“Oh, don’t blame Lydia. It was Bill who told me. He’d heard about it from your aunt Cathy.”
“Catherine,” he corrected.
“Oh, yes.” Elizabeth changed her voice to a close imitation of his aunt. “Lady Catherine de Bourgh.” Then she laughed again. “Someone should remind that woman that she lives in America now. We don’t give a crap about her fancy title.”
Then she became serious, at least as serious as one can be after three or four martinis. “I can’t tell you how much it means to my family that she wasn’t arrested, but why in hell would you go out on a limb for Lydia?”
“I did it for you.” She was obviously stunned silent but he wanted to make sure his confession made it through the gin. “Only for you.”
Darcy spent the remainder of the drive to Meryton waiting for Elizabeth to respond. He thought several times that she might have fallen asleep, but she only stared ahead saying nothing. He would have paid anything to know what was going on inside her head. Did she now feel some misguided sense of obligation to him? Did she think he was some kind of sick stalker, sticking his nose into her family’s business as a way to control her? And how could he defend himself if she remained silent?
When the Porsche finally pulled back into Bingley’s garage, Darcy looked again to see if Elizabeth had fallen asleep, but she was wide awake. He opened her car door and helped her to stand.
As he helped her into the house, she finally turned to him and said, “You did it for me? After I insulted you and said I’d rather slit my wrists than ever to speak to you again, you still saved Lydia for me?”
“I’d do anything for you.”
“Still?”
“Still.”
That was when she grabbed the lapels of his jacket, tugged hard, and kissed him. Her mouth was warm, wet, perfect. The hands that plunged into his hair were rough and insistent. Her body molded against his was soft and yielding—and drunk. Bloody hell, she is still drunk.
He picked her up, carried her through the house and up the massive staircase. Lizzy spent the trip nuzzling his throat, driving him mad with small kisses and little nips of her teeth. Knowing there’d be no guest room ready for her, Darcy laid Lizzy gently in his bed, slipped off her shoes and tucked her in. When he came back from the bathroom with a glass of water and some Ibuprofen, he found both the blue dress and a matching bra lying on the carpet next to the bed. He drank in the sight of her exposed skin and wondered just how much of this torture he must endure before going completely starkers. He was only human after all.
He whispered an oath then tried to gently wake her. With a groan of protest, Lizzy sat up, which allowed the blankets to slip over her breasts to her waist. Then she fumbled, trying to cover herself while taking the pills. When she finished the water, she lay back and sighed.
He tucked the blankets over her shoulders and said, “We’ll talk about this when you’re sober if you want to.”
“You scare me to death,” she mumbled as she turned to her side.
“And why is that?”
“Because I could really fall for you. Really, really hard. And when you eventually leave me for Heidi Klum, it would hurt. It would hurt more than I could ever bear.”
“My lovely, lovely, Elizabeth,”—he bent over and placed a soft kiss on her forehead. “Heidi Klum can bugger off.”
* * *
Darcy woke up to the heavenly scents of bacon and coffee. He rolled over and fell hard onto the floor, having forgotten that he’d spent a restless night on the couch in Bingley’s game room.
He groaned and opened his eyes to find Elizabeth standing over him with a tray in her hands.
“What time is it?” he grumbled while crawling to sit on the couch.
“It’s nearly noon.” Elizabeth placed the tray in front of him containing a spread of scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, fresh pineapple, and coffee. “I remembered that you liked your eggs scrambled and your coffee black. I took a guess at the toast and bacon—and who doesn’t like pineapple?”
“I love pineapple,” he admitted as he grabbed the mug. “This is great. Thanks. How’s your head?”
“I had a rough night, but it’s amazing what a lot of water and a full breakfast can do. So . . .” She seemed to be having a difficult time finding the words, and he feared what she might say next. At last she said, “Thank you for last night.”
His heart sank. He did not want her thanks, and this sounded like the beginning of the big brush off, but then what more could he have expected? “You’re welcome.” He just wanted the conversation over with so he could nurse his wounds in private. “Thanks again for breakfast.”
