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.”
President Darcy Page 13