Chapter Nine
“How are you?” Elizabeth asked.
“I’d be a lot better if everyone stopped asking me that,” Jane sighed on the other end of the phone.
“I guess you get sick of it,” Elizabeth said, cradling the phone against her shoulder as she unpacked her suitcase and hung clothes in the hotel closet. “Everyone’s just worried.”
“Yeah.” Jane sighed again. “I know everyone wants to help, but I’m really fine. It’s been two months since B-Bing—” Her voice stuttered over the name and crackled over the international line. “Since then. I’m doing better.”
“Yeah, you are,” Elizabeth said softly. Even though Bing and Jane hadn’t been together for very long, their affair had grown intense quickly; Bing’s rejection, without an adequate explanation, had badly shaken the sensitive woman’s self-confidence.
Silently she cursed Charles Bingley for about the thousandth time for having broken up with her sister in that manner. According to Jane, their relationship had been smooth sailing—until he broke it off during the ball with the feeble excuse that his job didn’t allow time to date. Elizabeth had believed Bing might be “The One” for Jane. Boy, had she been wrong.
“The name ‘Bing’ just sounds way too fun for a guy who turned out to be such an ass,” she joked. “Maybe we should call him something else, like Jerkwad or Crapface.”
Jane laughed. “Yeah, call the chief of staff Crapface; that’ll score points with the administration.” She hesitated. “He’s going to be at the summit, isn’t he?” Her voice was a mere whisper.
Elizabeth perused the conference booklet detailing all the activities for the First International Paris Disaster Relief Summit. “The president will be giving a speech tomorrow night. I suppose it’s possible Bing came as well, but I’m not likely to run into them.”
“You do know them.”
Elizabeth snorted. “I’ve had a couple of close encounters, but I doubt anyone in the White House wants to renew our acquaintance.” And after George Wickham’s tale, I’ll avoid President Darcy like the plague.
She experienced a dull pang of guilt over owing George a call. They had been on two pleasant dates that had only confirmed Elizabeth’s lack of interest in anything romantic, though George was convinced they were soulmates. She had given him the “let’s be friends” speech, but he seemed likely to push for more.
“There are a lot of important people here,” she told Jane. “I can’t imagine that I’m a priority.”
She turned the page to a picture of the president. Elizabeth’s heartbeat accelerated. This is stupid. I see pictures of the president every day. Yeah, and this happens every time you see one, jeered the cynical voice at the back of her head. Okay, so the president is an attractive man, she admitted to herself. So what? It doesn’t mean anything to me. She turned the page.
“But what if—?”
“I’m going to do my best to avoid them,” Elizabeth said firmly. If I see the president, I’m going to be sorely tempted to give him a piece of my mind about his treatment of George Wickham. And that would not be advisable.
“I guess there’s no reason for Bing or the president to seek you out,” Jane said.
“I’m sure they don’t even know I’m here.”
***
“You want me to what?” Elizabeth must have misheard. Out of the blue, Margot, her boss, had summoned Elizabeth to the hotel suite that served as the Red Cross headquarters at the summit. It was a spacious room, dominated by a large conference table and accompanying swivel chairs.
Margot repeated her words more slowly. “I want you to brief the president and some of his staff about the Red Cross programs for refugees.”
“Why me?” Elizabeth winced when her voice squeaked.
Flipping her short, dark hair out of her eyes, Margot leaned back against the conference table and folded her arms. “You are well-versed in the policies and have had extensive field experience. You know that we need to get our name in front of the administration whenever we can. And we still haven’t heard whether we got the State Department grant.”
Bewildered, Elizabeth took a deep breath. Of course, she understood how important an opportunity it was, but the thought of seeing President Darcy… Her stomach churned sickeningly. “Craig has almost as much experience,” Elizabeth countered.
John, one of her more abrasive coworkers, drawled from across the room, “Most people jump at the chance to do a presentation for the president.”
Elizabeth ignored him, focusing on Margot. “I won’t be a good representative for the Red Cross. I’ll get all tongue-tied and incoherent.”
Margot lifted one eyebrow. “You yelled at the mayor of Pen na Nol and made him back down when he threatened the villagers in the church. There’s a much smaller chance of being shot here.”
“Don’t you want someone higher up the food chain?” Elizabeth asked. “There have to be five people here with more impressive titles.” Why me?
Margot shifted in her chair. “The truth is…the president’s staff requested you specifically.”
“What?” Alarm spiked down Elizabeth’s spine. “Why?” Knees suddenly weak, she sank into one of the chairs.
“I thought you might know.”
“But you’ve met the president. Haven’t you?” John asked. That’s how you ended up being Presidential Dis Girl
Elizabeth shrugged uneasily. “Well, yeah, but…I don’t even think he likes me.”
“He did call you ugly and stupid,” John pointed out. Elizabeth was in no danger of forgetting that.
Margot sighed. “Maybe he’s trying to apologize.” Elizabeth gave her a blank stare. “Look, you don’t need to chat him up. Just go in, brief him, and leave.”
This was the man who had cheated George Wickham out of his inheritance. Whose best friend had callously dumped her sister. After examining the conference schedule, Elizabeth had a carefully crafted a plan to avoid him for the entire summit.