She got up to leave but hesitated again before sitting back down. Then her words gushed out. “Look, I’m really sorry about my behavior last night. I was all over you like some drunken prom date, which is an appropriate analogy as I was drunk, even though we’re both too old for prom. You were such a gentleman, and I was touching you like some strumpet in heat and, well . . . I’m totally humiliated. You deserved to be treated as respectfully as you treated me. So, I apologize. Again. And again.”
Her apology was sweet, but it was not what he wanted to hear. Well, if she was going to blow him off, he might as well push all his chips in. “Thanks, but I have to be honest. I wasn’t offended.”
“I know. You were so nice”—she smiled that smile he loved—“and I was ridiculous.”
A glimmer of hope began to grow. “How much of last night do you remember?”
“All of it. From ‘Hiya’ to ‘Heidi Klum can bugger off.’ Every single, beautiful word.”
“You said some beautiful words yourself.”
They sat there smiling stupidly at one another for a full minute as the glimmer warmed into a steady flame.
It was Elizabeth who broke the silence when she reached for the fork and loaded it with eggs. She held the fork before his mouth.
Suddenly ravenous, he leaned forward and closed his mouth over the eggs. As he chewed, she said, “Twenty-four hours ago, I thought I’d never have the chance to tell you how sorry I was for what I said to you last week. Now here we are. Life can be so strange.”
She held out another bite, and before taking it he said, “I’ll never forget when you said there was nothing I could say that would convince you to go out with me.”
“Oh, please! Don’t remind me. I was such a jerk.”
“Elizabeth, I was rude. I deserved every word.”
“And I had jumped to the all the wrong conclusions. If anyone deserved to be put in their place, it was me.”
“Let’s not argue over who was the biggest fool. I don’t think that discussion would make either of us look very good.” He held up a slice of toast for her to bite.
She accepted his offering and fed him more eggs. “Well then, let’s remember only the things that make us happy.”
“Like this, now?”
She gave him that smile again and in that instant, he swore he could feel his heart pass from his chest into her hands. Somehow it didn’t scare him at all. “Yes. Like this, now.”
He pulled her into his lap, and they kissed—long, slow, and impossibly sweet. Yes, being a gentleman certainly has its rewards.
He let her take the lead and felt her body press closer, her breath come quicker, and her kiss turn deeper—and she was perfectly sober. Yes, being a gentleman with principles rocks!
Long after what remained of his breakfast had turned cold, she said, “Jane and Chuck have invited me to spend the weekend, and I need to get a few things. So, what do you say, Ace? Can you give me a ride home?”
“Sure thing, Sherlock.”
Mild-mannered business woman by day, hopeless romantic by night, Ruth Phillips Oakland was always a fan of the fictional gentleman from Derbyshire, but it was her discovery of Jane Austen fanfiction in 2006 that inspired Ruth to become a writer. Ruth has written dozens of short stories posted online and the published novel entitled, My BFF. Ruth lives in New England with h
er favorite husband of over thirty years and is thrilled to be included in this anthology with so many of her favorite authors and friends.
I, Darcy
Karen M Cox
“In essentials, I believe, he is very much what he ever was.”
Miss Elizabeth to Mr. Wickham, Chapter XLI.
Autumn
Mr. Darcy is a putz.”
“Pardon?”
“Mr. Darcy.” I rolled my eyes at Corbin’s characteristic blank look. “Pride and Prejudice? Ms. Smith’s senior English class? Remember?”
“Hell, no, I don’t remember. That was more than ten years ago.”
“And I could never forget. You probably never read the book anyway.”
“You’re probably right.” He laughed—that self-effacing, “aw-shucks” chuckle that, for some reason, women found adorable. “So, remind me. I guess the main character was Darcy. Hey, just like . . .”
