The Perils of Paulie (A Matchmaker in Wonderland), Page 4

  “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 chai
r 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 cors
et 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.