Margot stood up straight, her tall, gaunt figure looming over Elizabeth. “The White House wants you specifically. We have no reason to turn down their request, and need I remind you, this is part of your job.” Her eyes bored into Elizabeth’s until the younger woman averted her eyes.
Damn. Elizabeth slumped into her chair. It was part of her job. The Red Cross and their mission had benefited from having William Darcy in the White House, no matter what Elizabeth thought of him personally. He was a good president. The grant could potentially help thousands of people. There was no reason for the organization to piss off the president unnecessarily. Hell, she might not even have a chance to meet him at the meeting.
Surely she could give the presentation and leave—all without speaking directly to the president. He probably wouldn’t even pay attention. Her shoulders drooped. “I’ll do it, but I’m going to need you to buy me drinks afterward.”
Delighted, Margot clapped her on the shoulder. “You’ve got it.”
Elizabeth managed a wan smile just as a new thought struck her: Why did the White House staff request me?
***
4:05 p.m.
Darcy watched as the minute hand hit the five. Secretary of State Gus Callahan was still describing the refugee crisis in Myanmar. Darcy didn’t need all the details, although he was glad the State Department was paying attention to the situation. And it was 4:05.
He leaned over and mumbled in the ear of the man next to him. “Are you sure she’s coming?”
Richard Fitzwilliam’s eyes widened. Probably because Darcy had asked that question four times in one hour. He wouldn’t have allowed most White House staff to notice his impatience, but Fitz was a cousin and a friend from childhood. He wouldn’t blab to the media—or gossip with the staff—about the president’s obsession with a certain dark-haired aid worker. As the president’s primary assistant, Fitz had been the best person to discreetly ask the Red Cross to send Elizabeth Bennet for the refugee briefing—and make it sound like a random White House preference. The fewer people who knew it was Darcy’s specific request, the better.
“She’s probably already here,” Fitz whispered back. “The staff will hold her outside until we’re ready.”
That’s right. That was the procedure. Her absence didn’t mean she wasn’t coming. God damn it! This Bennet woman had Darcy so rattled that he forgot basic operating procedures.
But what if she was sick? What if the Red Cross decided to send someone else after all? What if—?
Darcy savagely cut off that line of thought. He needed to concentrate on the report about refugees in Myanmar, not moon over some woman he hadn’t seen in two months. Although it seemed longer than two months. What if she had cut her hair? Would she be wearing a suit for this occasion? He’d never seen her in a suit.
Maybe she had a boyfriend now. Oh, Lord. Somehow, over their relatively brief acquaintance, Darcy had grown accustomed to encountering her occasionally. When Bing had broken up with Jane Bennet, Darcy hadn’t anticipated the loss of being cut off from Elizabeth.
Almost equally unbearable was the need to keep his feelings contained. During one late-night phone call, he’d unburdened himself to his sister Georgiana, who had been very sympathetic but equally horrified by the tales of Elizabeth’s family.
When Darcy had learned that Elizabeth was attending the summit, he’d been unable to resist the impulse to contrive a meeting. Perhaps she’d been hoping to see him as well; the thought gave him a secret thrill.
It had been a rare indulgence to request her personally, but the alternative had been taking the risk that he might not see her at all. He would only say a few words to her and content himself with the rare treat of watching her do a presentation.
Finally, Callahan’s droning voice petered out. “Thank you, Gus,” Darcy said. He peered around the crowded, dark-paneled conference room. “What’s next on the agenda?” As if he didn’t know already.
Fitz gave him an amused look before responding, “Elizabeth Bennet from the Red Cross to brief you on African refugees.” A staffer opened the door to admit Elizabeth.
She hadn’t cut her hair. It was up in a loose bun that should have enhanced her professional image but inspired naughty thoughts of fingering each dark tendril. Her trim black suit and blue blouse were very appropriate, but the skirt skimmed the top of her knees. Darcy hastily yanked his gaze up to her face before he was caught staring at her legs. She did not grant him a smile; no doubt she was nervous.
As he stood to shake her hand, Darcy tried to radiate reassurance. “Ms. Bennet, thank you for coming. Let me introduce you.” He named the men and women around the table, ending the recitation with the staff closest to him. “And this is my cousin and primary assistant, Richard Fitzwilliam.” Fitz’s eyebrows shot up, and no wonder: Darcy almost never mentioned their blood connection.
Darcy indicated the older woman on his other side. “And this is my aunt, Catherine de Bourgh, director of the De Bourgh Foundation.” Elizabeth would be aware of the foundation’s work in international disaster relief. Impeccably dressed as always, Aunt Catherine greeted Elizabeth with her customary glower. Unfazed, Elizabeth gave Darcy’s aunt a brief, courteous nod as if she met billionaire philanthropists every day. Where does she get such sangfroid?
Striving for a casualness he never felt in her presence, Darcy said, “So I understand you will brief us on disaster relief in Africa?”
“That’s right, Mr. President,” she responded crisply. Nothing in her tone indicated they had ever met personally—or that he had waltzed with his arms wrapped around her. Resting her laptop on the conference table, she began hooking it up to the projector. “I have a fifteen-minute PowerPoint presentation, and then I’d be happy to take questions,” she announced to the room at large. Darcy gestured for her to proceed.
