Dear Miss Darcy

by Briggs, Laura

  Miss Darcy chose it for this reason, to dispel any rumors about herself and Mr. Stanley. Her black velvet dress was camouflage, blending with the dark upholstered booth to avoid drawing undue attention.

  Popping open her compact, she inspected her lipstick. Too bright? Too red? She snapped it closed again. What did it matter, since this was only a business affair?

  He was not late yet; but he would be in ten minutes. She calculated the odds that he wouldn’t show at all, abandoning her to personal embarrassment and a single cocktail at a table meant for two. Craning her neck, she peered cautiously into the dining room, searching for familiar faces. No editors from the Post, no rivals from the Telegraph. No one she recognized in the slightest.

  The maitre’de bowed slightly as another guest entered the club. Before the figure emerged from the shadows cast by the black velvet drapes, she recognized the confident stride, the lean fingers tucking a cell phone out of sight.

  He caught a glimpse of her, a smile crossing his lips. She tucked her handbag out of sight and crossed her legs, trying to appear nonchalant. As if she was perfectly content to sit here alone all night.

  “I hope this location is satisfactory,” she said, as he slid across from her in the booth.

  “I come here often,” he answered. “However, I was not aware that you ... frequented the establishment.” He chose his words carefully, an element of surprise in his voice.

  She smiled. “I have more than one connection in the world of fine dining. The good fortune of possessing a familiar name, as I’m sure you know.”

  A waiter placed two cocktail glasses on the table before them, along with two menus. She glanced with surprise at the clear bubbles and double cherries in the glass before her.

  “I hope the selection is satisfactory,” he said. “That's your favorite drink, I assume. The same as Rosing’s?”

  It was her turn to be surprised. “You’re correct,” she answered, her voice faltering slightly. With a short laugh, she raised the glass. “I suppose I shouldn’t be flattered. Since a man of your reputation must remember countless drinks on behalf of female companions.”

  “I thought that was the topic of discussion for the evening,” he replied. “So, shall I tell you the story over dinner? Or business before pleasure?”

  “Why not?” She pulled a pad and pencil from her bag.

  He choked slightly and lowered his glass. “You’re quite fast with those, aren’t you?”

  “One must be prepared in my business. You’d be surprised how handy a simple pencil and paper can be in public.”

  Exhaling a deep breath, he crossed his arms and leaned forward. “Did Amelia–Miss Cottingley–tell you where we met?” he asked. “If not, then I suppose I should begin there. It was a flower stand on Hay Street, where I found her standing with a bouquet of pink roses. Looking quite lovely,” he added.

  “Another pickup, then?” asked Miss Darcy.

  “Of course,” he retorted. “If it helps, however, she was reluctant to say yes. In fact, she had other plans for the afternoon, until I convinced her to come with me to a film premier. Three short hours later, we spent the evening at a comedy screening and dinner at a five-star restaurant.” He took another sip from his glass.

  “Therefore, you swept her off her feet, only to send her packing a few short weeks later?” Miss Darcy concluded. “Was it simply another pretty face –or were you bored by her company?”

  “Neither, actually,” he said. “I seem to recall mentioning in the past that I’m a busy man. Amelia knew that when we were seeing each other–in fact, she had seldom dated prior to our relationship. She had trouble meeting decent chaps, tended to attract the wrong sort. Little romantic time, given her stringent travel schedule–she’s a pharmaceutical representative.”

  “Really?” Olivia answered. Privately thinking, how predictable. “Then it was just a matter of business–forgetting your ‘special anniversary’, responding to her messages with emails instead of phone calls...”

  “Enough,” he interrupted. “If all you intend to do is mock me, I don’t see the point in finishing the story.”

  “Finishing the story is for your benefit, not mine,” she reminded him. “You could at least explain the reason behind the hideous gifts. A girl who barely knows you doesn’t expect to go from two dozen roses to a gimmicky gag gift, you know.”