“I’m ashamed to share his last name. Mr. Darcy is the ‘hero’”—I air-quoted the word with my fingers—“of Pride and Prejudice, and I’m not surprised it didn’t stick with you, because it’s forgettable—a two-hundred-year-old book by an English spinster who most likely never spent any time with a real man in her whole, lonely, miserable life. A book where everybody gets married, as if that’s the be-all, end-all objective of existence. In the words of the kid from The Princess Bride, it’s a ‘kissing book.’ The illustrious Mr. Darcy is the main schmuck in a book full of schmucks. He starts out somewhat reasonable, but then he gets led around by his gonads just like every other dude in the story.”
“You seem to know a lot about this book.”
“You would too if your last name was Darcy.” I mimicked an affected tone. “So, you’re Mr. Darcy. Ha-ha-ha-ha. I’ve been looking for you all my life.” With a grim shake of my head, I took a sip of my bourbon and branch. “His first name was even Fitzwilliam.”
“That sounds a lot like William.”
“Yep. My mother’s little joke—English lit major that she was. Bought me a lifetime of misery with that name.”
“So, that’s why you go by Liam?”
“Exactly.”
“I guess you’re not a fan.”
“I’m not not a fan, Corbin. I just think Mr. Darcy is a romanticized, overblown, emotional outlet for every woman who refuses to be satisfied with a real-world, flesh-and-blood man. He’s also the reason all these women, and some men, are infecting this hotel on the very week I’m negotiating the most important business deal of the year. Just look at them.” I cast a surreptitious glance around the hotel lobby.
Corbin’s gaze followed mine, but he wasn’t nearly as sly. “Oh, I don’t know. I think they’re sort of cute in their dresses and bonnets. It’s no different than dressing up for ‘Rocky Horror’ or wearing Peyton Manning’s jersey to a football game—both of which I’ve seen you do in the past.”
“Not the same."
Corbin’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “It looks pretty much the same to me.”
My only response was a bland stare.
A light chuckle floated over the air. “Actually, Jane Austen knew a lot about men.”
I turned and startled. Her voice had the same effect on me as the first bites of my grandmother’s homemade cinnamon rolls—comforting and sweet and just a little spicy.
My cheeks grew hot with embarrassment. A young woman sat across from me—shocked, big blue eyes staring out of a beautiful face, corn silk blonde curls covered in an old-fashioned bonnet. The woman seated right behind me was wearing street clothes—and an amused grin—as she looked down into her glass of chardonnay. She didn’t even grace me with a look as she continued.
“Miss Austen was close to her father. He was a minister of the Church of England and supervised much of her education. He also ran a boarding school for boys from their home. And she had several brothers. So yes, I’m sure she spent plenty of time with real men, and given her keen powers of observation, she probably knew men better than they knew themselves.”
I sat, silently mortified that I had been caught discussing women—and literature—in public.
“Maybe,” the young woman with the velvet voice continued, “that’s why she never married.”
“Lynley,” Blue Bonnet Girl replied, obvious affection in her voice, “you’re such a cynic.”
Constitutionally incapable of rudeness, especially where pretty women were concerned, Corbin scooted his chair around between this Lynley and the blue-eyed one.
“Don’t mind him. Sometimes, he gets a little grumpy. I’m Corbin, and you are . . . ?” He held out a hand, which the blonde took.
“Jane.”
“This is Liam, and I promise . . . his bark is worse than his bite.” He turned expectantly to the other woman, who still hadn’t looked at me.
“I’m Lynley.”
“Can we buy you ladies a drink?”
“Well . . .” Lynley glanced at Jane, who shrugged a delicate shoulder.
“To make up for general grumpiness. My friend here had a tough week.” Corbin held up a finger to signal the waitress.
“Of—of course. If that’s okay. No offense intended.”
“None taken,” Lynley answered. “Everyone has a right to express his opinion, even if it’s an erroneous one.”
The waitress approached, and Corbin gestured around the table. “Another round here. What’ll you have, Jane?”
“Club soda.”
He pointed at Lynley. “Chardonnay?”
“Sure, I guess.”