The moment she spoke, he regretted the professional setting. He longed for her playful smile and sparkling eyes. On the other hand, this confident, take-charge Elizabeth gave Darcy an illicit thrill.
Bing used to tease Darcy that he found intelligence to be an aphrodisiac, and Darcy was forced to admit that he found her knowledgeability and poise very…alluring. Every part of the presentation was mesmerizing. Even the way her hands pointed to something on the screen was fascinating. Her posture was competent, professional, and yet she charmed the listeners with off-the-cuff remarks…African refugees had never been so interesting.
Thirty minutes into the presentation, Darcy realized he was in love. An undistinguished meeting room of a random hotel in Paris was an odd setting for such a momentous revelation, but it was inescapable. Her presentation had been well organized, clear, and persuasive—the best one he’d seen all day. She had answered all the questions competently and deflected the hostile ones. She’d even made a couple of jokes that had the entire room roaring with laughter. The hardened policy wonks and career bureaucrats at the table were practically eating out of her hand. Even Callahan’s face lacked its habitual scowl.
She was brilliant. She was beautiful. She was everything he had ever wanted in a woman.
Except he’d always assumed the right woman for him would come from a similarly well-heeled family. A family with taste and a sense of decorum.
Oh God, I’m in love with her. What am I going to do about it?
Letting her go again no longer seemed like a feasible alternative. The very thought produced sweaty palms and a rapid heartbeat—not to mention a withering sense of despair. The alternative was surrendering to the attraction. Upon his return to Washington, he could discreetly call her for a date. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. A wave of relief caused him to sag into his chair, momentarily giddy.
Elizabeth scanned the table. “If there aren’t any other questions—”
He should thank her and dismiss her. He’d had half an hour to indulge his obsession—and he should focus on the summit. Still, his entire body basked in the glow of her presence like a plant growing toward the sunlight. He wanted more smiles. More laughter. More time with her. More Elizabeth.
Darcy cleared his throat. “Ms. Bennet, would you be available to join us for dinner tonight? It’s sponsored by the De Bourgh Foundation, but I’ll be there, as well as others from the administration.” From the corner of his eye, Darcy saw his aunt’s head jerk in his direction. She could object all she wanted; he didn’t care.
Elizabeth’s lips parted slightly as she regarded him. Her mouth closed, then opened again. Perhaps she suspected the ulterior motive behind his invitation. “O-Of course, Mr. P-President. I’d be delighted to join you. Thank you.”
Darcy beamed at her. “Tom, over by the door, can give you further information.”
As Elizabeth wound her way toward the exit, Darcy leaned back in his chair. This summit was going pretty well.
***
What a mess!
Elizabeth twitched her shoulders, trying to get her jacket to settle more comfortably, but one side had a tendency to ride up. She pulled at the collar of her blouse. The mirror outside the door to the banquet hall showed that the collar was not choking her, but her neck seemed to feel otherwise. Deep down, however, she knew the suit wasn’t the problem. By all rights she should be done with suits for the day. She should be enjoying overpriced red wine and cheese at a local restaurant with her coworkers and other friends from the aid community.
Instead she was dithering in the corridor, sweating inside her suit and trying to remember all the talking points Margot and John had drilled into her head. “If you see anyone from the State Department, tell them how valuable the grant could be” had been Margot’s parting words as Elizabeth left the suite.
Their excitement had scuttled Elizabeth’s faint hope of avoiding the dinner by claiming a fit of hysterical blindness or sudden-onset amnesia. She wasn’t the kind of person who hobnobbed with politicians; her job usually involved emergency rations and muddy roads, not cocktail parties and conversation about budgets. Of course, she would be genuinely happy if she could secure the funding for them, but what if she scuttled the plan by accident?
She paced the corridor outside the banquet hall door trying to dismiss the series of niggling doubts that had attacked as soon as she exited the elevator—and causing the Secret Service agent at the door to eye her warily. The primary doubt had to do with why the president had invited her to this shindig in the first place.
She didn’t have a good answer.
He had been cordial during the presentation, but they weren’t friends; he didn’t even like her. Bing hadn’t accompanied the president on the trip, so Jane’s ex hadn’t wanted to reminisce about “good times.” And her family was still as vulgar and nouveau riche as ever.
Maybe he was still compensating for having called her stupid and ugly. Or maybe he wanted more information about Zavene. Or was he setting her up to fail? Perhaps it was all some Machiavellian plot. He was a politician; who knows what kind of long game he was playing? Maybe she was a pawn in a complicated political strategy to get even with George Wickham. Elizabeth took a deep breath, abruptly feeling dizzy and leaning against the wall.
It isn’t likely. President Darcy had a reputation for being a straight shooter. Of course, she didn’t know him that well. The man who had shafted George Wickham would probably be capable of all sorts of manipulation.
Her stomach churned with each glance at the banquet hall door. Every muscle in her body screamed with the need to flee, but that might hurt the Red Cross. This was even worse than the Carlisle Ball—where nothing had been at stake except her reputation.
