monitoring the tourist activities and bookings, found myself packing for a monthlong race.
Rupert had also been roped into joining the team, although his reasons for doing so were less than sterling.
“Birds will dig it,” he said, shoving my elbow off the shared armrest between our seats on the plane flying us to New York City. “Plus it gets me away from Alice. She keeps throwing women at me.”
“I wasn’t aware you had any problem finding women,” I said, giving him a brotherly once-over. He had combed the wild mop of hair that usually stuck out at all angles and put on something other than the knee-length shorts and T-shirt that were his habitual costume.
“I don’t, but this is a free trip around the world. I’ll be able to take tons of pictures, and I’ve got my tablet with me, so I can draw as I go.”
“I’m surprised you got the time away from your job.”
He shrugged and pushed his seat back, much to the annoyance of the person behind him. “I left it. They wanted me to design the most obnoxious dreck you’ve ever seen. It’s time I go out on my own anyway. Freelance design is where it’s at.”
I spent a good hour trying to make him see that dumping his job to gallivant around on a reality show for a month wasn’t, perhaps, the best career choice, but Rupert had always been one to go his own way.
He said as much when we arrived at our hotel, dumping his bag in the room next to mine and not even bothering to unpack before he appeared in my doorway. “Right. That’s me sorted. I’m off to see the ladies of New York.”
“I thought perhaps we could see some of the sights—”
He grinned. “Oh, I’m going to. But the last thing I need is a misery guts hanging around my neck like an albatross.”
“I am not a misery guts,” I said, annoyed.
“You are when it comes to meeting women. Hell, you don’t even like them touching you.”
“I don’t like anyone touching me,” I pointed out. “I don’t understand why people do not respect one’s personal space.”
“And that is exactly why you are the worst wingman in the world,” Rupert said, dashing in to ruffle my hair and give me a huge bear hug. “Have fun, brother.”
“Dammit, Ru!” I yelled after his fleeing figure, trying to restore order to my hair and my shirt, which he’d deliberately rumpled.
“I can’t help it if I don’t like to be touched,” I told my reflection. “People touch too much anyway. They’re always patting an arm or hugging or touching a shoulder—there’s no reason to be so exuberant. Moderacy, that’s what’s needed in this world—moderacy in shows of affection, and in the invasion of another person’s space.”
After putting my things away in the closet and dresser, I had a quick shower, shaved, and went down to the ballroom for the welcome party.
A gaggle of women was at the doorway, and I made sure to let them go first. By the time I was checked in by an assistant at the door, I could see the party was already going. I wondered if Rupert had remembered about it and was going to look for him when I heard a woman say in what I believe is called a smoky voice, “There goes my shot at sexual gratification with a handsome foreigner.”
She saw me as soon as she spoke, and was visibly embarrassed. I did my best to put her at ease, even going so far as apologizing for making the matter worse by chatting with her, and fortunately her blush faded quickly.
Unlike some women, she blushed prettily. In fact, she was very pretty, with high Slavic cheekbones, a pointed little chin, and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose and upper cheeks. Her hair was shoulder length and straight, a glossy black that looked as if it felt like silk. But it was her eyes that gave me pause. They were brown, but a beautiful brown with all sorts of different colors mixed into it . . . reds, golds, even a little black flecked her irises. I quite enjoyed looking into her eyes, as ridiculous as that sounds.
“I’m Paulie,” she said, and we shook hands. She had a surprisingly strong grip for a woman, which was a nice change. Since there was no sign of Rupert, I spent a few minutes talking with Paulie. She told me about her plan to keep a journal on the race, an idea that appealed almost immediately to me.
Just as I was enjoying myself with her, we wandered over to the drinks table, and she suddenly leaned in to me, her straight black hair brushing against my cheek. It was as if she had been made of fire—a bolt of heat shot down my neck and settled in my belly. I took a step backward, startled by both the touch and my reaction to it.
I mumbled an apology, the hurt in her eyes making me feel like I was the biggest heel in the world.
That look haunted me, and I tried to explain that I was just startled and didn’t dislike her, as she seemed to think, but by that time Roger d’Espry had started talking and introducing the teams.
I was pleased to see, when it was time for my team to stand, that Rupert had made it to the party in time, although judging by the women at his table, he’d had no problem making new friends.
