Chapter One
“It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single president in possession of an enormous civilian bureaucracy and a nuclear arsenal must be in want of a wife,” Elizabeth Bennet said to her sister Jane with a grin.
“And why shouldn’t he?” her mother asked with some aspersion. “He is handsome, rich, and powerful. Why shouldn’t he want to get married?”
Why do people see presidents as almost super-human? Elizabeth wondered. “He’s just another guy,” she said. “Even if he’s president, he puts his pants on one leg at a time.”
“I’d like to watch him put on his pants,” Kitty Bennet, the second youngest sister, uttered in a suggestive tone. Then she shivered as another gust of wind blasted over the family.
The youngest, Lydia, glanced sidelong at Kitty. “Or take them off!” They burst into wild giggles that attracted disdainful stares from others in the line. Truthfully, the Bennet family—with their expensive, but flashy finery—already contrasted with the men in bespoke suits and the women in furs.
Elizabeth, the second oldest sister, murmured ruefully to Jane, “Of course. If anyone would talk about undressing the president, it would be my sisters.” Jane simply sighed; as the oldest, she probably had not expected much better.
The two parents and five daughters of the Bennet family were waiting in line to go through the security scanners at the entrance to the White House. Ever since invitations to the state dinner had arrived months ago, their mother had greeted even passing acquaintances with the news of the honor. Of course, Fanny Bennet hadn’t anticipated an hour of standing under the towering White House portico waiting to be admitted—along with a hundred other “honored guests.”
“How much longer will we be waiting?” Lydia whined as she shifted from one foot to the other in her too-tall heels and yanked at her too-tight, sparkly hot-pink sheath dress (with matching tiny hat). “I have to pee!”
Is it too late to pretend I don’t know her? Elizabeth wondered.
Their mother ignored her. “Now you girls remember everything I told you about the president—everything he likes and doesn’t like.” She clasped her hands to her bosom while Elizabeth rolled her eyes at Jane.
Their father hunched over in his tuxedo jacket, trying to stay warm. “I don’t see how he concerns our daughters.”
“He’s single!” Fanny Bennet’s tone suggested that she expected her husband to find it obvious.
“I don’t think the president wants to get married,” Elizabeth said.
“He does,” Fanny said with a superior nod. “He just may not know it yet.”
Kitty’s squeal drew looks from the surrounding partygoers. “OMG! I bet the last single president had a different woman in his bed every night.”
Mary, the middle daughter, spoke up for the first time without raising her eyes from her iPad. “The last bachelor president was James Buchanan, who served from 1857 to 1861—right before the Civil War.”
Of course, Mary would know, Elizabeth thought.
“So most of the other presidents were married fuddy-duddies. How boring,” Lydia observed. “At least we get an interesting one.”
“And a young one!” Kitty exclaimed. “Presidents are usually old and gray.” At thirty-seven, William Darcy was the youngest man to ever become president, which made him an object of fascination to many single women.
Her mother adjusted some of the many ruffles on her bright green dress. “I don’t see why President Darcy wouldn’t be interested in one of you girls. You’re all pretty enough.” She shot a quick, dubious glance at Mary in her drab brown floor-length gown. “You two really should devote more time to finding Mr. Right.” She eyed Jane and Elizabeth meaningfully. “Your eggs aren’t getting any younger. Why, you’re practically forty!”
Jane spoke through gritted teeth. “I’m thirty-one, Mom! Thirty-one! And Elizabeth is twenty-nine.”
Fanny didn’t so much as blink. “Women age more quickly than men, dear. It’s like dog years.”
There was a pause in the conversation as everyone digested that pearl of wisdom. The line inched forward. Elizabeth had been in a long-term relationship until nine months ago, but it wouldn’t matter if she reminded her mother of that fact. Elizabeth tried a different approach. “President Darcy has a reputation for being aloof and snobbish. Probably not good boyfriend material.”
“He might be a little…reserved, but that’s because he’s thinking deep thoughts about foreign policy and budgets and Easter egg rolls.” Fanny patted hair into place that was so heavily sprayed a tornado couldn’t have dislodged it. “Besides, he’s a billionaire. That excuses many eccentricities.”
The line moved again. “At least Mom has her priorities in order,” Elizabeth mumbled to Jane, who grimaced in agreement.
“And his life is so romantic!” Lydia sighed. “With his parents dying in the plane crash when he was still in college—and how he raised his sister.”
“I’m can’t imagine it felt very romantic to him,” Elizabeth said.
“I’m f-freezing!” Kitty complained loudly. Despite being older than Lydia, who was still enjoying the drinking and sleeping around parts of college, she didn’t seem much more mature.
“You should have worn your coat,” said Jane, who had had the foresight to bring a faux fur-lined wrap.
“Lydia said it wasn’t that cold for February,” Kitty said peevishly. Which was true, Elizabeth reflected, but it was still damn cold for someone with bare shoulders. Elizabeth snuggled gratefully into her coat.
“I don’t know how much longer I can stand here,” Lydia whined. “My shoes are killing me.”
