Hiring Mr. Darcy

by Bowman, Valerie

  “Yeah, I know, and he’s a nice enough guy, but you have to admit he buttons his shirt too high. And I swear he uses starch.”

  I blinked at him. “What’s wrong with starch?”

  “Ain’t nobody got time for that.”

  “I’m thirty-one,” I moaned, pressing the side of my face against the cushion. “I’m supposed to have my first child by the time I’m thirty-three and the second when I’m thirty-five.”

  My brother’s forehead puckered into a deep frown. “Whaa? Says who?”

  “Says me. Says life. Says my day planner. My list of goals. Harrison meets all of my criteria on my Future Husband Checklist. If we were to break up, I would have to start all over again, and—”

  “Whoa. You actually have this crap written down somewhere?” He pulled the cushion away from me.

  “Of course I do. We’re supposed to get engaged by the end of this year. I’m supposed to get tenure by the time I reach thirty-two in June, and have the kids after a year married.”

  Luke whistled. “Wow. You’re even loonier than I thought. I don’t even want to know what a Future Husband Checklist is. Besides, did you notice you didn’t even mention the most important word in all of this?”

  It was my turn to frown. “What?”

  “Love,” he said, batting his eyelashes at me. “L.O.V.E. You sound like you’re only upset because you’d have to start over, not because the love of your life is with another woman.”

  I gasped and blinked at him. “Of course I love Harrison.” Wasn’t love implied when you planned on marrying someone?

  “Do you, Meg? Do you really?” Luke asked in the most father-like, serious tone I’d probably ever heard from him.

  I searched around for a coaster so I could set my beer bottle on the table next to me. It gave me a minute to collect my thoughts. “First, I refuse to take advice about love from someone who doesn’t even believe in the word, and second, it’s perfectly acceptable to have goals. That doesn’t make me a bad person.” With my free hand, I pulled the pillow back from Luke and bopped him on the head with it. “How are you supposed to accomplish things in life if you don’t have them written down?”

  “Well, my band is playing for one of the biggest talent scouts in Nashville in a couple of weeks, and I promise you I never wrote that down.”

  I shook my head at his smug smile. I couldn’t explain to a non-writer-downer why writing things down was so important. Especially when adorable matching office supplies and journals and colored pens were involved. Believe me. I’d tried arguing such points before. It was like Napoleon at Waterloo, a losing battle. “The point is that now my entire schedule is ruined, and I’m going to have to start over.”

  “It’s life, Meggie.” Luke drained his beer and gave me a hard look. “It’s not a schedule. You need to chill.”

  I hugged my throw pillow again. “I don’t even know what that means.”

  “Chill. You know, sit around in your underwear and read books. Not textbooks and not history books, but the kind of books that you find fun. You know…fun?”

  “History books are fun!” I insisted.

  “To nerds. What about romance novels? You used to like to read those, didn’t you?”

  I sucked in my breath. Luke remembered that I liked romance novels? Had he been snooping on my e-reader? I hadn’t admitted reading a romance novel to anyone except Ellie in over fifteen years. Anyway, Luke was just muddying the waters. He was missing the point. I shoved my finger accusingly toward the book he’d left on the coffee table. “You’re reading War and Peace and you’re calling me a nerd?”

  “Touché.” He grinned at me.

  I pushed my palms against my thighs, stood, retrieved the trash bag, and continued cleaning the room. Luke stood to help me, but I waved him away. “No. Let me. It’ll keep my mind off my failure.”

  He shook his head. “It isn’t a failure, Meg.”

  I barely glanced back at him. “Don’t you have a gig or something tonight? Leave me to mope and clean in peace.” Mope and Clean in Peace. That would be a great name for my future nonexistent autobiography.

  “Nope. No gig tonight, but I am playing poker with the guys in about an hour.” He glanced at the clock on the microwave in the kitchen. He’d probably busted his cell phone again. Luke didn’t own a watch. He didn’t believe in them. Harrison had often mentioned it. He seemed flabbergasted by the notion.

  “Good.” I grabbed another dirty napkin from the coffee table and shoved it into the bag. “Order pizza at your poker game. I’m cleaning this place up and don’t want to see another pizza box.”

