His expression was unreadable, but no doubt he was laughing inside at her plight. Elizabeth’s face was so hot that she wondered if she might spontaneously combust. Is it too late to pretend I don’t know Bill? Maybe I could slap him.
Draped over Bing, Jane gave them both a sunshiny smile. “Would you two like to go dance—?”
Bill’s eyes went wide. “OMG!” Elizabeth spun around, expecting to see a celebrity. “Open bar!” he crowed, throwing a fist in the air. “Score!”
Bing gave the other man a skeptical glance, but Bill only had eyes for the bar. “C’mon!” Grabbing Elizabeth’s hand, he yanked her in that direction. Her eyes pleaded with Jane for a rescue, but her sister shrugged helplessly.
Bill dragged her toward the nearest bar like a kid pulling his mom toward a roller coaster. Oh, God! Was the president watching this farce?
At the bar, Bill shamelessly demanded the most expensive alcohol (a kind of scotch) and asked for a double shot. He ordered one for her, thrusting the glass into her hand as he sipped his appreciatively. “Ah, that’s good stuff!”
Elizabeth happened to hate scotch. Discreetly faking a coughing fit, she turned around and poured most of her glass into the large fern behind her. Her date smacked his lips and was ready for a refill.
The conversation returned to the fascinating topic of Mrs. de Bourgh’s genius in the stapler industry. Nodding absently at the appropriate moments, Elizabeth wondered whether appendicitis or gallstones would be more plausible for a woman her age. The scotch must have been top-notch; Bill was compelled to order another double.
The band struck up a rollicking song with a thudding bass line. “I love this song!” Bill exclaimed, now slurring his words slightly. “C’mon!” He tugged her arm, and Elizabeth soon found herself on the moderately packed dance floor.
The scotches did not improve Bill’s coordination; his moves were less “getting down” than “having a seizure.” Flailing his arms wildly, he threw his head back to howl out the lyrics, drawing both stares and a few discreetly raised phone cameras. Elizabeth gritted her teeth. Hungry children. Remember the hungry children, she reminded herself. At the same time, she contemplated how to fake an ankle injury; compassion could only trump humiliation for so long.
When the song finished, Elizabeth did an about-face and marched off the dance floor without looking back. Bill caught up to her at one of the bars, where she had just ordered a glass of white wine. She took several gulps before even glancing at the red, sweaty man; one strand of his comb-over drooped over his forehead. What the hell could she say to get out of this situation gracefully?
“Elizabeth?” Raising her head, she found Charlotte Lucas standing opposite. Tall, with a statuesque figure, Charlotte never took much time with her appearance. Tonight she wore a blindingly bright turquoise gown with orange shoes. The effect was…striking. But Charlotte had been a friend since childhood and Elizabeth was accustomed to her quirks. Elizabeth introduced Bill, relieved at the reprieve.
Charlotte repeated his name thoughtfully. “By any chance do you work for De Bourgh Staplers?”
Bill preened as if such recognition was his due. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
“You’ve heard of him?” Elizabeth asked, not quite keeping the incredulity out of her voice.
Charlotte’s eyes lit up with an excitement that couldn’t possibly be feigned. “Of course! Haven’t you?” She gestured deferentially to Bill. “He’s like the crown prince of staplers! He’ll probably take over when Catherine de Bourgh retires.”
Bill smiled with false modesty. “That hasn’t been decided.”
Charlotte continued, “At Lucas and Lucas we’ve been following the office supplies industry avidly. It’s going through so many upheavals, and it’s so cutthroat.”
“It does require a certain level of ruthlessness to survive, that’s true.” Now Bill’s smile was smug.
Charlotte leaned closer and spoke in a lower voice as if corporate spies lurked in every corner. “What do you think about the merger between United Erasers and Best Pencils? Will it be good for the industry?”
That was all the encouragement Bill required. Soon the two were engrossed in a conversation about the market share for protractors and the best ways to advertise scotch tape.
“Maybe I’ll go to the ladies’ room,” Elizabeth interjected during a break in the conversation. The others failed to react before launching into a spirited debate about number two pencils. As she made her getaway, Elizabeth wondered how long her reprieve could possibly last. Could Charlotte keep him talking all night?