Half an hour, she promised herself, knowing it was probably a lie. I’ll go in, chat up the Red Cross’s latest projects to some of the administration’s staff, eat some food, and leave. An hour tops. Taking a deep breath to settle her nerves, she strode through the metal detectors and into the banquet hall as if she belonged there. I am such an imposter.
The room wasn’t particularly large, nor was the crowd. This must be an exclusive dinner. Elizabeth didn’t know anybody in the room personally, although she recognized faces she’d seen on television. The Secretary of State. The Director of Homeland Security. Two generals. The U.N. Secretary General. All way above her pay grade.
Then there were the old money philanthropic types like Felix Webster and Catherine de Bourgh. Don’t be intimidated, she reminded herself. My family owns On a Stick, Inc. I belong here too. That only recalled the president’s “nouveau riche” comment.
Guests milled about, talking, drinking wine, and nibbling on hors d’oeuvres; some gathered around tables at the other end of the room. Nobody had noticed her. Maybe she could linger by the bar and then slip off to the ladies’ room until dinner was served. She edged her way to the bar and ordered a glass of white wine.
She took a gulp as she surveyed the room. It was lavishly appointed with ornate plasterwork. The ceilings, with crystal chandeliers straining against the velvet cords holding them in place, were so high that Elizabeth felt small in comparison. There weren’t a lot of buildings in the U.S. that boasted such baroque grandeur. Elizabeth had the heady sensation that she should be there as a tourist rather than an invited guest.
Then she spied someone she recognized—and immediately wished she hadn’t. Holding a drink, Bill Collins hovered at Catherine de Bourgh’s impeccably clad elbow, perhaps awaiting the opportunity to be sent on some kind of meaningless errand. His eyes lit up when he noticed Elizabeth, and he scurried over to her.
“Elizabeth!” Greeting her like an old friend, he placed his hands on her shoulders. “Allow me to greet you in the French style! I’ve been practicing.” He air kissed both of her cheeks.
“There!” he exclaimed. “How did I do?” He took a generous swallow from his drink. Oh yeah, open bar.
“Um…” Elizabeth had never been called upon to judge air kisses before. “Quite good.”
He gave her a ghastly grimace. “I hope there are no hard feelings over our last date.”
Elizabeth had been surprised that Charlotte had started dating Bill, and shocked when she had confessed deep and abiding feelings for the man. “No, I—”
“My passion for Charlotte simply swept me away.” He clasped both hands over his heart. “I was helpless to resist. United by our love of office products, we are true soulmates—with but one heart and one mind.”
Elizabeth choked on a mouthful of wine.
Bill continued, oblivious to her frantic coughing. “She is my rose petal. My peony. My sunrise. My moonset.”
Moonset? “I’m very happy for you,” Elizabeth gasped out between coughs.
He eyed her disbelievingly. “I know you regret never tasting a piece of this.” He slapped himself on the butt. Elizabeth managed to cover her wince. “But my heart and my body belong to Charlotte.”
Pressing her lips together to catch any errant laughs, Elizabeth nodded. “Of course. I will respect that.”
Sidling closer to her, Bill lowered his voice. “In fact, I got that tattooed for Charlotte’s birthday.”
“Got what tattooed?” Wait, do I want to know?
He gave her a sly, secretive smile. “’Property of Charlotte’—tastefully done, of course—in a very nice cursive script tattooed right here on my—” He raised his hand to slap his butt again.
Elizabeth responded swiftly before receiving more details. “You don’t say!”
He nodded with a self-satisfied smile. “But don’t tell Charlotte. It’s a surprise.”
“I won’t tell her,” Elizabeth reassured him. Or anyone else. In fact, I’m hoping they’ll invent a brain bleach to erase that image.
Elizabeth groped around for a more innocuous topic of conversation. “Um…has Mrs. de Bourgh met Charlotte?”
Bill’s face was rapturous. “Yes. They got along swimmingly. I was concerned at first that Mrs. de Bourgh would think Charlotte’s family too”—he dropped his voice as if he were about to confess his beloved had a terrible disease—“bourgeois. But she believes the Lucases are an eminently suitable family for someone of my station in life.”
“How fortunate,” Elizabeth managed to choke out.
“I am hoping someday Charlotte will make me the happiest of men.” Bill gazed rapturously into the distance.
“Um, great.” Elizabeth wondered if they made stapler-themed wedding décor.
“And to think,” Bill waxed on, “none of this would have happened if I’d found you remotely attractive.”
Elizabeth managed not to spray her white wine over everything. “Yeah…that’s very…fortunate.” She eyed the wine in her glass. Was it too soon to claim the need for a refill?
“Ms. Bennet?” A young brown-haired man in an impeccably tailored suit approached. He had been at the meeting earlier. Oh, the president’s cousin. Shit. Out of the frying pan… He stuck out his hand. “Richard Fitzwilliam. Please call me Fitz.” His easy grin instantly helped her tight muscles relax. “I wanted to take the opportunity to—”
Bill had already seized the other man’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Fitz. Bill Collins. I work with your aunt at De Bourgh Enterprises.”
Fitz tilted his head to the side. “My condolences.”
Bill continued obliviously, “I supervise the stapler division—”
Fitz must have sensed an impending soliloquy. He turned to Elizabeth. “I enjoyed your presentation today.”
Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “Enjoyed?”
“Yes!” Fitz grinned broadly. “Do you know how many briefings I sit through every day? To have one that’s lively, informative, and with a sense of humor? Well, that’s like manna from heaven.”
Was he serious? “Oh, I’m glad you thought so. I was so nervous!” Damn. Why did I admit that?
“Mrs. de Bourgh has a great remedy for nerves,” Bill weighed in. “It involves rubbing raw onion on your hands and swallowing a pinch of saffron.”
“Well, at least it doesn’t require live chickens…unlike her cure for eczema,” Fitz murmured. Was he serious? Movement from the other end of the room caught his eye. “Aunt Catherine is glancing this way. Perhaps she needs you.”
Bill wrenched his stricken face toward his employer. “I’m coming, Mrs. de Bourgh! I’m coming!” he cried as he hurried away.
Fitz watched him go, somewhat bemused. Elizabeth cleared her throat. “Bill is extremely grateful for your aunt’s…patronage.”
A smile played about Fitz’s lips. “I’m sure she’s grateful for his…attentiveness.” He took a sip from his drink. “I’m pleased to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much.”
“From Bing?” she asked. That might not be good.
Fitz blinked rapidly. “No. Darcy sings your praises.” He gestured expansively with a drink in one hand. “I’m sure you know he’s not easily impressed.”
Wait. What? “The president mentioned me?” What would he say about her except that she was the sister of the woman Bing dumped?
Fitz gave a matter-of-fact nod. “He greatly admires you…your work.” When she didn’t respond, he rubbed his chin and regarded her quizzically. “You didn’t—he didn’t tell you?”
“No!” Elizabeth was too shocked to dissemble.
“Hmm.” Fitz’s eyes focused on his wine glass. “Well, he’s not always forthcoming.”
“That’s an understatement.” Her phone pinged, and she pulled it out of her purse. “Please excuse me for a second.” She frowned at the screen and tucked the phone away.
“Bad news?” Fitz inquired with a look of polite interest.
She shrugged. “It’s not that big a deal. I’ve been trying to get an earlier flight back to the U.S. Right now, I’m scheduled for Thursday, and that’ll make me miss my mom’s birthday. I’d been hoping for a place on a Wednesday flight.”
“That’s a shame.” He seemed to genuinely sympathize with Elizabeth—so much more amiable than his cousin. She might even be friends with a guy like this. “The summit was a bigger success than the organizers expected,” he said. “A lot of people must be leaving on Wednesday after the closing speeches.”
Elizabeth nodded, happy to be on a more neutral topic of conversation. “I hope they make this an annual event.”
“I’m sure they will.” His attention was caught by something off to his right. “I’m going for a refill,” he said abruptly, holding up his empty glass. “Can I get you something?”
Yeah, a good stiff drink. But that would be a spectacularly bad idea with her empty stomach. “Another glass of white wine would be lovely. Thank you.”
He bobbed his head and hurried to the bar.
“Elizabeth!” Whirling at the sound of her name, she found President Darcy approaching with determined, ground-eating strides. He had been impressive in a tux, but this perfectly tailored blue suit was devastating. The dark cobalt hue magnified the blueness of his eyes, crinkling with a welcoming smile. Sensuous lips curved in a grin that made Elizabeth’s knees weak. She double-checked to make sure her mouth wasn’t hanging open.
The president took her hand in both of his in a gesture that was more a clasp than a handshake. “I’m so happy you came. And you had a chance to speak with Fitz—”
“There you are, William!” Catherine de Bourgh bore down on them like an ocean liner approaching a dinghy, and Elizabeth quelled an impulse to back away. The woman’s foundation was well known for donating millions to worthy causes, but at the moment she looked like she had sucked on a lemon. She appeared to be in her early seventies, despite having had a fair amount of “work” done to her face. Holding herself in a very upright posture, she tilted up her chin and contemplated Elizabeth coolly.
The president hesitated. Was he ashamed of Elizabeth? Then he swallowed. “Elizabeth Bennet, this is my aunt, Catherine de Bourgh.” Shaking the woman’s hand was like squeezing a wet washrag. “Aunt Catherine is actually the host of tonight’s dinner.”
The older woman narrowed her eyes at her nephew. “Which William feels entitled to invite everyone to,” she said with a sniff.
The woman obviously wasn’t happy about Elizabeth’s presence. Perhaps the words were intended to intimidate her, but they had the opposite effect. Elizabeth gave the woman a smile full of teeth. “He’s the president. Does he need to ask permission?”
Mrs. de Bourgh was clearly unaccustomed to being challenged. “Well, naturally—”
Elizabeth continued, “Of course, he needs Congress’s permission to declare war or pass a budget. But for something as simple as a dinner invitation, I would think it’s one of the privileges of the office.” Mrs. de Bourgh goggled at Elizabeth. Taking advantage of the momentary silence, Elizabeth addressed President Darcy. “Do you do it often? Benefit from your aunt’s hospitality?”
He had a faint smile on his face. “Not often, no. But occasionally I find her events useful.” How often did he invite women to such occasions?