  Luke stopped in the middle of shoving his feet into his sneakers without untying the laces and did a double take. “Wait. You usually lecture me when I play poker.”

  We both knew why I didn’t like him playing poker. We’d grown up in a house with a dad who didn’t know when to stop. It was one of the things that made me such a control freak. We’d had very little influence over our lives as children (or so a psychologist had explained to me in college). All I knew was that organizing things made me happy. Our father had spent years losing, however, while Luke almost always won. He had the math brain our poor father never would. “Yeah, well, tonight I’m fine with it,” I added stiffly.

  “Okay. I’ll go get cleaned up and leave.” Luke disappeared into the hall bathroom, which he never kept clean enough for my standards. I’d be cleaning that later, too. Bleach was sure to be involved. And gloves.

  I’d pushed the last of the beer bottles into the recycling bin in the kitchen, and was wiping my newly washed hands on a white towel, when Luke’s voice drifted out of the bathroom.

  “Hey, Meggie, why don’t you find your own Mr. Darcy, go to the competition, and beat the hell out of Harrison and Lacey Lewis?”

  Chapter 3

  Why don’t you find your own Mr. Darcy? The words reverberated through my brain over and over again, like Big Ben tolling out the midnight hour. Beat the hell out of Harrison and Lacey Lewis.

  “I can’t,” I called back to my brother, but the entire time, the less-evolved, competitive, jealous, angry portion of my brain was already plotting the entire thing. While the other half of my brain was shrinking away from the notion. I’d be an idiot if I went to Bath and tried to rival Harrison and Lacey. How would I explain that to Harrison? How would I explain it to Dr. Holmes?

  Luke came out of the bathroom, wiping his face with a towel. “Why not?”

  “I’m sure Dr. Holmes wouldn’t like it.” There. That was a good enough reason, wasn’t it?

  “So what? It’s not affiliated with the college, is it? He can’t keep you from competing, can he?”

  “No,” I ventured, tapping my cheek with the tip of my finger and leaning back against the kitchen counter. “But I don’t have a partner.” That was the best reason of all.

  “You could find someone else. Just like Harrison did.”

  I groaned and shook my head. “It’s not that easy. Lacey’s good. She’s been studying with Harrison for the last six weeks. I could always go as their consultant.”

  Luke gave me a look that fairly dripped skepticism. “I know you, Meg. Competitive is your middle name. You won’t be happy unless you’re in it to win. Besides, you’ve worked hard for months. You shouldn’t let all of that go to waste.”

  It was true. I still wanted to win. “I have worked hard,” I mumbled. “I’ve been sewing for weeks. I’ve been practicing my waltz and my lines for the talent competition. I know whist like the back of my hand.”

  Luke stood in the doorway, his face crumpled into a scowl. “What the hell is whist?”

  “A really old card game.” I made an exception to my ‘no card games’ life rule for the Jane Austen Festival. Believe me, it was the only thing that could get me to do it.

  “Sounds awful.”

  “I think you’d like it, actually. But—”

  My brother had a look in his eye that I’d seen the morning he’d left to t
ake his SATs, which, of course, he’d aced. “You need to go to Bath and beat his ass.”

  I heaved a sigh. “Who is my partner going to be? Imaginary Mr. Darcy?”

  “Don’t you know some other big history nerd who can go with you?”

  “No. Contrary to popular belief, unattached history nerds up for spur-of-the-moment international travel aren’t thick on the ground.”

  “I thought you were in some kind of online forum with them.” Luke headed into the living room, where he started tossing around magazines and throw pillows, obviously searching for something.

  “Yes, the Austen Society Facebook group, but everyone there already has a partner for the festival.” I followed my brother into the living room, feeling lost and whiny.

  “Can’t you find someone and you know...teach ‘em what to do?”

  My brother was smart, but he didn’t know the first thing about the intricacies of the Jane Austen Festival in Bath. “No, I can’t just find anyone and—”

  I snapped my mouth shut and stared at my older sibling. Hmm. Wait a second. Luke was tall, dark, and handsome (or at least other women seemed to think so). I knew far too much about his living habits to find him handsome. Plus...brother. But the tall and dark part couldn’t be disputed.