“Look, I want to explain about earlier,” I said to Paulie when it was all over, but she didn’t seem to hear me . . . or she chose not to. Either way, she hurried off with Tessa.
“Well? What do you think? Looks like it’s going to be fun, eh?” Rupert stopped next to me as people received their costuming appointments.
“That has yet to be determined,” I answered, glancing at my watch. “I have to be fitted for my costume in twenty minutes.”
“Mine is in an hour. Good. Gives me time to work on my new friends.” He grinned and waved across the room, where a clutch of people stood around the doors chatting.
“Yes, I noticed you didn’t have any trouble finding a couple of women to coo over you,” I said dryly.
“Finding them? No, but I did have a bit of a fight to get them past the bloke at the door since they weren’t on the list. Looked like you aren’t doing too bad yourself. That bird you were with is a looker. Where’d you find her?”
“Paulie? She’s one of the racers.”
“Really,” Rupert drawled, looking thoughtful. “Maybe Alice is right.”
For some reason that I refused to examine any further, I wanted to punch him in the shoulder. Hard.
“She’s out of your league,” I told him instead, and quickly changed the subject. “What did you think of Roger d’Espry?”
Rupert shrugged. “Seemed just like Elliott and Gunner described him—scattered, but competent enough. You going to the bar after your fitting?”
“I hadn’t planned on it.”
“Your loss if you don’t. I’ll be there with the twins, and from the sounds of it, the Italians are planning on hosting a party there. You could do a lot worse than to show up and meet a few bits of delectable flesh.”
I gave him a look of jaded exasperation and started toward the door. “You may get by thinking of nothing but sex, but some of us have other things on our minds.”
“Like I said, your loss.” Rupert punched me on the arm, then went to the corner to collect his twins and join the group surrounding the Italian team. I wondered idly where the third member of our team was, then went out to find the conference rooms that were currently housing the wardrobe department.
I consulted my assignment sheet and opened the door listed. “I believe I’m supposed to be—”
The words died on my tongue. Standing in the center of the room, facing a tall mirror, and clad only in a pair of skimpy lace underwear and a corset, stood Paulie.
Note to self: Expunge the following paragraph so as to avoid lawsuits regarding inappropriate thoughts.
I’ve seen naked women in my time, but never have I seen a woman who looked like a Greek statue brought to life. No, not Greek—that was too antiseptic and cold. Paulie was anything but that—she was warm, with curves everywhere, rounded breasts rising high above the corset, beautiful arms that she used in an attempt to hide first her bits, then her breasts, then finally her ass. And what an ass it was—gloriously round and smooth and . . . I had the worst urge to take it into my hands and just squeeze. She whipped around, a blush sweeping upward from her chest. I realized I was staring at her breasts and dropped my gaze, but that just led me to admire the sweep of her hips (good birthing hips, my mother would call them) and then down to two delicious thighs, round and silky looking, and for a moment I had an insane vision of me kissing my way up those thighs.
The look of horror on her face stopped those thoughts dead.
“Sorry. I thought . . . I was supposed to get fitted . . . Sorry.” I ran out of the room before I could embarrass Paulie any further, and ran into Roger d’Espry a few doors down the hall. He was chatting with the couple who had been at my table, and turned to wave me over.
“Have you met Dixon? He’s the earl’s brother.”
“Elliott is a baron, actually,” I murmured.
“We have met,” Tessa said, smiling at him. “He was at our table with Paulie. Where is she?”
“Being fitted,” I answered, making a face. “I’m afraid I inadvertently walked in on her while she was . . . er . . .” I waved a hand at my torso. “Being corseted.”
“Oh lord.” Tessa gave a little laugh. “Don’t worry. I’m sure she’ll survive. If the corset was anything like what I wore, it covered up a lot.”
“I owe her an apology, but I doubt if she wants to hear that now.”
“Let’s see . . .” While we had been speaking, Roger had consulted a tablet computer. “You are scheduled to be in the Rosewood room five minutes ago. That’s around the corner and on the right.”
“My instructions are incorrect, then,” I told him, and shoved at him the piece of paper that had directed me to Paulie’s room.
“Ah. Yes, I believe that the rooms were switched around at the last minute due to storage constraints. Now, Max, let me talk to you about what I want you and Tessa to do to officially start the race . . .”