Mrs. de Bourgh recovered her voice. “You were always like that, even before you were elected to the Senate.”
“Always like what?” Fitz asked, returning with a glass of white wine, which he handed to Elizabeth, and a gin and tonic for himself.
“Inviting random people to my dinners,” the older woman said.
Fitz gave her a rakish grin. “That’s because Darcy is just trying to liven them up.”
“It’s a dreadful habit,” the older woman sniffed. “Very MC.”
Fitz and the president both froze, although their aunt seemed oblivious to the sudden tension. Elizabeth wasn’t familiar with that acronym, but the others reacted like the older woman had uttered a curse.
Ah, who cares if I appear ignorant. The president doesn’t like me anyway. “What’s MC?” she asked. Fitz shifted uneasily while President Darcy appeared fascinated by something on the other side of the room. Then comprehension dawned. “Middle class? You actually say things like that?” Wow, talk about pretentious. Shaking with suppressed laughter, Elizabeth nearly spilled her wine.
The president had the grace to look embarrassed. “Aunt Catherine is rather old fashioned—”
The woman in question interrupted ruthlessly, struck by a sudden need to question Elizabeth. “Bennett, hmm? Are you related to the Connecticut Bennetts?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Or Kevin Bennett? He runs a hedge fund.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Ms. Bennet’s family spells it with one ‘t,’” the president explained.
“One ‘t’? Whoever heard of such a thing? Why on earth would anyone spell Bennett with one ‘t’?”
The woman was so rude that it was almost comical. Elizabeth shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. They didn’t consult me.”
The president shoved his hands in his pockets and looked away while Fitz’s twitching lips suggested repressed laughter.
The older woman regarded Elizabeth like an interesting puzzle. “What does your family do?”
“Do?” There were very few things her family did as a group. Elizabeth very much doubted Mrs. de Bourgh wanted an account of making Thanksgiving dinners or fights on family trips.
The woman gestured impatiently. “Where does your family’s money originate from?”
“We own On-a-Stick, Inc.” Unsurprisingly, Elizabeth received a blank look. “Doughnut On-a-Stick. Cheese On-a-Stick? That sort of thing.”
Now Mrs. de Bourgh looked like she had sucked on a roomful of lemons. “You don’t say.”
Elizabeth squeezed her wine glass harder. The woman’s attitude had triggered a perverse desire to shock her. Her snobbishness actually exceeded her nephew’s. “My father says that food on a stick is the wave of the future,” Elizabeth said, pasting on a blithe smile. “It’s becoming quite popular here in France. The company has received inquiries from some of the top chefs of Europe. I would imagine that the next time you visit France, there will be some food on a stick options on every menu.”
Fitz’s hand covered his mouth, but Elizabeth heard a faint snort of laughter. The president’s expression was harder to read. Mrs. de Bourgh appeared slightly nauseated. “No. Certainly not—”
Irritation made Elizabeth a little reckless. “And I believe that my father spoke to President Darcy about Zucchini On-a-Stick for the White House.”
All eyes turned to the president; would he call her bluff? “We did have that discussion,” he said in a neutral tone.
“I didn’t realize you were from that family,” Mrs. de Bourgh sneered.
Elizabeth was on a roll now, and nobody was safe. “It’s a distinguished family tradition. My great-great-grandfather sold mutton on a stick from a street cart in the Victorian era, and a very distant ancestor sold salted pork on a stick during the Revolutionary War. My father’s company merely elaborated on the concept.”
Elizabeth kept a straight face as the older woman glared. Abruptly, she turned to Fitz. “I believe I’d like a martini. Will you escort me to the bar?” Fitz offered his arm to his aunt and led her away, but not before winking at Elizabeth.
Elizabeth wished she could sag into the nearest chair. Her anger had ebbed, and now she worried that her rant would have consequences. What had possessed her to say such things? The president cleared his throat. Shit. Did he think she’d been taunting his aunt? What if her sarcasm cost the Red Cross its grant? I should have thought about that before shooting off my mouth. She started composing an apology in her head.
A smile played about his lips. “Salted pork on a stick?”
She shrugged helplessly. “Our family legacy is sadly neglected in the history books.”
“Along with sarcasm?” he asked dryly.
Was he angry? Well, she could hardly deny the truth. “I seem to have gotten more than my fair share of that.”
“I noticed.” He wasn’t quite smiling, but his eyes were alive—a clearer blue, with only a hint of gray.
An awkward pause followed; Elizabeth sipped her wine. Should she ask him about the grant? She had planned to buttonhole a lower-level State Department staffer on the topic. Discussing it with the president seemed a bit like bringing in a tank to kill a spider.
He cleared his throat. “You seem to be the only one in your family who’s not in the family business.”
“I love my family, but I’m very different from them. Lydia says I’m a compulsive do-gooder. What I do for a living needs to have meaning for me, or I get bored and depressed.”
“Huh,” he said slowly, “I understand that completely.”
“You do?”
“Done right, politics is all about public service. Of course, some politicians just want the power, but many want to make the world a better place.”
Elizabeth’s eyebrows climbed her forehead. Those had to be the least cynical words she had ever heard uttered by a politician. Did he truly believe them? “Is that why you do it?” she asked, aware that she was violating her vow not to engage with the man. “You certainly could have stayed home and watched your stock shares multiply.”
