Chapter Four
Darcy hurried back toward the East Room, refusing to slow his stride for Hilliard’s shorter legs. It was petty, but Darcy didn’t care. So what if polls found him aloof? The way to fix that was creating policies and drafting legislation that helped the American people—not dancing. The press secretary’s prodding had pushed Darcy to say something indiscreet and, worse—something he didn’t mean. As someone who prided himself on his honesty—a quality the voters also appreciated—he was annoyed at Hilliard and even more angry with himself.
If Hilliard had just shut up about the dancing! That Bennet woman was a hot button for some reason. The memory of luscious dark hair and moss-green eyes caused his breathing to grow ragged. I wonder where she is? I could find her and invite her to sit at my table…
Perhaps this was the result of reading too many briefing books in too short a time: you began to hallucinate an instant connection with a stranger. Maybe he and Elizabeth enjoyed some…chemistry, but it was nothing more and would be easily dismissed.
She hadn’t managed to say anything intelligent to him, not even “nice to meet you.” Dancing with her would require him to attempt conversation. It would also foster rumors. Having his name associated with an inarticulate, pampered nouveau-riche princess whose father hawked excessively processed foodstuffs? No, thank you. Not the family background he sought in a romantic partner.
Of course, he wasn’t seeking a romantic partner. The presidency occupied all his time and energy. Damn Hilliard for observing his reaction to Elizabeth! Hopefully everyone else remained oblivious.
Although who wouldn’t have noticed her in that dress? Understated and elegant—so flattering to her slim figure. Completely unlike the gowns worn by her mother and sisters. Despite her superior taste in dresses, she was probably one of those empty-headed daughters of wealth who lived in tasteless McMansions until they met the right rich guy to father their precious babies. Shallow, uninformed, and self-centered.
Darcy could practically write the script for what women like that would say to him. She would flatter him excessively while discreetly touting her own virtues and accomplishments. He shuddered, recalling the woman at a recent reception who couldn’t stop bragging about which sorority she had pledged.
Certainly, he’d dodged a bullet with Elizabeth Bennet.
Darcy braced himself for the onslaught of noise as he crossed the threshold into the East Room. It was a magnificent room, beautifully decorated to convey a sense of history and tradition, but after more than a year in office, Darcy still felt like a visitor—as he did in most of the White House. Technically it was his home, but many parts were used for ceremonial or official functions and didn’t feel like “home” at all. Even the Residence was more like a well-decorated hotel than his actual domicile.
The mingled sounds of approximately 120 voices blasted him. The band at the other end of the room couldn’t compete with the hubbub. One hundred and twenty voices, and every single one of them wanted to talk to Darcy. Each one thought they knew him. Each one had some idea or grievance they wanted to share. If he contemplated it too long, the sheer scale would overwhelm him.
His eyes were caught by an image on the large-screen television opposite the entrance. Elizabeth Bennet stared down at him. The picture appeared to show a refugee encampment, probably in Africa. Elizabeth’s thick dark hair was tied up in a ponytail, but loose strands fell around her face and stuck to her cheeks with sweat. She sat on the ground feeding a small girl about two or three years old from a bowl in her lap.
Darcy allowed himself a second to admire the trim physique displayed by her cargo shorts and Red Cross t-shirt. Then he contemplated the revelation that she was a Red Cross staff member. The dirt smudged on her face…the sweat…the rip on her shorts. This was someone who worked hard in difficult circumstances. And looked hot doing it.
Maybe she wasn’t as much of a spoiled princess as he had assumed. The Red Cross only hired the best. She had to be pretty damn good, particularly to be working for them at her age—which looked to be her late twenties. She was seemingly smart and compassionate as well as beautiful. And he had massively misjudged her.
He tried to ignore the tightening in his chest. It didn’t matter; she would never know what he had said about her. Still, he couldn’t help staring at the image until it faded from the screen and was replaced by one of a middle-aged man carrying a box of supplies. Only then did he notice many pairs of curious eyes watching him. Thirteen months into his first term and he still wasn’t used to the scrutiny.
I need to stop this. I’m busy leading the free world. I don’t have time to worry over maligning a woman who doesn’t even know about it.
Pivoting, he strode toward the head table. Two Secret Service agents in front of him cleared a path—one perk of the office. Darcy considered his political priorities. So far he hadn’t managed to buttonhole anyone he needed to talk with. That was unacceptable. His administration had accomplished a lot in his first year, but he needed to keep pressing forward. So much more needed to be done.
As he walked, Darcy’s eyes skimmed over the dance floor where Jane Bennet was partnered by Bing, doing his usual goofy flirty thing. She was smiling and eating it up. Bing always knew the right thing to say to a woman. He even managed to remain friends with all his exes.
