Page 35 of Misadventures with a Time Traveler

As she and Drue shuffle forward with the crowd, I stop Maximillian by digging fingers into his elbow. “Hey. We don’t have to do this rigmarole, okay? Not if you don’t want to.”

“Rig-ma-role.” He tries out each syllable on their own, his strong lips twisting into their sexiest angles, before letting out a gruff laugh. “Rigmarole?”

“It means we’re going to tromp through a bunch of boring rooms and stand behind some velvet ropes.” I wrap my hands around his forearms. “And even if it’s been a while for you, the history spiels are probably going to be the same.”

“The…spiels?” He states the words with the same curious care he gave rigmarole. I don’t mind. Not everyone on the planet walks around with the latest vernacular flowing from their phone.

“I just think it might be more fun if you and I just…go on a tour…of our—Max?”

My seduction falls prey to puzzlement as his gaze darkens and narrows.

“Max?”

I shout it as he makes a beeline into the next room.

As soon as I follow him in, my blood is consumed by a weird chill. The shivers can’t be wholly blamed on the graveyard temperature of the portrait hall, but the dank air isn’t helping. And it’s not just permeating my skin. Something about the vibe is invading my spirit too.

I take a long look around. The massive space has stone floors and stark walls. On those walls are old paintings ranging from baroque to neoclassic. I join Max in gazing at them. At once, I’m astounded by the glorious silks, satins, and brocades from past eras—but am freaked by the trends into which they were fashioned.

When Max stops and peers harder at a portrait of a perfect eighteenth-century noblewoman, with a wig to make hairspray companies giddy and a waistline that isn’t humanly possible, I loop a hand beneath his elbow and press my cheek to his bicep. It’s like cuddling with a bowling ball but in all the good ways. I enjoy the sensation nearly as much as the new connection to him—a mental proximity that’s as satisfying as the physical part we’ve already gotten so right.

“I cannot…believe it.”

“Right?” I murmur. “There’s going for a great look, and then there’s just stupid. I wonder how many birds were sacrificed for the feathers on top of that hair tower. You think the guide might know?” At once, I whip out my phone, turn off the flash, and snap a few shots.

He snorts, but the sound isn’t infused with the mirth I expected. Instead, he rolls the levels of his jaw against each other before muttering, “I am quite certain she did not care.”

“You think?” I peer a little closer at the painting. “Hmmm. I wonder if the divas of yesteryear would actually get along with the fashionistas of tod—and oh, holy crap.”

As soon as the inspiration hits, I swipe to one of my favorite screens for notes: Future Blogging Goodness. At once, I form a new sub-tab. Just as feverishly, I type in the ideas that keep coming.

Time After Time: Fashion Forward or the Same Game?

Let Them Eat Gluten-Free Cake

A High Heel by Any Other Century

What Does a Girl Wear to a Beheading?

Do Panniers Require Panties?

“I’m a freaking genius,” I mutter. “What do you think of these, Max? I’m a genius, right?”

But there’s nothing but silence from him. The soup-thick, semi-scary kind. He’s lost to the same eerie energy he’s displayed since walking in here. But the interwebs don’t call me the queen of persistent humor for nothing—and I’m not giving up on Hotness’s mood. Not yet.

“So tell me…you think she actually did the whole rib removal thing too?”

Well, that sure as hell gets his attention. To the point that he slices me with such a hard stare, the scar over his eye looks like a vein. “The what thing?”

I squeeze his arm, indicating I’m kidding. It’s also nice to have an excuse to paw him. “Relax, Hot Stuff. It’s mostly urban myth, you know.” But it occurs to me that maybe he doesn’t. “They say that certain women of privilege had their bottom ribs removed in order to have tinier waists. Of course, that buzz wasn’t widely spread until the nineteenth century, and this portrait looks more like it’s from the eighteenth—”

“Yet that befits Lettie like silk around a stone.”

“It befits her? Lettie?” I struggle to make my expression more baffled than jealous as I dart a glance between him and the portrait. Because I have every right to that mix of reaction…why? Because he’s referred to the woman in the portrait, one Vicomtesse Violetta Caron, born 1775 and died 1793, by a casual nickname? Because I actually feel the vehemence beneath his words like a whoosh of heat from an opened furnace?

Damn it. This is seriously messed up. I should be running as fast as I can while the man glares even harder at his friend Lettie. As he flares his nostrils, pulls in harsher breaths, and twists a hand around one of the ropes until his knuckles are taut and white.

Running.