A short search revealed Jane departing from the bar with a martini. “You sooo owe me!” she hissed in her sister’s ear.
Jane’s sympathetic expression confirmed that she had seen Bill dance. “Bing would be happy to dance with you,” Jane offered.
Elizabeth choked back the sour taste in her mouth. “I’m not planning to dance again. I may need brain bleach to erase those memories.”
“I’m sure someone decent would like to dance with you.” Jane glanced meaningfully across the room. Following her eyes, Elizabeth discovered President Darcy watching them intently.
“Oh God!” Elizabeth blushed and turned her back to him. “Why is he always staring at me?”
“Maybe he likes you,” Jane suggested.
“Yeah,” Elizabeth scoffed. “He likes watching me suffer with a terrible date.”
“Bing says he likes you.”
“Sure, he can be friendly and charming.” Elizabeth pursed her lips. “He’s a politician. But he was eager to get rid of us that morning at the Residence.”
“It was just awkward with Caroline there and everything. He has to be careful about the press.”
Elizabeth gave her sister a level gaze. “You’re suggesting the man who said I was ugly and stupid now likes me?”
Jane opened her mouth and closed it again.
“Precisely,” Elizabeth said. “If he’s watching me, it’s to catalogue my faults.”
Jane’s brows drew down as if the thought saddened her. “He’s been a very loyal friend to Bing.”
“No doubt he’s a terrific friend to his fellow old-money brats, but he’s only been difficult and proud to me,” Elizabeth spat. “He may expect everyone to defer to him, but that’s not the way I’m built.”
Jane frowned. “What if he’s changed his mind—?”
Enough with this conversation. First a disastrous date with Bill, and now she should humor the jerk-in-chief? “It doesn’t matter. I’ll probably never see him again after tonight.”
“Really? But you make such a cute couple!” The sound of her mother’s voice ringing out from behind Elizabeth transformed her insides to ice. If Fanny thought the president liked Elizabeth, nothing would stop her, short of Elizabeth’s joining a convent.
Elizabeth whirled around to find her mother, stuffed into a bright yellow dress with a hoop skirt, regarding her with a sorrowful expression. “Is it true that he’s a bigwig in the stapler industry?” her mother asked. Elizabeth allowed her shoulders to sag with relief. Her mother meant Bill, not the president.
Fanny glared at Charlotte, who was laughing at one of Bill’s jokes. Charlotte’s turquoise dress contrasted garishly with his plaid tux. “He’s going places, Lizzy! Don’t let Charlotte monopolize him.”
“I just met the guy,” Elizabeth pointed out. “Why don’t you ask Jane about how things are going with Bing? They’ve been together for months now.” Elizabeth met Jane’s poisonous glare with an innocent smile.
Before she could reply, Fanny’s attention was caught by Betty Lucas, Charlotte’s mother. She was one of Fanny’s “best friends”; they weren’t capable of a conversation without attempting to outdo each other.
“Betty!” They exchanged air kisses. Fanny presented Jane grandly. “Did you know that Jane is dating Charles Bingley, the president’s chief of staff?”
“No!” Betty Lucas faked enthusiasm well. “How exciting.”
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Fanny leaned toward Betty as if imparting a great secret. “We hope to be hearing wedding bells soon.”
“Mom!” Jane exclaimed. “We’ve been dating for three months!”
Betty made the appropriate noises of excitement but then tilted her head toward Charlotte and Bill. “Did you see Charlotte talking to the crown prince of staplers?”
“Jane met the president!” Fanny announced hurriedly.
“Bill works for Catherine de Bourgh,” Betty parried.
“Bing’s family is rich!”
“There’s a lot of money in office supplies!”
“Jane visited the White House!” Fanny countered rather desperately.
When Betty failed to produce an adequate comeback, Fanny’s head swiveled toward Jane expectantly.
Jane shrugged uncomfortably. “Just a dinner party.”
“Kitty said you stayed overnight!” her mother sing-songed.