“I would imagine people say the same thing about you. You don’t have to dig wells in Africa when you could live a life of constant manicures and cocktail parties.”
He had been quite deft at wrestling the conversation back to her, but she would not allow it. “I seem to recall we were talking about you,” she said in a teasing voice, “and why you felt the need to serve your country.”
He stared at the ice cubes in his drink. “I could have lived like a playboy. But that lifestyle makes me…cranky, as my sister says.” He gave her a wry grin. “Although some days when all I do is pose for photographs and fight with Congress, I’m not sure what I do has any meaning at all.”
Wow, he sounded almost human. “It must be the most stressful job in the world.” Wait, am I feeling sorry for the president?
He stared into space. “It can be. Fortunately, I have a good staff. That helps a lot.” His eyes met hers, and he grinned. “Plus, there are a lot of perks. I don’t have to buy my own groceries or take my car in for repairs.”
Given his family’s wealth, Elizabeth rather doubted that he’d ever purchased his own food or darkened the door of a car garage.
He rubbed his hands together like an excited little boy. “And, hey, Air Force One is pretty cool!”
Did President Darcy just make a joke? Laughter bubbled up without her permission. “So you’re in it for the fun toys?” Damn it. This is the man who ruined George Wickham’s life, she reminded herself. Polite, but distant: that was the plan. “Amused” was not an option.
He quirked an eyebrow at her. “The presidential limo is full of neat gadgets. I’ll have to show you sometime.”
In what universe would she be hitching a ride with the president? She didn’t know why he even bothered to talk to her. Maybe he said those kinds of things to everyone, making them believe they were part of his inner circle.
During the silence that followed, the president sobered. “I thought your presentation today was very cogent,” he said finally.
There’s a word I don’t hear every day. “Thank you.” She cursed herself for blushing. “I’m glad you found it interesting.”
“I hope it didn’t cause problems for the Red Cross that I requested you to give the talk.”
The hairs on the back of Elizabeth’s neck rose. He was the one who had requested her! Why? She struggled to keep her tone even. “Not at all. They were excited about the opportunity.”
He had requested her, so she might as well ask him. Tank meet spider. “Um…we’re hoping to get a State Department grant to fund our projects in Africa. It’s pretty crucial funding for us.” His expression was blank. Well, Margot and John will be happy I mentioned it.
“When did you apply?”
Elizabeth was caught off guard. “I-In April. We were supposed to hear two weeks ago.”
“Hmm.” President Darcy stroked his chin thoughtfully, drawing her attention to the light sprinkling of stubble. It suited him. “I’ll have Fitz investigate.”
“Thank you.” Mission accomplished. The tension drained from every muscle in her body, leaving her limp with relief. Now she could leave. Except it would be terribly rude, particularly after he’d agreed to do her a favor. No use imagining her quiet hotel room and soft, welcoming bed.
Another awkward pause. Evidently the president felt no urgent need to speak with anyone else; in fact, he regarded her quite intently. Perhaps something in her manner or dress secretly amused him. Sweat dampened the back of her neck, making her collar stick to her skin, and the wine in her glass sloshed as her hands shook. Maybe he and Fitz would return to the presidential suite that evening and laugh over her faux pas.
He still watched her expectantly. Think, Elizabeth. There must be some way to make small talk with a president.
“So, um, have you finished writing the speech you’re giving tomorrow?” she asked. Lame, lame, lame!
He cleared his throat. “The speechwriters finished it back in D.C.” Of course. Why didn’t I think of that? “I hope I do a good job. The topic is so important.”
“You always do a good job,” Elizabeth said without thinking.
“Thank you.”
Oh God! Had that sounded like…flirting? Did he think she was coming on to him? “I mean, that’s something the press always talks about, right?” she said hastily. “How you’re good at public speaking.”
His shoulders slumped a bit. “I suppose. But the speech is rather dry. Maybe I should borrow some of your jokes.”
She tapped a finger on her chin. “Hmm. That does run into some copyright issues. I might need to charge a fee…”
He laughed, lighting up his entire face. Why does he have to be so attractive?
“Although it might be useful as a marketing gimmick.” She held up her hands like an advertising marquee. “Actual jokes used by the President of the United States.”
When he laughed, dark strands of hair fell across his forehead—practically begging to be touched. “If the international aid worker thing doesn’t pan out, you could try writing comedy.”
She made a face. “If the international aid worker thing doesn’t pan out, I’ll be stuck marketing On-a-Stick products for the rest of my life.”
“Would that be so bad?”
She shrugged. “Compared to what? Compared to slinging fries at McDonald’s? Yeah, it’s better. But I spent all my adulthood trying to separate myself from the family business.”
“You love your family, but you don’t necessarily want to follow in their footsteps.” His eyes were fixed on his aunt, where she fussed at Fitz near the bar.
Perhaps a career in politics was his way to separate himself from an overbearing family. His parents had died when he was young, but if Catherine de Bourgh exemplified his family, the need for some distance was understandable.
“Fitz seems nice,” she said.
“Yeah, he’s a great guy. Not just my cousin, but a good friend.”
