At the Sign of the Golden Pineapple by Chesney Marion & Beaton M. C

Author:Chesney, Marion & Beaton, M. C. [Chesney, Marion & Beaton, M. C.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Romance, Historical, Adult
ISBN: 9781472101822
Amazon: B00837FMKK
Goodreads: 23947208
Publisher: Constable
Published: 1987-01-01T08:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

Before the great day of the picnic, Lord Charles Worsley met Mr. Guy Clifford on New Bond Street. It was Lord Charles who had now become the intimate of Mr. Clifford, the earl being immersed in various business ventures on the stock exchange. Gentlemen could gamble on the stock exchange. That was not sullied by the name of “trade.” The two had been drawn together by their love for the ladies of the bakery.

They did not know of the earl’s increasing fondness for Henrietta, only that, somehow, he had found out about that dinner party and had surprised them by appearing amused rather than angry. He had next amazed them by saying he planned to be present at the famous picnic. After much debate and decision, a journey to the Surrey fields was settled on.

“Where are you bound, Guy?” asked Lord Charles.

“I am going into labor,” said Mr. Clifford.

Lord Charles pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. “Going into labor” meant being fitted into a new pair of leather breeches. Mr. Clifford must be very much in love to elect to go through such an agonizing performance.

“I’ll come with you and be in at the birth,” said Lord Charles.

They turned in at the breeches maker—this personage was never called a tailor; breeches makers working in leather were considered of a higher order.

Mr. Clifford groaned in anticipation as the new leather breeches of pale leather were produced.

The breeches maker summoned four sturdy assistants, and Mr. Clifford lay on a blanket on the shop floor.

Lord Charles lent a hand and all pulled and tugged and strained to fit the skintight breeches up over Mr. Clifford’s thighs and bottom.

“Wriggle a bit,” said Lord Charles. “Try a bit harder. We’re nearly there.”

A final massive pull and the breeches were safely up around Mr. Clifford’s waist. A special instrument had to be produced to button them.

Then, stiff as a board, Mr. Clifford was lifted and propped upright. He had to be supported while he kicked out with one leg and then the other to ease the stiffness of the leather.

“Very nice,” commented Lord Charles. “Like the ladies’ muslins, they leave little to the imagination. Now, we’ll all need to take a deep breath and get ’em off again.”

“No,” said Mr. Clifford, “Leave ’em on, for pity’s sake. I’ll sleep in them if need be.”

“Yes, but you do have a tendency to creak,” protested Lord Charles as they strolled out of the shop—or rather Lord Charles strolled while Mr. Clifford took painful mincing steps.

“What color d’ye call that?” demanded Lord Charles, leveling his quizzing glass at the breeches. “Mud of Paris,” said Mr. Clifford. “It was a choice between that or Emperor’s Eye.”

“Horrible names they have for colors,” sighed Lord Charles. “Slaves of fashion, that’s what we are. Now take these pantaloons of mine. Don’t like the color. But my tailor tells me I must have pantaloons of a reddish color. ‘All on the reds, now, my lord,’ he says, and so red it is. We are tyrannized by this street.

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