“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 rippingout 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 ofGone 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.”
