‘Thank you, Garrick. I had better go and get changed.’ Goodness knows how I was going to manage it, but I couldn’t see Garrick volunteering to tighten my corset laces. The Earl on the other hand…
Unfortunately he might appear to be thoroughly aware of me as a woman but he had shown not the slightest interest in my corsets, or anything else, not unless you counted that involuntary movement when his hand had encountered my breast and that heavy-lidded look. Not that I thought he was gay. No, I was probably just not his type. Which was a pity, I mused as I unpacked the parcels. He was certainly my type.
The sight of what Garrick had brought home sobered me up. Fast. Corsets – or was it stays? Stockings, garters, several petticoats, a very pretty, quite simple gown, a kind of coat and an outrageous bonnet in the hat box. But no knickers. Or panties, bloomers, drawers, thongs or unmentionables of any description. A memory of reading that they weren’t worn at the time came to me. But there was no way I was going draughtily commando.
I kept my sensible, going-to-the-gym, white cotton undies on, but regretfully discarded the sports bra. That neckline was never going to work with an expanse of Lycra under it. I thought the filmy top – chemise? – probably went under the stays and they, thank heavens, laced up at the front. They did spectacular things for my boobs, which was gratifying, and would probably have done more with a few more tugs on the strings, but I drew the line at being unable to breathe.
The stockings had naughty red garters – I detected the choice of Madame the modiste there – and had no real stretch in them at all. How to prevent ankle-sag was probably a lost feminine art that I would have to relearn. Petticoats on top, then the gown, which I guessed must be a walking dress. The waist was high, right up under my newly boosted bust-line, and there was a sort of flap for a bodice that needed some twisting and turning to get the tapes at the side tied.
Finally, panting, I surveyed the result in the long looking-glass. It was fairly stunning if I say so myself. The gown was a plain blue cotton twill that matched my eyes and the lacy edge of the chemise, or vest, or whatever it was, showed all along the high neckline. The sleeves puffed at the top, then narrowed tightly, and the toes of blue half-boots peeked out from under the hem. The corsets did amazing things for my posture as well as my boobs, but I wasn’t at all sure I could bend very easily, let alone run.
But my hair was a disaster with that outfit. I’d had a short, choppy bob only the other day and although Lady Caroline Lamb (she of the scandalous goings-on with Lord Byron) might have got away with short hair, hers had been a mass of delightful little blonde curls.
I heard footsteps passing outside and stuck my head round the door. ‘Garrick, you haven’t got any curling tongs have you?’
‘Regretfully, no, Miss Lawrence.’ He came out of the drawing room and narrowed his eyes at me. The professional valet’s stare, presumably. ‘I could endeavour to do something if you will trust me to cut it a little.’
‘Whatever.’ It couldn’t look any worse with that outfit.
‘I will be with you directly, ma’am.’ He returned with scissors, a cloth, a number of thin ribbons of various colours (and what did his lordship do with those?) and a small china jar.
I sat down in front of the mirror and let him do his worst. Which was actually surprisingly good. Some snipping reduced the choppiness of the cut, action with whatever was in the pot produced some curls and a dark blue ribbon threaded through made it seem as though it was meant to be like that.
‘Thank you.’ I studied the effect. Without make-up I have a tendency to look as though I’ve no eyelashes and I rummaged in my bag – sorry, reticule – until I found my mascara.
‘Paint, Miss Lawrence?’ Garrick uttered. He might have said, Nude mud wrestling? in much the same tones.
‘Mascara, Garrick. Just a touch if I’m not to look like a white rabbit.’ I gave my brows a swipe with some of that magic brown gel for good measure. Lipstick was presumably enough to have me classed as a Scarlet Woman but I put on some tinted lip gloss. ‘There.’
‘Might I assist you with your pelisse, Miss Lawrence?’
So that was what the coat thing was called. I fought my way into it, reflecting that nothing in this time was designed for ease of dressing, or undressing come to that, and buttoned it up.
‘The bonnet.’ He presented it with a flourish, a white straw with a big brim and dark blue ribbons and a great deal of fine veiling. ‘And a reticule. I venture to suggest that your current one may be in advance of the current mode.’
Yes, it was certainly that, but not as much as I was, I thought as I took it with a word of thanks and began to transfer the absolute essentials into the silk drawstring bag with long tasselled cords. Mirror, comb, tissues. There was nothing else that I could safely carry. Then I took the tissues out. Dropping a cellophane-wrapped pack of extra-soft, balsam-infused paper tissues would cause some questions.
‘Handkerchief, Miss Lawrence.’ Garrick produced an object that consisted of about two square centimetres of white linen expanded to three times its size with a wide lace border. If I wanted to fly a flag of surrender I was well equipped, but it wouldn’t cope with even the most ladylike of sniffles.
I sailed out and then fell over my skirts and arrived in the drawing room with rather less grace than I had been aiming for.
Lucian got to his feet, raised his eyebrows and produced an elegant bow. I curtseyed. Well, I bobbed. And then stifled the giggles. Me, dressed like the cover of a Jane Austen novel, curtseying to an earl.
‘Your hat, gloves and cane, my lord. Your gloves, Miss Lawrence.’
I got the gloves on with a struggle. Getting them off was going to be even worse. In novels heroines remove them in an erotic, provocative yet ladylike manner while the hero salivates (in a gentlemanly way). Obviously this is something that well-bred young ladies are taught to do along with the right curtsey for everyone from a rural dean to the King and how to eat an orange with a knife and fork.
‘Veil, Miss Lawrence,’ Garrick reminded me and I fought it for a minute until Lucian came to my rescue, leaving me peering at the world through a grey haze.
‘This should be about the right time for you to have woken up, d
iscovered that you have lost your earring and decided to look for it at Almack’s at the earliest opportunity,’ Lucian said as he held the front door for me.
He sailed past the porter with a word of greeting and apparently no self-consciousness about the fact that I had spent the night there. Earl, I reminded myself. I took the proffered arm and did my best to trip along like a genteel young lady out for a morning stroll. Trip was about right, what with skirts and not being able to see my feet and the consciousness of a large, seriously fit male keeping me close to his side.
Lucian was doing all the right things – I was on the inside of the pavement away from the road and its dirt and dangers, he kept his pace to a stroll that even the daintiest flower of womanhood ought to be able to manage and, whenever there was the slightest risk of me being jostled, he put himself between me and the threat.
I have to admit that I rather enjoyed it, up to a point. What I didn’t enjoy was the fact that we went where he wanted, at his pace, and he was most definitely in charge. Much of this and I could see how a woman could slip into fluttering helplessness. Or give way to an urge to violence. And yet he knew I could hold my own in an alley knife fight. I suppose he was simply ignoring everything that did not match his concept of what a lady should be.