  He drew a deep breath, pausing momentarily in his narrative. “I just ... there were certain aspects of Amelia’s character that made me think she would see the humor in it.”

  Miss Darcy paused in mid-scribble. “A pillow with her face printed on it?”

  “If you knew Amelia, you wouldn’t ask,” he answered. “There were twenty framed photos of her in her living room–twenty, mind you. She told me once she had a poster made from her favorite high school glamour shot, kept hanging above her bed. She had aspired to be a model once, and rather intended to live the image of one in spirit if not in reality."

  He plucked the toothpick from his olive. "Since she enjoyed bragging about her self-absorbed lifestyle, I thought it would suit her nicely.”

  “You make it sound like a prank. A school chum giving his mate a piece of already-chewed gum...”

  “It wasn’t intended that way.” His voice hardened. “I merely thought of it as juvenile art, given that her apartment was such a personal shrine. She had hinted around more than once that she wished more aspects of the relationship pertained to her interests instead of mutual events. In retrospect, I realize she meant something more exclusive, along the lines of her own photo shoot.” This, with a wry grin.

  “Then are you sorry for the gift?” asked Miss Darcy. “Or merely sorry it backfired?”

  “Neither,” he answered. Her shocked expression seemed to embarrass him. “Look, I apologized, but she insisted upon pouting. And by the time she was done, I had begun to reconsider things. That’s all.”

  Miss Darcy had finished her notes, her pencil tapping softly against the paper. “Have you considered the possibility that a correction in your temper might mend some of these communication issues?”

  “My temper is not part of Amelia’s complaint,” he insisted. “We never argued, we never had a fight–”

  “I was referring to your other companions,” Miss Darcy continued. “The shoes tossed from the shop window, for instance?”

  “That was Monique’s temper, not mine,” he answered. “How on earth was I to know the shoes were designed by her business rival?”

  “Then what about the pirate restaurant?”

  “Louise had claimed more than once that she wanted something spontaneous, more fun. I had no idea she objected so strongly to casual dining.”

  “So you stopped calling her?” Miss Darcy said. “See, this is the problem Miss Cottingley complained about. You simply disappear when the relationship reaches a plateau. No proper goodbye, no attempt to pursue them further.”

  A crimson heat moved from his collar over his cheeks. “You seem to know a great deal about my past relationships.”

  “Is it any wonder some of them would ask for advice? And they seem perfectly willing to accept my counsel, unlike yourself.”

  She paused, realizing this conversation had entirely escaped the realm of professional advice. Moderating her voice, she adopted a gentler tone. “There’s a pattern here, Mr. Stanley, one quite detrimental to your personal happiness. You seem to have always missed the most pivotal moments in each of these relationships. Connections with friends, family, significant interests–”

  He was silent for a moment, toying with the stem of his glass. “It’s not that I wanted to miss those occasions. It was simply the way things worked out. Sometimes it was unavoidable.”

  “You treat them as if they are expendable commodities,” she said, softly. “You brush them aside as if you assume there will always be another pretty face to entertain you."

  “I have dated women who weren’t supermodels, I’ll have you know,” he replied, his
voice growing terse. “And besides,” he added, his gaze dropping, “you seem to assume I had the intention of building a future with any of them. That I entertained more than casual hopes from the beginning."

  For some reason, she felt a twinge of disappointment at this response. She propped her chin on her hands. “Have you ever been in a relationship that wasn’t a pickup somewhere in public?”

  “I prefer to be spontaneous in my relationships. It suits me.”

  “So you never date acquaintances,” she continued, slowly.

  “Never,” he answered. “Again, it doesn’t suit me.” With a brief smile, he reached for the menu. “Tell me, will your lecture on my vices take very long?” he asked. “Will it be done by the time I receive my appetizer?”

  Leaning in the corner of the booth, she studied him intently. “Who said I had any intention of giving you advice here? Perhaps my answer would be better said in my column.”