  I narrowed my eyes on him and pushed my fingers together in a steeple like Dr. Evil planning a dastardly plot. “Unless...” I drew out the word slowly.

  “Unless what?” Luke froze and shot me a wary glance.

  “Unless you wanted to go with me.” I batted my eyelashes at him like I used to when we were kids and I was trying to get him to do my bidding. It rarely worked.

  Luke’s blue eyes nearly bugged from his skull. “Me? Whaa? No way in hell!”

  “What? Why not?” I crossed my arms over my chest. “You were just saying I should go beat Harrison’s ass.”

  “Yes, but not with me. I don’t know jack about Jane Austen, Mr. Darcy, or any of it.”

  “I could teach you! It’s my job.” This was tricky, and it was going to involve a bribe before it was over. My sisterly senses could feel it.

  “Do you truly think I could learn all that crap you and Dr. Strangelove have been practicing in—what is it?—two weeks?”

  Time for the bribe. “What if I paid you?”

  “I’m not sure there’s enough money in the world.” Luke dug his hand into the couch cushions and pulled out his wallet, because of course his wallet would be stuck in the couch.

  “One thousand dollars?” I offered, still eyelash-batting like a fool.

  “No way!” He half-ran across the room, back toward the hall bath.

  I trailed him, right on his heels. “Two thousand?” What the hell was savings for? I’d been practically a miser for the last seven years, paying back my student loans and pinching every penny. I’d pay twice that to beat Harrison’s ass.

  Luke hesitated. “That’s more like it, but—”

  “Five thousand,” I shouted. “And all travel fees and expenses.”

  “Whoa? Five thousand? That’s serious. Are you sure you want to beat the good doctor that badly?”

  “Of course! It’s worth it. Plus, I’ll pay for your costumes. But we have to get started on them right away.”

  He groaned again. “Costumes?”

  “Come on. We can do it. I know we can. Where’s that Knightley spirit?”

  “I’m a singer, not an actor, Meg. Wait.” He flipped through his phone. “Is it the week of the fifteenth?”

  “Yes.”

  “Crap. That’s when I’ll be in Nashville.”

  My heart plummeted into my slippers. I’d completely forgotten about his audition. It was a big deal for Luke. A very big deal. There was no way I could ask him to skip it for my revenge fantasy in England. I rubbed the back of my hand across my forehead and slumped against the wall. “Oh, right. Yeah. I forgot.”

  “I’m sorry, Meggie. Really, I am.” Luke looked truly disappointed. And a little guilty.

  “No, you were right. Two weeks isn’t enough time to teach you anyway. It was a ludicrous idea.” I didn’t mention that it would also be far too pathetic of me to show up with my brother to a competition that my boyfriend would be at with my super-hot replacement. Not only would we probably lose to two people who knew exactly what they were doing, but it would be a pathetic, take-your-brother-to-the-prom type of loss. At least if I didn’t even go, I wouldn’t be humiliated. Still. I hated to think of Harrison winning the competition I’d worked so hard on. Without me.

  Luke wrapped the towel around his neck and tugged on both ends. “Do you want me to blow off the guys tonight? Stay home and hang out with you?”

  “No,” I said firmly. “Go.” As much as I’d love to keep Luke from gambling for once, I wasn’t about to ruin my brother’s plans because of my ridiculous work problems.

  “Are you sure? I usually win. They’d probably be glad to see me bow out.”

  I had to smile at that. “Yes. I’m sure. Go. Win.”

  “I could head over to Harrison’s place and punch him for you instead. Just say the word.”

  “Tempting, but no thank you.”

  Luke put a hand on my shoulder. “We’ll figure something out, Meggie. Don’t worry.”

  “Me? Worry? Pssshshaw.”

  Luke snorted at that, then pointed a finger at me. “Do not spend the night writing down goals in a day planner.”

  “It’s Friday night. That would just be pathetic,” I said, knowing full well I’d spend at least a good hour with my day planner later. And enjoy it.