“Fitz and Bing. Your friends have such interesting names. Like the sounds a can of soda makes when you open it. Or maybe a store that sells magical items from Harry Potter.”
He guffawed, startling her and drawing eyes from around the room. “I’ll have to tell that to Fitz; he’ll love that!”
“Oh God!” Elizabeth covered her face with her hands. “Don’t tell him I said it.”
“Are you giving me an order?” His tone was light. “You know, I’m commander in chief of the military.”
Who was she to tell the president what to do—even in jest? “Oh shit,” she muttered. “I mean, oh crap, I mean—okay, I’m shutting up now.”
His face was solemn, but a corner of his mouth quirked upward. “It’s okay to fucking curse in front of the president. We already established that I won’t have you audited or drafted.”
His delivery was so deadpan that Elizabeth couldn’t help laughing. They were drawing curious looks from around the room; maybe the president wasn’t usually this amusing. She’d never read anything that suggested he had a good sense of humor. “But arresting me is still on the table?” With her hands on her hips, she gave him a mock frown. “Does Bing know you talk to constituents this way?”
President Darcy stepped back and glanced away self-consciously. “It doesn’t happen very often. You must have caught me on a good day.”
This abrupt shift in mood took Elizabeth off guard. Was he always so mercurial? It doesn’t matter. In the ensuing silence, she allowed her smile to melt away. She had no business enjoying this man’s company. He might be occasionally charming. He might be a good president, but he was a horrible man. And his best friend had broken her sister’s heart. Perhaps she did find him a little attractive, but Rodney the jerk who captained her high school football team had been attractive, too, and Elizabeth had no trouble resisting him.
Jane and George would be appalled at Elizabeth’s behavior. The thought was like a bucket of cold water. Whatever else Elizabeth was, she wasn’t a hypocrite.
“Thank you for investigating the grant.” She infused her voice with a note of finality. “I don’t want to take up any more of your valuable time. I’m sure you have a hundred things requiring your attention.”
His head jerked back. “Um…yes…”
She held up her empty wine glass. “And I’ll get some more of this sauvignon blanc.”
A smooth, professional mask settled over his features. Of course: the real Darcy. Funny and charismatic when he wants, but he’s still a politician. An extremely successful politician. His smile was stiff and practiced.
“I hope we have a chance to talk again before the end of the summit,” he said.
I hope we don’t. Just before she turned toward the bar, Fitz slipped up to the president, having finally escaped his aunt’s clutches. “Elizabeth, could you hold up a minute, please?”
“Okay.” She watched, baffled, as Fitz pulled the president away and murmured something in his ear. No doubt the subject was of national importance, but why should Elizabeth linger?
When President Darcy turned back to her, his eyes were stormy and his face determined. Another lock of dark hair had fallen over his forehead, but Elizabeth pointedly ignored it. I refuse to be attracted to this man. “I hear you need a lift?” he asked.
Elizabeth regarded him blankly for a moment before recalling her conversation with Fitz. “T-There’s n-no need to bother you. I have a flight on Thursday,” she stammered. Maybe Fitz thought he was doing Elizabeth a favor by bringing her dilemma to the president’s attention, but she would have preferred to avoid his scrutiny.
“You shouldn’t miss your mother’s birthday,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. When did his eyes start to twinkle?
She brushed damp hair from her forehead. Why was the room so hot and stuffy? “It’s okay. I mean, this isn’t a president-level crisis. It’s not even a cabinet-level crisis.” The president chuckled. “This is the kind of thing you would fob off on a minor aide—an intern even…if it were your problem, which it isn’t.”
“I see what you mean,” the president muttered over his shoulder at Fitz. To Elizabeth he said, “Fitz told me you’re a hard person to help.”
Elizabeth’s eyes shot daggers at Fitz. “I don’t need help.”
President Darcy stuck his hands in his jacket pockets. “Well, the thing is, I have this airplane called Air Force One—you might have heard of it—and it’s got lots of room. I don’t have many guests on this trip.”
Air Force One. Suddenly Elizabeth couldn’t breathe. He wanted to give her a ride on Air Force One… She could practically hear Lydia’s squeals of excitement. But I’m not Lydia. “I don’t need special help, sir.” Accepting the favor would definitely not help her avoid the man.
He rolled his eyes. “This is silly. You need a ride, and I have eleven empty seats on the most luxurious aircraft the U.S. government possesses. Why are we even debating it?”
Put that way, her resistance did seem rather…unnecessary. And potentially offensive to the man whose government may be giving her employer a grant. “Won’t the Secret Service object to a random civilian riding along?” she asked.
He waved away that objection. “They’ll do a quick background check on you. It’ll be fine.” His eyes were imploring her earnestly as if her acceptance were absolutely essential to him, although she couldn’t fathom why. By now, other people at the party were edging closer with the hopes of eavesdropping. The last thing Elizabeth wanted was for this to become a topic of gossip or the subject of speculation on some website. She just wanted the business concluded.
And refusing a plea from your own country’s chief executive seemed…unpatriotic or something. She sighed. “Of course, I’d be thrilled to accept a seat on Air Force One. Thank you, Mr. President.”