That kind of charm was missing from Darcy’s DNA. He could cajole governors into supporting his environmental initiatives and persuade independent voters to cast ballots for him, but he evidently didn’t have the temperament for flirtation—or the qualities necessary for a successful relationship. He’d only had a few serious girlfriends, and one had been all too happy to bad-mouth him to the press during the election.
He’d resigned himself to singlehood while in the White House. Dating in office could lead to all kinds of rumors and conflicts of interest. Plus, he simply didn’t have time to meet eligible young women. Darcy grimaced. It hardly mattered if he’d misjudged Elizabeth Bennet; she could never have been more than a spin around the dance floor anyway.
The self-enforced celibacy had led to rumors he was gay. Hilliard was concerned the rumors were gaining more traction and that they would hurt his favorability ratings among Republican voters, who, sick of his predecessor’s failures, had supported him in big numbers. Hilliard wanted to showcase Darcy’s heterosexuality whenever possible—another reason to be seen with female dance partners. Darcy personally didn’t care what people believed about his sex life, but it was galling when stupid rumors interfered with the good work of his presidency.
On the other hand, dancing with a single woman could provoke crazy rumors; he had danced with a single congresswoman at a Christmas party, and within hours the Internet buzzed with stories about a secret engagement. Darcy sensed the beginnings of a headache. There was only one woman he’d known long enough that their association wouldn’t raise eyebrows.
But the prospect was not enticing.
“Will!” a female voice trilled from behind him. Perfect timing. Darcy managed not to wince. Most of his staff called him Mr. President in public, but Caroline Bingley insisted on using his first name to demonstrate how closely their families were connected.
Darcy slowed but didn’t turn, allowing Bing’s sister to reach him. She teetered in her high heels, always seemingly on the verge of wiping out completely. “Hello, Caroline,” he said with something resembling a smile. Uninvited, she tucked her arm into his and pressed herself against his side. He could feel his muscles tense. Caroline had set her sights on becoming first lady, and her persistence had become an irritant.
Over the years, he had dropped many subtle and unsubtle hints that he viewed her solely as a friend, but she clung to the delusion that he might change his mind. Unfortunately, as a member of the White House communications staff, she was involved in Darcy’s life on a daily basis. She was damn good at her job and extremely loyal, but that didn’t compensate for the ground-down teeth and elevated blood pressure he experienced in her presence.
However, at that moment Darcy didn’t see any of the legislators he needed to speak with, so he might as well get one unpleasant chore out of the way. Tall and fashionably skinny—with her brother’s blonde good looks—Caroline was attractive enough. But her dress (no doubt from the latest Milan designer) was boldly colored and sequined, far too ostentatious for Darcy’s taste.
He rewarded her expectant look with what he knew she wanted. “You look exquisite.”
“Thank you,” she purred.
“Would you dance with me?” Darcy asked, trying not to sound like he was requesting surgery without anesthesia.
The big smile on Caroline’s face attested to his success. “I would love to, darling!”
She slid a perfectly manicured hand into his, obviously expecting him to escort her to the dance floor at that exact moment. Very well.
Just as they stepped onto the dance floor, the band struck up a slow song. Pressing his lips together, Darcy resisted the urge to curse. He had anticipated keeping her at arm’s length, but now he would need to perform what his friends in high school laughingly called “the bear hug,” holding her close while rotating in minute circles.
She smiled like a wolf that had just caught its prey, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him so close that he was forced to put his hands on her waist. Yeesh, there was nothing to it; she was so skinny. Hopefully Caroline would one day find a man who appreciated that build. Darcy much preferred a woman with some curves, fine green eyes, and a headful of dark, lustrous hair…
He dragged his attention back to Caroline with an effort of will. She likely expected some conversation. Darcy cleared his throat. “The band is quite good.” There. Inane, but sufficient.
Fortunately, Caroline was quite eager to bear the burden of future conversation. “Oh yes! You should have heard the band at my mother’s birthday party. Was it her fiftieth or fifty-fifth? Well, we had them set up in a tent in the backyard…”
Why did slow songs always last approximately five times longer than fast ones?
When a new song began, Darcy mumbled something to Caroline about needing to find Bing. She was prepared with a request that he fetch her a beverage, one of her favorite ploys to prolong their time together. But Darcy’s patience was exhausted. Peering over her shoulder, he announced, “There’s Senator Ostrevsky! Bing and I need to talk to him.” Without awaiting a response, Darcy hurried away in search of Bing.
Fortunately, Bing was nearby. Unfortunately, he was chatting with both Jane and Elizabeth Bennet. Darcy’s words to Hilliard echoed mockingly in his head. They were even less true now. Learning about her Red Cross job had rendered her much more intriguing.