When the waitress left, Corbin smoothly filled the awkward silence, addressing his question to the blonde. Typical. “So, do you live in the DC area, or are you traveling?”
“We’re both from a small town in central Virginia.”
“Oh, do you work together? Just friends?”
“Actually, we’re stepsisters. My dad married Lynley’s mom when we were little.” Jane smiled warmly at Lynley. “But we’re great friends, too.”
“That’s nice.” Corbin leaned back as the waitress set drinks down on the table. “And you’re Jane. At a Jane Austen conference. Clever.”
Her smile brightened. It was like a perpetual beacon that she just turned up and down to fit the conversation. “Like your friend Liam’s, my mother was an English lit major, too.”
“Are you enjoying the conference?”
“Oh yes! We come to this meeting every year.”
“But you’re not dressed up.” I frowned at the woman next to me.
“Dressing in period costume is optional, but Jane here is giving a talk about men’s undergarments worn during the British Regency and thought costuming would add to the presentation.” Her eyes flickered toward me. “First impressions often make a significant difference in how well you’re received.”
Jane blushed while Corbin gave her a speculative glance. “Men’s undergarments . . . interesting,” he murmured.
“And I’m combining business with pleasure on this trip. Jane’s going back home after the conference ends, but I have a meeting day after tomorrow.” Lynley turned to face me for the first time. “I’m curious, Mr. Darcy . . .” She faltered. “Um . . .”
“It’s Liam.”
“Yes, of course.” She stared at me. “Um…what?”
“You’re curious. . . ?” I asked.
“Oh.” She closed those big, brown eyes for a second and shook her head, as if to clear the cobwebs out. I recognized the gesture, given that I often did that myself, but on her it looked infinitely more charming.
“Curious, yes.” Her eyes opened, her equilibrium apparently restored. “Why do you despise the fictional Mr. Darcy so much?”
I back-pedaled, anxious to soften my previous hyperbole. “Despise is a strong word. It would be absurd to say I despise a literary figure, a man made of make-believe.”
“You don’t think that literature can be a reflection of real life?”
“Sure it can. But, like I said, Mr. Darcy isn’t a re
flection of real life. I think he’s been put on a pedestal. It’s irrational.”
“Irrational? How so?”
“To start with, he’s stand-offish and rude, and insulting to Elizabeth Bennet for most of the book, but that’s all overlooked once she sees the big estate and talks to the housekeeper.”
“My, my, you do know the story.”
“Mother, English lit major, remember?”
Lynley smiled. “I think I’d like your mother.”
“You probably would.” I leaned back in my chair, considering her. “And what’s more, Mr. Darcy isn’t any kind of hero I’d aspire to be. He’s actually kind of stupid.”
“Really?”
“First off, he’s got the hots for a gold digger.”
“Well, most would say her mother was the gold digger.”
“In my experience, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” I was on a roll now. “Two, he’s a complete social klutz. If Darcy really had a thing for Elizabeth, and yet he still made all those blunders up to and including the time when he proposed, she wouldn’t give him the time of day after that, no matter what the revered Jane Austen would have you believe. Any time a real woman encounters a real man who actually acts like Mr. Darcy, she brushes him off like a piece of lint.”
“You think so, do you?”
“I do.”
“And is this assertion based on personal experience?”
I glared at her and ignored that little dig. “The idea that Elizabeth and Darcy would live happily ever after is a complete fairy tale.”
“A fantasy.”
“Yep. A fantasy that’s been perpetuated by women for two hundred years. The perfect Mr. Darcy.”
“I wouldn’t say Mr. Darcy is perfect”—Lynley tilted her head, a mischievous grin on her lips, her eyes sparkling with humor—“he’s just forgiven.”
I smiled despite myself and conceded the point with a nod. “Perhaps.”
Corbin picked up his glass and held it up. “To forgiveness.” He clinked his glass to mine, then Lynley’s, then held it up to Jane’s. “And to new friends.”
The Darcy Monologues: A romance anthology of Pride and Prejudice short stories in Mr. Darcy's own words Page 49