They weren’t even in the building, and already Elizabeth wanted to escape. She gazed longingly at the taxis zipping along 17th Street. I could catch one now and avoid this whole fiasco. Although her mother and sisters loved the fancy-dress occasions the family’s recently acquired wealth entitled them to, such events often brought out their worst tendencies. Elizabeth had stopped attending any and all social events with her family as soon as she was old enough to put her foot down. After enduring weeks of pleading from Fanny, however, Elizabeth had agreed to the state dinner.
Sometimes Elizabeth imagined she’d been switched at birth. Everyone else seemed very happy to work in the family business, which made and sold high-end processed food. Even Lydia worked there on summer breaks. Kitty and Mary still lived at home as well. However, that was far more family togetherness than Elizabeth could stomach. She had obtained her own job and her own apartment—and was considered a bizarre aberration by everyone except Jane. They loved her, but did not begin to understand her. Elizabeth watched Kitty and Lydia tussle over a tube of lipstick. Sometimes the non-comprehension was mutual.
By now the Bennet family had arrived at the front of the line with its security gates and metal detectors. After clearing that hurdle, the family was ushered through a large set of double doors, opened ceremoniously by two uniformed doormen.
The entrance hall was designed to inspire awe with a marble checkerboard floor, a row of pillars along one wall, and an elaborate crystal chandelier. Uniformed staff relieved the Bennets of their coats and wraps. Elizabeth herded her younger sisters closer to the rest of the family. In a space this enormous it would be easy for seven people to get lost in the shuffle.
Kitty hugged herself. “I can’t believe we’re meeting the president!” Elizabeth said a quick prayer that Kitty wouldn’t squeal when she met him, but she noted the exits just in case she needed to make a quick escape.
Mrs. Bennet bustled through the entrance hall. “Where is the president?” she demanded of one staff member. The young woman directed them into an enormous room with high ceilings and tall windows framed by golden draperies. Although there were plenty of people milling about, talking and eating hors d’oeuvres, the room was so huge that it dwarfed the occupants.
Mary nodded knowingly. “The East Room. This is usually where they put guests until dinner is ready.”
Along with leaders from five African countries, the dinner honored some charities that worked in that region, including Oxfam, Doctors Without Borders, and the Red Cross. Around the room’s perimeter, large screen televisions displayed rotating images of projects from the various organizations.
Elizabeth’s heart swelled with pride as she caught a glimpse of the display for the Red Cross—her employer for the past five years. But tonight the organization was being represented by its higher-ranking employees; Elizabeth attended solely in her capacity as her parents’ daughter. She knew nothing about which images had been chosen for the display and belatedly hoped the guests would not be treated to a larger-than-life picture of Elizabeth covered in mud and digging a latrine. Fanny Bennet would still be complaining about that on her deathbed.
Her mother bustled over with their place cards in hand. “We’re at table eighteen,” she announced, scanning the room. “What a pity it’s not closer to the president’s table—”
“John!” a voice boomed out.
They all turned to find Walter Lucas bearing down on them. Founder of the prestigious Lucas and Lucas public relations firm, Walter was John Bennet’s oldest friend. Politically connected, he had been instrumental in involving Elizabeth’s father in fundraising for President Darcy’s campaign—and obtaining their invitations to the state dinner.
Walter pumped their father’s hand and gave air kisses to all the women of the family. “The president isn’t here yet. Of course, it’s his prerogative to be late!” His hearty laugh could have made the windows vibrate. “But I can introduce you to a couple of other people…” Her parents followed Walter like ducklings after a mother duck, but Elizabeth shuffled over to the edge of the crowd. She didn’t need to meet all the movers and shakers; in fact, she preferred to avoid them altogether.
After grabbing a few stuffed mushroom caps from a table of appetizers, Elizabeth scanned the room for her younger sisters; her mission for the night was to prevent them from humiliating the entire Bennet family. What was Lydia doing in that deserted corner at the far end of the room? Too far away to prevent it, Elizabeth watched helplessly as the youngest Bennet sister opened a door that had been designed to blend into the wall. Elizabeth felt sure this was a bad idea. Surely a door that was not supposed to be noticed should not be used by random dinner guests.
Suppressing a desperate urge to run, Elizabeth walked toward Lydia as swiftly as decorum allowed, praying her sister wouldn’t be foolish enough to disappear through an unknown door. But Lydia was exactly that foolish. She had disappeared through the doorway by the time Elizabeth opened the door. The interior was dimly lit but revealed Lydia’s retreating form. Sweat trickled between Elizabeth’s shoulder blades and dampened her brow as she leaned in, calling to her sister. “Lydia! Lydia come back right now.” If her sister heard, she gave no indication.
There was no choice; the only way to retrieve Lydia was to follow her. Elizabeth slipped through the opening and left the door slightly ajar behind her.
The hallway was long, narrow, and dim, clearly intended as a service corridor for the staff’s use. Dust on the bare wood floors and a slight musty odor suggested that it wasn’t used often. A few closed doors dotted the walls, but otherwise it was empty—except for Lydia’s rapidly dwindling shape. Elizabeth raced to the end of the corridor, reaching Lydia right before she arrived at a T-intersection.
