Read Confederates Don't Wear Couture for Free Online Page B

. . .” I said, trailing off. I blushed.
    â€œI’m never sure if I love you in spite of the fact that you’re so effin’ weird, or because of it,” he said fondly. “And now”—he held up a strapless white cotton twill corset—“it’s go time.”
    The corset was not nearly as soft as my other cotton underthings, with its steel boning to mold my waist into the appropriate hourglass shape. A series of brass grommets marched up the front to where the corset ended, just high enough to not be considered indecent exposure but low enough that I couldn’t wear it in public without blushing. Standing behind me, Dev was gaily tugging away at the strings that were lacing up my back over my chemise.
    â€œTight enough, don’t you think?” I gasped.
    â€œNot by a long shot,” he grunted. “Hold that pole.”
    Just like Scarlett O’Hara, I took ahold of the canopy’s bedpost, pulling my shoulder blades together to get the proper silhouette. Wow, that was tight. The corset dug into my ribs, causing my breath to come in quick, shallow gasps. Last summer, when I’d worn eighteenth-century stays, they weren’t nearly this tight. Back in the 1700s, the main function of stays was to provide support. But by the 1840s and ’50s, after stays had transformed into corsets, “tightlacing” became popular—that is, lacing the corset so tightly in order to have the smallest waist possible. In the 1860s, waist minimization was the name of the game—a game I currently felt I was losing.
    â€œMiss Libby, you keep eatin’ them French fries, you ain’t never gonna have no eighteen-inch waist again,” Dev barked.
    â€œI never had an eighteen-inch waist to begin with! I’m not a mutant freak!” I protested. “And French fries are delicious.”
    â€œOne more big pull,” he said. “There!” He tied the laces in a knot, panting. “Perfect.”
    Slightly dizzy, I let Dev lead me over to the full-length mirror. I’ll give the corset this much—it worked. My waist looked infinitesimally tiny. Especially in comparison to the enormity of my cleavage.
    â€œThere are my moneymakers,” he said, patting the tops of my boobs proprietarily.
    â€œOh, stop it.” I swatted him away. “They wouldn’t be so . . . out there if you didn’t lace it so tightly.”
    â€œThat’s the whole point, darling.” He rolled his eyes. “I’m gonna use what your mama gave you. Buy Confederate Couture, and you, too, can be this ta-ta-licious!”
    â€œThat better not be your slogan,” I warned.
    â€œI already put it on a promotional coffee mug,” he deadpanned, and reached for a four-tiered hoop skirt covered in white cotton that had been waiting at the foot of the bed.
    â€œHow the hell did you fit that into your carry-on?” I asked, mystified. Sure, Dev’s carry-on was so big he could barely wedge it into the overhead compartment, but this seemed contrary to the laws of physics.
    â€œJust call me Gary Poppins.” He held out the hoop as I stepped into it. “I have a magical carpetbag.”
    â€œSeriously.” I shot him a look as he tied the hoop around my waist.
    â€œIt’s collapsible,” he admitted giddily. “Plastic, collapsible hoop skirts were popular in the fifties for wearing under full dresses to give you that perfect Betty Draper look. Très
Mad Men
. I modified that idea to work with yours. Travel hoops! I think they could be
very
hot this year.”
    I stood speechless as he helped me pull a very full petticoat with three ruffles over the top of the whole operation. I mean, I had always known Dev was smart, but this was just pure genius.
    â€œNo more underwear, right?” I asked as I emerged from under the petticoat. I knew that real Southern belles had worn as many as five petticoats, and even though they wore