Page 13 of Misadventures with a Duke

If this is death, why do I still hear myself breathing? Why do I feel my muscles flexing, my nerves tingling, my heart thrumming?

If this is not death, what is going on? And why?

And how is there suddenly a sluice of brilliant light between the wardrobe’s doors? Why does the alley’s air suddenly smell like fresh linen and the queen’s own amber? Where has the chaotic mob gone? Their shouts and anger already feel like distant memories, replaced by something so much better.

A soft peace.

A woman’s humming.

But not just any woman.

“Mon dieu,” I gasp out. Can it truly be? Do I dare believe?

Magique.

Have I really found you again?

RAEGAN

Wow. I’d forgotten how amazing it feels to walk around in nothing but my underwear. I confess as much to the pretty girl in the mirror, even winking as I say, “Damn, Tigger. Maybe you should be a topless hussy all weekend long.”

But in less than an hour, my confidence wobbles. After several internet deep dives, I still can’t find even one piece for Sylver Savoy to consider for the Emmys look. And she can’t very well work the arrival carpet in nothing but her panties and high heels.

But the odd thought ignites a bizarre lightbulb in my brain. At last.

Maybe I actually do need to take a walk in the woman’s shoes…figuratively speaking.

With perfect timing, I get a boost of encouragement courtesy of my showtunes playlist, pushing the sassy strains of Moulin Rouge’s opening number through the speakers mounted in all the bedroom’s corners. Guess it’s the theme for the night, despite my much-missed sweatshirt. But the sound quality of the speakers has me forgiving Allie a bit for the steal. A bit.

I swing off the bed, singing aloud with the naughty French earworm while grabbing Sylver’s corset from the dresser. Though it’s impossible to lace myself fully into the thing, I’m able to twist my hands back and pull the stays tight enough to prevent it from becoming my hip girdle. Next, I step back into the stilettos I wore over here, a pair of hot-pink Jimmys enhanced with obnoxious bows, and re-approach myself in Allie’s full-length mirror.

And instantly wonder why I don’t own a corset of my own.

“Dayyy-ummm,” I murmur. “Talk about hips and boobs you never had, darling.”

I indulge myself in more of the self-love, dancing a little to the upbeat music, until I’m snagged into a fully shocked stop.

By a tidal wave of inspiration.

More accurately, by a why-didn’t-I-think-of-this-sooner moment.

Belle Epoque inspiration…given a structured update but an eye-popping satin train…

“Okay, that could really work…”

As I whoosh myself around, mentally playing with angles and movement, a small wince takes over my face. But not a full one. The dress would have to be a custom piece, since I don’t remember seeing anything like it on any rack around town. I don’t know how Sylver would enjoy the bump in price. But if we could pull it off…

I’m too excited to sit still about it. Which leads to me yanking back the closet’s mirrored door and reaching for one of Allie’s satin bedsheets. I even sing with the guys’ parts of the song while tucking the sheet under the corset’s back edge and then flouncing it out like a train.

“Oh, Allie. You really can can-can, can’t you?”

I finish it with a funny yelp, stumbling back as the bathroom’s track lighting glints on the fabric. Another cry spills out as a second light flashes across the room. “Holy shit,” I mutter. “The power of satin, indeed.”

Fast revision. The power of high-quality satin. Maybe I should just ask Allie how much she wants for the sheet and then pitch the dark-crimson thing to Sylver as-is. Talk about an ensemble that would make headl—

“Ahhh!”

My shriek erupts in two stages. The first is pure instinct, a reaction to a third burst across the room. The second is a choke of pure fear. Because now I see where the flares are actually emanating from.