Page 32 of Shopping for a CEO's Fiancee
“Yes.”
“And you want me to research this for you?”
There’s a distinct tone of sarcasm in Gina’s voice. That’s new.
“Yes.”
“You realize this is something most women want the man to do on his own. Having your admin research how to court a woman is kind of impersonal, Mr. McCormick.”
Huh. That did not sound like a question. Gina’s marked change in vocal patterns troubles me.
But not enough to do anything about it.
“And make sure none of the courting ideas involve being outdoors during the day.”
“But Mr. Mc—”
Click.
I’ve never looked forward to an FCC conference call with so much relief.
Way easier than dealing with women.
Chapter Sixteen
Gina’s report is on regency-era courting. Reading through the seventeen-page report, which is meticulously organized by subsections such as “How to Give Your Daughter a Season,” “Proper Chaperone Techniques,” and “Elopement to Gretna Green,” I realize the entire file is nothing but bits and bytes of sarcasm designed to meet my exact request within the letter of the law.
Or, to put it another way, she’s being maliciously obedient.
“Gina.”
“Yes?”
“Great report. Make it happen. If we were near Scotland, I’d take the Gretna Green option, but we’ll have to settle for the rest.”
“Make it happen?” she squeaks. “Make what happen?”
“All of it. The outfit, the carriage, the whole bit. No budget. Just do it.”
“No budget? But Mr. McCormick, I—”
Click.
Twenty-five minutes later, Gina buzzes me.
“Professor Victoria Kensley-Wentingham from Boston University on the line for you, Mr. McCormick?”
“Professor who?”
The line changes over. A sweet, chortling older woman’s voice fills my ear.
“Mr. McCormick! I understand you have a grave costume emergency. I am a historical costumer and here to help. I understand you need a bespoke 1809 duke’s costume and carriage with liveryman?”
I’ve underestimated Gina.
Gravely.
“Yes. I have been asked to court my partner, and—”
“Court your partner? Impossible!”
“Excuse me?”
“One cannot court one’s partner. If one already has a partner, then the courting is redundant.”
“Exactly! That’s what I said.”
“If you wish to marry, however, then courting is essential.”
Wife.
The professor rattles off a list of clothing, accessories, horse and carriage requirements, and names a price tag that doesn’t even register.
Wife.
“Yes.”
“Yes to all of it?” The professor’s elation pours out of the phone like a honey factory exploded in my ear.
“Yes.” I’m too distracted to sort through the details. It’s easier to just agree and make this master plan work.
“Can you come to the university costuming department for a fitting? We’ll need your exact measurements, your inseam, which way you dress—”
My schedule is insane.
“I’d prefer you come to my office. I’m very busy, and—”
She instantly quotes a higher price.
“Fine.”
She clears her throat as if the act is a form of supplication. “Your attention to historical accuracy is admirable,” she declares.
I’m sure my wallet is, too.
“I must say, Mr. McCormick, I haven’t had an assignment like this since the Sultan of Al-Massi asked for a re-creation of Pride and Prejudice in Dubai.”
I perk up. “He what?”
“I suppose I shouldn’t mention it, but I’m not violating confidentiality. The Sultan is an enormous Jane Austen fan. He has an entire wing of his palace devoted to an exquisite—and exact—replica of Pemberley.”
Tucking that detail away for later, I give the good professor over to Gina to make arrangements.
In exactly one hour, there’s a knock at my door, and then Hyacinth Bucket enters the room.
Mom’s favorite show, when we were kids, was this crazy British comedy, Keeping Up Appearances. I do a double take as a matronly, confident, curvy woman with a slightly pinched face but bright, cunning eyes marches into my office carrying a sewing basket, trailed by a frail, terrified teenager with long, blonde dreadlocks who is dressed like H.G. Wells has a clothing line at Hot Topic.
“Mr. McCormick! Victoria Kensley-Wentingham. So good to finally meet you.”
I stand and approach her, Professor Kensley-Wentingham taking both of my hands in hers and giving such good eye contact I feel like a lab specimen.