  He groaned. “Must you drag this out publicly? Do it here and be done with it, please. Before I’m forced to–well, to read another diatribe on love’s persuasion.”

  The waiter returned to their table. “Have you made your decisions?” he asked.

  “Bring us two of the house specials,” Stanley answered. “And a shrimp rock appetizer–you do like shrimp, I presume?” This he addressed to Miss Darcy.

  “Who doesn’t?” she answered.

  “Very good, sir.” With a final glance at each of their stormy faces, the waiter collected their menus and departed.

  “When we speak of tempers and stubborn willpower, we have no reason to leave you out of the picture,” he reminded her. “We’re a great deal more alike then you admit, Miss Darcy. We both want things on our own terms. Neither of us likes answering to someone else’s standards.”

  She flushed. “If I were so unwilling to bend, then what are we doing here tonight?”

  “You’re here because you gain something by it. Admit it, you were curious to know what I would say about Cottingley.” His eyes teased her, daring her to answer with a denial.

  Miss Darcy shook her head. “I already knew what you would say–that you would explain away or else try to justify your indifference and poor temper.”

  “And by doing so, end a relationship that was mutually pleasant, but hardly destined for success,” he answered.

  “By doing so, you’ve lost a human connection–perhaps more than one–practically by your own admission,” she continued. “This kind of indifference will cost you a girl for whom you really care someday.”

  He averted his gaze. “Then that is my choice. Why question my methods if no other hearts are broken?”

  Miss Darcy's shoulders sagged. “This is hopeless, I see.” Grabbing her pencil and pad, she stuffed them into her bag. “It’s just as well that my advice will be appearing in print, since you obviously have no desire to listen.” She moved as if to rise from her seat. “You can look forward to your side of the story in print shortly.”

  He grabbed her arm. “Miss Darcy, wait.”

  “Why? I think we’ve successfully concluded our agreement.” She tried to pull away, but his fingers wrapped themselves tightly around her arm.

  “I’m sorry.” The words were low, a sense of pleading in his tone. “If I offended you by my statements, I apologize. Please, sit down. It would be rather embarrassing for both of us, I think, to have you walk out of yet another meeting between us.” Undoubtedly he was recalling the coffee shop and dinner at Rosing's.

  His grip had softened, but the warmth of his fingers still held her in place. Instead of pulling away, she sank down in her seat again.

  “I owe you an apology as well,” she answered. “I’ve been too forceful in my opinions. Force of habit in my profession.”

  “If I admitted you were right about a few things…perhaps my indifferent behavior,” he said, “would you be willing to repeat your advice?” His features had softened, his eyes meeting hers in a brief glance.

  “Only if I can resist my stubborn persistence that you accept it,” she replied, with an apologetic smile to hide the blush spreading across her face.

  *****

  “How many women have you dated?” Olivia asked. “Seriously, now.”

  There was a glint of humor in her eyes as she posed the question, her elbows resting on the table. A half-finished plate of braised pheasant and artichokes abandoned beside her napkin.

  Christopher Stanley poured a second glass of vintage from the open bottle on the table. “That’s confidential information,” he replied. “I have a policy of privacy, remember?”

  “At least twelve, I think,” Miss Darcy answered. “Or more, perhaps. I’m sure some of them failed to write letters.”

  “And is there something wrong with meeting twelve charming women–some pretty, some not– and offering to buy them dinner?” he asked. “How do you meet your dates, Miss Darcy? I’ve seen the way you’re admired at parties,” he continued, locking her gaze. “Don’t tell me that none of them pursue you.”

  “I have a policy of privacy, remember?” Olivia toyed with the remaining silverware at her place setting. “I’m careful in whom I choose to pursue.”

  Stanley's gaze remained focused on her. "What do you have to be discreet about? There's no reason to keep it secret– unless you have a secret to hide. Impromptu past marriage, perhaps? A cult that sacrifices men to a feminist goddess?” He arched his eyebrows expectantly. “Or something a little more normal–like having no love life at all?"