Aware of Caroline’s eyes on him, Darcy sidled up to Bing as though he had Important Presidential Matters to discuss. Naturally, the moment he appeared, all conversation ceased—one distinct disadvantage of his office.
The moment all eyes turned to him, Darcy recalled how horrific his small-talk skills were. Elizabeth’s frank gaze particularly weighed on him, seemingly demanding that he be witty and charming, but Darcy’s communication skills were more along the lines of wonky and policy-driven. He wondered if he could wow her with a sharp analysis of the economic implications of historical ethnic divisions in the Balkans.
“Are you ladies enjoying the evening?” He managed not to cringe (outwardly at least) over asking the world’s most inane question.
Jane raised her voice to be heard over the music. “Oh yes, it’s lovely. So many interesting people, and the food is delightful!”
In the following pause, Darcy thought Elizabeth might chime in, but she regarded him with an indecipherable expression. This did nothing to lessen her attractiveness; instead he was intrigued by the alteration in her behavior.
Finally, Bing cleared his throat. “The prosciutto melon balls are great.”
“I haven’t had any yet,” Darcy said. If only he had a drink to serve as the focus of his attention. Elizabeth’s silence was disconcerting. The flustered, chatty girl was gone, and in her place stood a woman with a cool, detached gaze, which contrasted sharply with her sister’s polite I’m-trying-to-please-the-president smile.
“Ms. Bennet,” Darcy addressed Elizabeth. “I saw an image of you on the Red Cross screen. I didn’t realize you work for them.”
“Yes,” she said, holding herself very still and taking deep, even breaths.
After a few moments, everyone realized that Elizabeth had no intention of elaborating.
“Elizabeth has been all over the world with the Red Cross. She’s part of their refugee crisis team,” Jane volunteered. Elizabeth didn’t even nod in agreement with her sister’s observation. It was an odd change in behavior for the previously uncontrollable babbler. Was she embarrassed about her previous behavior? Or about her family’s? God knows, Darcy would be mortified by such relations.
He still found himself desiring her good opinion. “I’m sure that’s a very rewarding career,” he said, holding her gaze.
Her lips pressed tightly together, but a muscle twitched in her jaw. “Yes.”
When it became clear that Elizabeth would say no more, her sister gave a nervous little laugh.
Darcy was once again that ninth-grade boy who had been ridiculed by Catherine Hopkins. Of course, he had made a strategic error by asking her to homecoming in front of all her friends—and he had mispronounced it so it sounded like comb-humming. Still, he would like to believe he had acquired more communication skills since then, but it was quite possible he hadn’t. He had expected that becoming president would come with some privileges, like pleasant conversations with intriguing women.
But he hadn’t gotten elected president by giving up easily. Let’s try a different approach. “The White House is considering a new refugee initiative. What do you think is the area of greatest need?” Darcy smiled pleasantly at Elizabeth.
Her eyes were cold and flinty as she stared back. “I doubt you could benefit from my opinion. I’m a bit of an intellectual lightweight, as you know.”
Jane’s eyes widened in shock. Bing started coughing. Before anyone spoke, Elizabeth held up her phone. “Sorry, urgent call. Please excuse me.” She turned away from them and was immediately swallowed up by the crowd.
Jane’s eyes were focused on her wine glass. “Elizabeth, um, wasn’t feeling well today.”
“That’s too bad,” Bing said sincerely, careful not to look in Darcy’s direction.
Darcy did not respond. “Intellectual lightweight.” The phrase niggled at his memory. Where had he heard it recently?
Not that it mattered anyway. He’d probably imagined any connection between them—wishful thinking brought on by too many lonely nights in the Residence. Firs, she babbled, and then she acted like he’d killed her cat. Perhaps she was just a strange person.
Then he recalled he had used the phrase in describing Elizabeth to Hilliard. And somehow, she had heard him.
Shit.
Double shit.
No wonder she had been icy and distant. Darcy was lucky she hadn’t flung a drink in his face. His cheeks heated and his chest tightened as he imagined her overhearing his uncensored remarks. Now that he knew she wasn’t a pampered rich girl, his comments were even more egregious. He grappled with an intense desire to leave the room—or hide behind one of the eight-foot-high floral arrangements.
The proper course would be to follow Elizabeth Bennet and apologize. But he certainly couldn’t chase after her, Secret Service agents in tow, begging for a moment of her time to explain—what, exactly? He couldn’t claim he hadn’t meant the words; there was no denying he had said them. She probably wouldn’t even listen to a convoluted explanation about his annoyance with Hilliard, let alone believe it.
However, it was equally unimaginable not to apologize. Darcy started after her, but a hand on his elbow pulled him back. Bob Hilliard yet again. One glimpse of the man’s white-lipped frown and tense shoulders prevented Darcy from voicing his complaints.