  Luke tossed the towel on the back of the couch. I quickly retrieved it. Then he headed for the door. I turned back to continue cleaning the living room.

  “By the way, Meggie,” he said from the front door. “Your underwear—or something—is sticking out of the back of your skirt.”

  The door slammed and he was gone.

  * * *

  After Luke left, I spent the next four hours unpacking, doing laundry, and obsessively cleaning. Anything to keep my mind off Harrison and Lacey and the bloody Jane Austen Festival and Games. Then I spent some quality time with my journal and day planner. And yes, I did enjoy it. Finally, I snuggled up in bed with my fluffy lavender duvet and a pint of Häagan Daz.

  I decided to watch the Colin Firth version of Pride and Prejudice because it closely follows the book and when it doesn’t, Colin Firth is all wet. A heavy sigh shuddered through me when Mr. Darcy said, “You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

  I sat up and pressed pause on the TV remote, then pushed the duvet to the side and slid out of bed. I padded over to the closet and pulled opened a drawer in my fancy closet system. An organized closet is one of life’s greatest joys. Along with my journals, the drawer contained my day planners from years past. I flipped the first two forward until I came to the planner from three years ago. The year I’d met Harrison.

  I grabbed the planner and got back into bed where I turned the pages to the very last one. I knew precisely where it was. My Future Husband Checklist. I’d written it in grad school, but had transferred it to this particular planner after meeting Harrison and deciding that he might be the one. He had to match all of the items, I’d told myself. And he did. That was something else my college shrink had told me. “Look for someone who has the same attributes that you do. It’s not too much to ask that your partner have the same level of success as you. If you write a list of what you’re looking for and stick to it, you’re sure to find the perfect mate.”

  She was right, and stick to it I had. Through all these years. My gaze scanned the familiar words. I rubbed my thumb across them and smiled.

  Gainfully employed with no history of being fired or quitting often (flaky) or similar.

  Intelligent. Master’s degree or higher. (Ph.D. preferred.)

  Organized. Clean. Well-kept. Pays bills on time. Not a hoarder. No trash sitting around living space and/or car.

  Not a gambler. Doesn
’t even play cards recreationally. (except for whist at JA Festival, obvi)

  Funny (because of course).

  Growth-oriented and shares my vision for the future. Kids, etc.

  Has never cheated on anyone in the past, i.e., trustworthy.

  Attractive (to me). Doesn’t have to be any better-looking a man than I am a woman, but both of us must feel physical attraction on some level. (Must have good teeth too.)

  Kind. Not rude to waiters, etc.

  Shares my values. No religious zealots or anti-feminists.

  Harrison met every single one of those criteria. Not just most of them. All of them. Thanks to my list, I’d known he was right for me from the start.

  He was an unabashed nerd like I was. We could talk for hours about the proper use of an eyeglass and the mourning rituals of the early-nineteenth-century English. I’d never met a man who knew as much about the things I loved as he did. At least no eligible men my age. It turned out Harrison hadn’t had many girlfriends either. A lot of his friends in high school had just assumed he was gay. He said his mother had even asked him a time or two. He wasn’t gay, though he did know how to tie a cravat and dance a waltz. But he also knew all the details about the battle of Waterloo and way too much about both the Duke of Wellington and Admiral Nelson. What wasn’t hot about that?

  With his permission, I even checked out Harrison’s credit score, and it was higher than mine. Impressive. He was funny. The man could do a Napoleon impression that had our grad students (and me) in stitches. Harrison was committed, healthy, and had never played poker in his life. He’d also never been to Las Vegas, which is where my dad, the “artist,” had ended up, perhaps inevitably. Dad claimed the art scene there was great for rich buyers, but Luke and I knew the real reason he was there. Anyone who knew him did. Harrison was nothing like my dad. Perfect husband material.

  I scanned the list again. The gainfully employed thing was a result of my dad having a string of jobs he’d been fired from. He preferred to paint, which never earned him much. Harrison was not only gainfully employed, he was employed in my same profession. We could empathize with each other on a level many couples couldn’t. I couldn’t love anyone who didn’t value education. Not only was it important to me, but it was my job.