  It took all of her self-possession to keep the color from draining from her face. Was he making a serious suggestion? It was impossible for him to know the truth, especially after all the efforts she had made towards discretion.

  "If I had no love life at all, then what I would be doing appearing in public with these multiple love interests you've noted before?" she asked, feigning nonchalance.

  "Maybe they're a blind," he suggested. "No one as clever as you would appear without coverage. You could get them from a service, even. One of those places that arranges socially-acceptable connections for people."

  "You mean–a dating service?" She forced herself to laugh.

  "Do you have something against them?" he asked. "I've heard they're a perfectly respectable trade. Quite useful for–some people, who have a difficult time in the romance department. When you think about it, it's really no different from your own work, is it?"

  He leaned across the table, forcing her to sit back to maintain the distance between them. A spark of mischief in his eyes as he met hers, an innocent smile below that flustered her to the point of crimson, although averting her gaze would be a sign of guilt.

  It was impossible that he knew–but then, was anything impossible for a man with his power and money?

  "So you would never recommend a dating service to the romantically challenged?" he ventured.

  In her mind, she saw him wheedling the truth out of a matchmaker at "Connections Anonymous." Investigating her own credit cards and finding the billing service's charge used as the agency's front.

  Hesitantly, she began. "I said nothing with regards to dating services in general–merely with regards to me. As for those who fail to find total happiness on their own, I'm sure I would be happy to recommend a suitable agency. Based on the principles of my column, of course."

  With a sigh, he crossed his arms. “Then answer this one question," he said. "How does the famous Miss Darcy avoid a serious relationship–for it must be on purpose. Considering the magic of that legendary name combined with looks and charm, of course.”

  “I prefer not to abuse the title, thank you very much,” she answered, dodging the issue with a playful spirit.

  “You enjoy being Miss Darcy, don’t you?” he asked. “I should think the legacy of Pemberley and Pride and Prejudice would grow tiresome after a short period.”

  “Why should it?” she said. “Everyone loves romance; everyone loves happy endings. Why should I be ashamed to be part of that?�
� She sipped the wine from her glass. “Being the descendent of Lizzie and Darcy built my success. A love columnist descended from literature’s great lovers–an instant success.”

  “Sort of like being the daughter of Romeo and Juliet,” Stanley mused.

  “Romeo and Juliet had no children,” Olivia reminded him. “They died tragically, remember?”

  “Says you,” he answered. “For all we know, they lived as happily as your ancestors.”

  She detected a new warmth in his voice, her heartbeat quickening in response. “Then perhaps their modern-day descendents are the romantic playwrights of our age, inspiring us in the theater.”

  He tossed his napkin onto his half-finished plate. “Not everyone cashes in on their family legacy,” he laughed. “Some people actually prefer to build their own success without their history influencing what they do and how they do it.”

  “I don’t consider Pemberley a burden." She shrugged her shoulders.

  “I would imagine not,” he said. “A tourist trap that pulls people in for a few shillings to look at worn furniture and faded portraits.”

  Her mouth dropped open in mock indignation. “How dare you insult my ancestor’s home? Is nothing sacred to you, sir?” She raised her hand and began ticking items off her fingers. “First my career, then my romantic reputation–”

  “Are you forgetting how many insults you’ve levied at me?” he teased. “What about calling me a scoundrel, accusing me of wasting the time and attentions of half London’s female population?”

  “You,” she retorted, “open the door to such criticism every time you ask a woman out with you. I can’t imagine what you talk about with any of them. Considering how little you know about your dates.”

  “I knew one of them liked cats,” he defended. “And clocks. And both together.”

  “But most of your gifts lacked a personal touch. More like something your secretary would have chosen than you. Except for the printed photograph on the pillow, of course–that was more the hallmark of the romantically inept.”