Without a word, Hilliard pulled Darcy to an unoccupied table, where they were immediately joined by Caroline. Hilliard handed Darcy a scotch on the rocks—a bad sign. Hilliard spoke in a low tone. “Sir, we have a potential situation on Twitter.”
Darcy frowned at Caroline, who handled social media. His predecessor in the office had been a disaster on Twitter, but most of Darcy’s tweets—posted by his social media staff—were about his policy positions.
“Not your Twitter account,” Caroline clarified. “There’s a guest here tonight by the name of Lydia Bennet.” Darcy couldn’t recall which sister she was. “She has a picture of herself with you.” Darcy shrugged; people posted pictures with him all the time.
“She also complains that you ‘threw shade’”—Bob used air quotes—“at her sister Elizabeth. Supposedly you said ‘she is stupid and not pretty enough to dance with.’ It’s been retweeted 800,000 times.” He checked his iPad. “Wait a minute…800,015.”
Darcy was suddenly nauseated. Not only had Elizabeth overheard, but her sister had tweeted it? “That’s what I said when—” Hilliard nodded knowingly. Darcy gratefully gulped scotch before scowling at Hilliard. “That area should have been cleared before we talked.”
Hilliard grimaced. “The Secret Service should have cleared it, but apparently they didn’t check the ladies’ room.”
Darcy tossed back some more scotch. “Elizabeth Bennet heard me insult her in person?” Hilliard nodded, and Darcy stifled a groan. He had harbored a small hope that she had heard it from a third party. I’m lucky I got off with a cold shoulder instead of a slap to the face.
“The Washington Post wants to know if we have a comment,” Caroline said.
How soon was too soon to leave his own state dinner? This had been a series of fiascos. “They want us to respond to a tweet from a high school student?”
Caroline consulted her phone. “Her profile says she’s at GW University. The Post wants to know if you actually said her sister was ‘ugly and stupid’ and if you said it to her face.”
“No!” Darcy practically yelled. “I would never—” Several heads pivoted in their direction; Darcy lowered his voice. “Obviously I didn’t know she was there.”
Caroline frowned. “Her father is a big donor. Can we issue a denial?”
Darcy’s predecessor had been notorious for his falsehoods, and Darcy had been scrupulous at avoiding any appearance of being less than truthful. It was one of the ways he had gained the public’s trust and restored faith in the presidency. “No,” he said wearily. “I did say it. I haven’t lied to the press before. I’m not starting now.”
Caroline took notes with brisk efficiency. “We can say ‘no comment,’ but perhaps we should get someone working on damage control.” She shot a quizzical look at Hilliard, who nodded.
Darcy rubbed the back of his neck where the headache had now taken hold. He couldn’t help imagining Elizabeth’s reaction when he had uttered those words. How had her face looked? What had she thought? Had he made her cry? God damn it! Darcy scrubbed his face with his hands. “Can I issue an apology?”
“What?” Hilliard’s voice squeaked, and Caroline barked a laugh.
“I was irritated at you.” He waved at Hilliard. “And it was an insensitive thing to say. I didn’t even mean it.” Darcy’s breathing constricted just thinking that she might believe those ill-considered words. They were beneath him and beneath the office of the president.
“No, you can’t apologize!” Hilliard hissed. “An apology would only confirm that you said it. That would be the surest way to transform this into a media circus. It would be breaking news on the cable stations. Rule number one of the presidency: don’t admit mistakes.”
“Stupid rule.” Darcy hated to maintain a façade of infallibility. Presidents were human and made mistakes. Pretending otherwise was idiotic and counterproductive, but admitting to errors gave your enemies too much ammunition. He gripped the scotch glass so tightly that his fingers turned white.
“If we don’t say anything, it will likely die down,” Hilliard said.
Darcy stretched his neck, willing the muscles to loosen. Hilliard was right, but still. “Can I at least apologize to Elizabeth Bennet?”
“Why bother?” Caroline asked sharply.
He drained the last of the scotch and slammed the glass down on the table. “Because it was rude and inaccurate. She’s neither stupid nor ugly,” he growled at Caroline, not even caring when she drew back slightly.
Hilliard shook his head sadly. “No. You can’t apologize to her. It would be the first thing she’d mention if the media contacts her. It would be best if you didn’t have any conversations with her at all.”
Darcy thumped the glass on the table, startling Caroline. “Great. Just great,” he muttered to himself.
Elizabeth would continue to believe that he thought she was unattractive and dumb, and the whole world would think he’d insulted a woman he barely knew. And he’d been barred from speaking with the most intriguing woman he’d met in years.
Sometimes being president sucked.