Jane’s face suggested that she was thinking of ways to strangle Kitty. “Well…I did end up having to spend the night…” With an air of resignation, Jane described her back injury to Betty and how Bing had taken care of her at the White House, carefully leaving Elizabeth out of the story.
By the end of the tale, Mrs. Bennet was practically bursting with pride. “You didn’t tell me the back injury happened at the White House! That was a very ‘fortunate’ turn of events!” She winked knowingly at Jane.
Jane rolled her eyes. “I was on painkillers for two weeks and missed five days of work.”
Fanny Bennet waved away her eldest daughter’s suffering. “You spent the night at the White House!” She clasped her hands together over her heart.
“Drugged and in pain,” Jane objected.
“You are so clever!” Fanny eyed Elizabeth. “This is the kind of foresight you should exercise when you meet a good…prospect.” Elizabeth closed her eyes and prayed for patience.
“Mom,” Jane said through gritted teeth, “I didn’t injure my back deliberately.
Fanny patted her daughter’s hand with an understanding smile. “Of course you didn’t, dear.”
“I didn’t—”
Jane’s protest was interrupted by a loud exclamation from Betty. “Look at that! Charlotte is dancing with the stapler king.” All eyes turned to the dance floor, where Bill was drunkenly grinding his pelvis up against Charlotte’s, although she didn’t appear to mind. “How sweet!” Betty cooed, then turned to Elizabeth. “Isn’t Bill Collins your date?”
Elizabeth fought back a smile. “He seems more compatible with Charlotte.”
Betty gave Fanny a triumphant look.
“He arrived with you!” Fanny pointed an emphatic finger. “Go out there and get him back!”
Elizabeth glared. “I am not going to interrupt them while they’re having a good time.”
“You need to do something!” her mother wailed while Betty smirked. “Go!” She pushed Elizabeth toward the dance floor.
“I’ll get a drink for Bill. He’ll be thirsty when the song’s over,” Elizabeth said. Not that Bill needed more alcohol.
Her mother clapped her hands with glee. “That’s a wonderful idea!”
Elizabeth grabbed Jane’s hand. “I need your help.”
Jane gave her a bewildered look. “What can I do?”
“Help me select a drink.”
Their mother waved them away as if they were departing for a long trip. “Pick a good one, girls!”
A few steps away from their mother, Jane asked, “Are we actually getting a drink for Bill?”
Elizabeth snorted. “We’re getting a drink for me. Bill doesn’t need any more.” Charlotte and Bill were still burning up the dance floor doing the nerds’ version of dirty dancing. “Charlotte seems to like Bill. They’re happy. I’m relieved. Mom doesn’t get a vote,” Elizabeth said.
The line to the closest bar was short, and they soon sauntered away with glasses of wine. Jane tugged on her elbow; Elizabeth looked up in time to see an entourage bearing down on them. She slid sideways to duck out of the way, but within seconds she and Jane were surrounded by Secret Service agents—and had become the objects of avid curiosity from nearby partygoers as Bing and President Darcy stepped forward to greet them. Great. I can’t wait for snarky presidential comments about my date.
“Hi, Babe.” Bing glided forward to give Jane a kiss that suggested they’d been apart for days rather than minutes. Elizabeth averted her gaze—and, naturally, wound up staring at the president.
“Ms. Bennet,” the president shook her hand. “That is a lovely dress.”
As before, the touch of his hand short-circuited her higher brain functions. He likes my dress! her brain screamed helplessly. Elizabeth struggled to reassert reason. Of course, he said nice things; being charming was one of the president’s talents.
“Thank you.” There had to be more she could say. Various possibilities flitted through her mind only to be immediately discarded. That tuxedo fits you like a second skin. That tuxedo makes you look edible. May I touch your hair? Why couldn’t she think of anything appropriate? What was suitable small talk with the President of the United States? The weather? Sports? Politics? Ugh.
“So, how was your week?” she blurted out and immediately winced. His week had been all over the media. His transportation bill was likely to be defeated in the House, there had been a terrorist attack in Paris, and he faced a possible scandal involving the Secretary of Health and Human Services.
