"The Corset Diaries" - читать интересную книгу автора (MacAlister Katie)

“Job? You got me a research job that pays ten grand?” My head swam at the thought of all that money. Bills, I could pay off the remainder of Peter’s medical bills. And get the roof repaired. Maybe there would even be some left over so I wouldn’t have to drive around on bald tires. The money would certainly come in . . . hey! “What measurements? What basic necessities? Don’t you dare tell anyone I wear a size eighteen! I’ll hang you by your balls if you do!”

He sighed again, then spoke very deliberately, enunciating carefully as if I was the one who wasn’t making sense. “The measurements are for the wardrobe, honey. I have to tell them your size, so they know what sort of costumes to find—Cynthia was much smaller and her wardrobe wouldn’t fit you. Of course, she had to wear the wig and you won’t, so there are compensations. There’s no research other than reading the rule book, no genealogy other than you being a duke’s wife. Now that we have that settled, are there any other questions? I’m on a very tight schedule, and I have to get back to Roger and tell him you’re go, and then there’s a million other things to take care of. You just have no idea how busy I am.”

I breathed heavily through my nose for a moment, then said, just as carefully and slowly, “Pierce, you’re quite, quite mad, aren’t you? Or drunk. Whichever it is, I don’t have time for this game.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” This was said in his usual sharp, quick manner. “You can’t tell me that the genealogical research business is so brisk that you can’t take a month off to film a television show, especially not when there’s ten big ones for you at the end of it. Get hopping, Tessa. Your plane leaves tomorrow night at . . .” There was a faint sound of paper rustling over his muted mumblings. “. . . I know that lovely little bit of crumpet wrote it down here somewhere—such a scrumptious boy, but no brains whatsoever . . . Ah, here it is. Yes, as I thought, your plane leaves at six tomorrow night. Gives you all the time in the world to pack and tie up loose ends. But don’t pack too much, you won’t need any clothing unless you want to stay after the show’s over.”

“Pierce, I haven’t the slightest idea—”

“I’ve told you and told you! It’s a TV show!”

I blinked a half dozen more times, then rallied my wits. “You got me a job on a TV show? An English TV show?”

“Yes, yes, a thousand times yes! All you have to do is be the duke’s wife. It’s very simple; even a child could understand it. Honestly, honey, you need to make a little more effort to pay attention. I don’t want Roger thinking you’re not fit to be a duchess.”

I slumped down into a nearby chair, staring sightlessly out the window at the cows wandering through the tall yellow flowers in the pasture across the street from me. Violet-green swallows swooped and dove, tracing an intricate aerobatic roller coaster pattern in the early morning air, but their loops and twirls and midair twists had nothing on Pierce’s conversational manner. A few deep, calming breaths later, I was able to start figuring out what he was trying to tell me. “Pierce, dear heart, you are aware that I’m not an actress, yes?”

“They don’t want actresses, silly! They want real people, and you’re perfect for the part because of your ancestors.”

I rubbed my forehead. Undergoing a conversation with Pierce was never something I took lightly. “OK, so you got me a job involving no genealogical research despite the fact that that’s the only thing I know how to do, a job that pays a lot of money for a month’s work. Exactly what am I supposed to do for a month on a TV show if not act?”

“Did you clean your ears this morning? I TOLD YOU! You’re a duke’s wife. Your job is to give him an heir in exchange for his title.”

I fell out of the chair. “WHAT? Pierce, I’m thirty-nine years old! I’m too old to have children! And I don’t even know this guy!”

“Tessa, now you’re being obtuse—”

“I’m sorry for being so picky, but I’d like to know a man before I go about trying to give him an heir!”

“It’s the TV show! You’re an American heiress who’s marrying the duke for his title. Just like that one you told me about . . . what’s her name . . . Constance Vanderbilt?”

“Consuelo Vanderbilt,” I said slowly, the fragments of what he was saying starting to coalesce in my mind. I crawled back into the chair. “You mean the TV show is about a duke with an American wife?”

“Yes, yes, that’s what I’ve been saying!”

“And they want me to play this part because Consuelo Vanderbilt and I shared an ancestor ten generations ago?”

“At last! I was starting to wonder if you’d given away your brain and filled your head with pudding.”

I ignored the slur and concentrated. Hard. “Why would an English TV company want an American with a tenuous—and there are probably millions of people who share the same relationship with Consuelo that I have—relationship to a long-dead heiress to act in their show?”

“You won’t be acting, not really. It’s one of those reality shows. Didn’t I tell you that? They’re filming everyone for a month, sort of a social history experiment to see how common people, non-actors that is, deal with living the Victorian lifestyle. There’s a whole staff of sixteen to take care of you, servants you know, butlers and footmen and maids and all that. You’ll love it. You won’t have to lift a finger to do anything.”

“A reality show?” I said slowly. “You mean like the one they did on PBS where people lived in a turn-of-the-twentieth-century house for a couple of months and a film crew followed them around as they went about their 1900-ish business?”

“Exactly!” Pierce’s voice was replete with relief, but I was still confused.

“It sounds interesting and all, but I don’t quite see why you think they’d want me to play the part of a duchess.”