“Finally? We only spoke for the first time an hour ago, Ms. Kensley-Wentingham. Or is it Dr. Kensley-Wentingham?” I shake her hand and mentally reprimand Gina for letting this woman in.
“Oh, and this is Patience Overton,” she says, waving blithely at the waif behind her. “She is my intern.”
Patience gives me a wan smile and zero eye contact.
“Nice to meet you,” I lie.
“I said finally with great intent, sir,” the professor announces, “for any man ruled by such traditionally romantic passions must have his needs quenched in a timely manner.” She grins broadly. “And it is, in fact, Dr. Kensley-Wentingham. Thank you for your attention to detail with the honorific. So few people understand true respect.” Sniff.
I’m going to kill Gina.
“But please, call me Victoria.”
“And I am Andrew.”
She nods, half in indication that my words are appreciated. “Let us begin your extraordinary transformation into the external manifestation of the greatest man—a true man, if ever there was one, even if he is fictional. Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
“Excuse me?”
“You asked for a duke’s costume, but you do realize Mr. Darcy was no duke.”
“I—”
“With no expense spared, I’ve taken the liberty of bringing only the finest period replicas, made with cloth that is as close as possible to the original. Your need for authenticity drives you to new heights of boldness in your attempt to woo, does it not?” Her eyes comb over me, from shoe tips to forehead cowlick. I can’t tell whether she’s calculating revenue, taking measurements, or eyeing me for her secret Red Room of Pain.
Or all three.
She continues. “I am, of course, most flattered that you would choose me for your costumer. I’ve taken the liberty of ordering a barouche for you—”
“A what?”
“A carriage. A horse-drawn barouche is difficult to find this time of year, but I have one on hold. The owner is awaiting the date, time, and location for his arrival to be at your service.”
“Were horse-drawn carriages part of courting?” I explicitly told Gina that none of this should take place outside. A muscle in my jaw starts twitching.
“Of course! Your administrative assistant is printing your calling cards, as we speak, unless you would prefer hand-drawn calligraphy. As you said that time was of the essence...”
“That is fine.”
“Rise!” she shrieks, looking at my crotch like Marie looks at my cousin Hamish. “You have a freakishly long rise!” The satisfied chuckle that erupts from her makes Patience twitch as the intern hands over two pairs of pants.
I stand tall. That’s right. I sure do. Too bad Vince isn’t present to hear that.
“This will take some adjusting, Mr. McCormick.”
I repress the bizarre urge to mutter, That’s what she said.
“Call me Andrew.”
“Andrew,” she purrs, putting on a set of tiny glasses, peering at my package. “I’m afraid all of our existing costumes are for men considerably shorter than you, but we can do a fitting with my samples. This will require made-to-order trousers after we find your exact measurements.”
Meanwhile, little Emo Patience is taking notes suddenly while chewing on a fingernail until it bleeds.
“Fine. My tailor in Milan can give you my measurements.”
The woman titters. “Oh, dear, no, that won’t do at all. You see, Regency-era trousers are quite different from any bespoke modern day suit.”
She’s holding that tape measure like a dominatrix with a whip. “Or shall we fit you with breeches?” Her eyes narrow as she circles around me, taking in my body, the tip of her pink tongue poking out to lick her lips.
“Breeches?”
“Pantaloons?”
“I want whatever’s in Gina’s report.” What started out as a silly joke to call Amanda’s bluff has turned into something more annoying. I should call this off.
“She calls for the full Mr. Darcy treatment.”
“Fine.” I widen my stance. “Let’s get my measurements and just do it.”
Ten minutes later, the professor has recorded all my inches along with whatever last vestiges of innocence I used to possess. I feel like I should offer her a cigarette. I’ve had less intimate sexual encounters at frat parties.
“Did you have to be that...thorough?” I ask, resisting the urge to adjust everything.
“Nothing but the best for you, Andrew.” She hands me one of the pairs of pants she’s brought. “Please change into these. They are made of a fine wool and while the length is unacceptable, I believe the rise will be a near-perfect fit. We will recreate the design.”