Dismissed, I left them discussing the festivities and went into the correct room.
An hour later I emerged, having been measured literally up one side and down the other and having tried on several pairs of trousers, waistcoats, and jackets, as well as Edwardian driver’s togs. I objected to the giant hat that puffed up on my head like a bloated mushroom, but felt somewhat dashing in the duster and goggles.
“This is rather nice,” I told the two wardrobe women, who slipped the dark chocolate brown duster over a matching suit. The suit was a bit short on me, and they hastily made notes and muttered things about ripping out the temporary stitching. “Arms are too long, Lydia. Half inch.”
“I see that. Legs are too short. Another inch and a half, I think. What about the waist?”
“Looks good,” the unnamed wardrobe woman said. She was probably in her mid-fifties and had the reassuringly impersonal demeanor of a nurse, or someone else used to nudity.
The other woman, however, began fluttering her eyelashes at me the second I disrobed. I don’t have any pretentions to being an Adonis, but work on the estate does keep me relatively fit, and I’ve never had a woman vomit upon beholding sight of me. Still, there was nothing in my appearance to merit such blatant flirting.
I coughed gently and tried to avoid Lydia’s attempts to catch my eye. “Goggles, too? Very steampunk.”
“So trendy!” Lydia said, and batted her eyes. “They look good on you.”
“The camera will like you—that’s for sure,” the other woman said, standing back and looking me over critically. “You’re tall without being too tall. Shoulders are good—we won’t need to add any padding there. Your torso is a little short, but that just means you have longer legs.”
“Long inseam,” Lydia said, nodding and fluttering her eyelashes. I gritted my teeth and avoided glancing at her, instead donning the goggles and eyeing my reflection.
“Selfie!” Lydia said, and put an arm around me, leaning against me to take her picture. I held on to a smile while she took a couple of pictures, then tried to ease away from her without it being too obvious.
“Well, that’s you done,” Lydia said at last, her eyelashes going a mile a minute.
“Thank you,” I said politely, and began to take off the brown worsted suit. “I’m sure the wardrobe will be, if not exciting, at least accurate and stylish.”
“Very stylish,” Lydia said.
I handed her the suit and began to pull on my own clothing, but when the older woman said something about fetching the last basket of shoes, I waited until she left the room before saying with as much gentleness as I could, “I much appreciate the offer, but I’m afraid I’m not what you want.”
“What I want?” Lydia paused in the act of hanging the suit, giving me a come-hither look. “What do you mean?”
I shook my head, keeping my expression kind. “I’m aware that many women find an English accent irresistible—my brother Rupert is a perfect example of that—and while I appreciate the interest, I just want to warn you that I’m not available. Well, I am, but I had a fiancée, and she died. So I’m not really on the market.”
Lydia stared at me a minute, then fluttered her lashes. “What are you talking about?”
“Your . . . for lack of a better word . . . flirtation.”
“I’m not flirting with you,” she said, and held up her hand. “I’m married. See?”
It was at that moment that I realized the excruciating truth—the woman had some sort of physical tic that made her appear to be batting her eyelashes like a coquette straight out of Gone With the Wind. I stared in horror at her for a second, then smiled weakly and said, “Silly me. And here I thought my charms were irresistible.”
She watched with (madly blinking) wariness while I finished dressing and exited the room. As I was leaving, the other woman came in, and I heard Lydia saying, “It’s amazing a hat will fit on that guy’s fat head. You wouldn’t believe what he said . . .”
I hurried down the hall, not wanting to hear any more. “I just wish this hellish day would come to an end,” I growled to myself as I approached the elevators. Naturally, the door opened while I was speaking, and Paulie emerged, carrying a pair of shoes.
“You having that sort of a day, too?” she asked, strolling past me. “Look at it this way: at least you didn’t have someone find you physically repellent.”
She turned the corner and was gone before I could apologize.
There’s going to be a lot of this journal that I can’t publish.
Maybe I made a mistake. Maybe I should have stayed home, where it was safe.
Dammit, I don’t find her physically repellent! Far from it.
Right. That’s enough of that sort of talk. Time for a cold shower, then bed. Things will be better in the morning.
God, I hope they’re better in the morning.