A corner of his mouth quirked up. “I’ve had better,” he admitted. “How was yours?”
Elizabeth gulped wine, devoutly wishing her brain would come back online. Her week had been devoted to finding funding for a particular program that the federal government had declined to sponsor, but she could hardly say that to the president. “Good,” she said. “A lot of meetings.”
“I guess any week without a humanitarian disaster is good for you,” he said.
“Yes, but I also like being out in the field.” He quirked an eyebrow at her. “When I’m helping people…even under horrible circumstances, I feel…useful…alive. I don’t have any time to worry about my petty concerns; I just focus on helping others get through the day. It’s quite rewarding.” She flushed. What had possessed her to babble like that to the president? No doubt he was plotting how to escape the conversation.
But he nodded slowly as if carefully considering her words. “I can understand that. As president, I have the opportunity to help a lot of people, but there’s a special thrill when I can meet and help someone one-on-one.” Her skin was growing hotter under the intensity of his gaze. Couldn’t he turn his glare onto someone else?
Say something! “Yes…definitely…” Witty retort, Elizabeth. No doubt he’s very impressed. Immediately she felt a flicker of irritation toward herself. Why should she care what he thought of her?
The band had finished a song, and people wandered off the dance floor. Finished canoodling, Bing and Jane were poised to go dance, but Bing was regarding President Darcy expectantly. Why?
His eyes remained focused on her as he stepped closer. “Ms. Bennet, would you join me for the next dance?”
Chapter Eight
Huh? Was he serious? Wasn’t she too ugly and stupid? A flock of butterflies danced in her stomach. As much as the man’s touch electrified her, she found his company too nerve-wracking to desire more, but could she actually refuse? “W-Wh—I—” she stammered. Wasn’t her family nouveau riche? Hadn’t he been dying to get her out of the Residence? “I-I—” Reasons to decline were legion, but not one of them would be acceptable to voice.
His head tilted to the side as he considered her. “Oh,” he said suddenly, “unless your boyfriend would mind.” His lip curled as if the idea were distasteful to him.
Jane choked on a laugh. Bill would be the perfect excuse, but the thought was too mortifying. “He’s not my boyfriend,” Elizabeth informed him frostily. “He’s my…um”—Oh God, how to explain him?—“auction date,” sh
e finished lamely.
“You won an auction for him?” The president’s expression was pained.
Surely her face was bright red by now. “I’m doing it for the hungry children…” she explained helplessly. Jane’s lips were pressed together, holding back laughter. “In any case,” Elizabeth said through gritted teeth, “he won’t care who I dance with.”
The president’s gaze was disconcertingly focused. “Not a boyfriend?” She gave a definite shake of her head, and his shoulders relaxed. “So you can dance with me.”
“I guess.” She shrugged. Wait! No! He was the last man on earth she wanted to dance with! Wasn’t he?
President Darcy eyed the band, which had acquired some stringed instruments. “I think they’re about to play a waltz.” He extended his hand and led her briskly to the dance floor. Heads turned and people whispered behind their hands as the Secret Service agents “encouraged” the crowds to give way.
Why couldn’t I have managed a good excuse to decline? Thank you, I don’t dance. I’m honored, but my old football injury is acting up. I’d like to dance, but I’m too ugly and stupid.
The dance floor was crowded with couples, but nobody infringed on the president’s “personal space.” One of his hands held hers in a firm grip, and his other rested on her waist. His hand warmed her skin through the thin silk of her dress—so different from the moist creepiness of Bill’s grip. She was hyper-aware of his touch all over her body as if it had the power to travel through her bloodstream.
He cleared his throat as the opening notes of the waltz began. Oh, I’m supposed to put my other hand on his shoulder! The minute she did so, he swept her up into the dance.
Elizabeth’s dancing experience was limited. Long-ago lessons had faded in her memory, but fortunately the waltz was easy to recall. They whirled about the dance floor, moving so fast that the room was a blur of colors. President Darcy was a marvelous partner, leading her effortlessly around the floor. She scarcely thought about her feet. Their bodies were perfectly in sync, moving as one—as if they’d been dancing together for years.
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