“What the hell are you doing?” she hissed, panting as she grabbed Lydia’s arm.
Lydia smirked. “Well, you heard Mr. Lucas. If the president isn’t there”—she pointed to the East Room—“maybe I can find him alone.” Her voice dipped suggestively on the last word. “You can just scurry back to the party.” Her hands made little shooing motions.
Lydia no doubt could have devised a more embarrassing ploy than to ambush President Darcy with her amorous attentions, but at the moment Elizabeth was hard-pressed to conceive of something more mortifying.
“If the Secret Service finds you back here, they could arrest you!” Elizabeth exclaimed.
Lydia waved this objection away. “I’ll just explain I wanted a selfie. They’ll understand.”
Elizabeth was not so sanguine that the “selfie defense” was an all-purpose excuse, but she took a deep breath to calm the nerves that had her jumping out of her skin. Yelling at Lydia was always counterproductive. “This corridor probably only leads to the kitchen, you know,” she said.
Lydia pouted. “You are such a Debbie Downer! God, Lizzy!” But then she smiled impishly. “You know what? It doesn’t matter. I bet I can find the president once I’m in the kitchen.”
Not if the workers in the kitchen called the Secret Service first. But Elizabeth didn’t want to provoke a screaming match with Lydia; who knew what kind of scrutiny that would bring? There had to be a quicker way to entice her back to the East Room. “Did you know they have bacon-wrapped scallops?” Elizabeth asked.
Lydia’s eyes lit up at the mention of her favorite appetizer. “Really?”
“Of course, they might be gone by the time you get back,” Elizabeth sing-songed.
For a moment Lydia waffled, torn between two different impulses. “I’ll see the president later,” she muttered under her breath. Lydia did an about-face and rushed down the hallway toward the East Room. Elizabeth sagged against the wall, limp with relief at a disaster averted. After her pulse returned to normal, she followed Lydia at a more sedate pace, marveling at how fast her sister could move on those heels.
Lydia had just disappeared through the door and Elizabeth was about halfway down the corridor when voices rumbled from the other end. Deep, masculine voices. Secret Service? White House staff? Whoever it was, they would be unhappy to find Elizabeth in an unauthorized area.
There wasn’t time to make it to the East Room. The only concealment options were behind the various closed doors along the corridor, although Elizabeth had no idea where they led. She yanked on one. It didn’t budge. What if they were all locked? The voices grew louder. Damn it! Sweat trickled off Elizabeth’s brow and into her eyes; she dashed it away impatiently with the back of her hand. The next door was also locked. Maybe she should just run for it.
However, the next door opened easily, revealing a closet full of mops, brooms, and buckets soaked in the stringent odor of cleaning supplies. What a mundane thing to find at the White House. Elizabeth hurriedly stepped inside, taking care not to knock over any of the brooms, and pulled the door closed behind her.
The interior was completely dark except for a golden strip of light under the door. Her ragged breaths were harsh in her ears no matter how she tried to quiet them. She hugged herself around her waist as if that could keep her still, but her hands trembled violently. Finally, holding her breath, Elizabeth strained her ears for any sign of discovery.
Firm footsteps echoed on the wooden floors—at least two sets. “We really shouldn’t enter this way,” said a male voice. “Everyone expects a grand—”
The second man’s voice was deeper and tinged with irritation. “I’m late, Bing. I’d rather slip in unnoticed.”
The shaking of Elizabeth’s body intensified, and sweat trickled between her shoulder blades. One of the men was Charles Bingley, the president’s chief of staff and widely considered the second most powerful man in the White House. Shit. Shit. Shit. He was the last person she wanted to find her in the presidential broom closet.
Bingley’s tone was soothing. “You have a good reason for being late—”
One of the mops chose that moment to topple over with a thump. I hope that was quieter outside the closet than inside.
“What was that?” the second man asked. His voice was vaguely familiar.
Guess not.
“Something shifting in one of the closets,” Bingley said, unconcerned.
“Kinski wouldn’t want us to ignore it,” the second man said with a rueful laugh. “You know ‘constant vigilance is everyone’s duty’?”
“Yeah, all right,” Bingley said with a good-natured laugh. “We’ll send a Secret Service agent back to investigate.”
Yes, Elizabeth tried to convince the other man telepathically. Listen to Bingley. Send someone back.
“To investigate a closet?” the other man asked incredulously. “It’ll only take a few seconds.”
“You’re not supposed to—”
Footsteps rapidly approached the closet. Elizabeth was no longer trembling; now she was frozen, rooted to the spot—and all her perspiration had turned icy. Even her teeth chattered. What will they do to me? Please don’t shoot me on sight. Please let me explain.
The door opened, flooding the closet with light. Elizabeth blinked in the sudden brightness and then blinked again at the person before her. She’d been wrong, she realized. Bingley was not the last person she wanted to find her in the closet. He was standing in front of her.
She stared into the face of President William Darcy.