Dear Miss Darcy

by Briggs, Laura

  “You suggest there’s something mysterious about a single young woman who isn’t engaged,” she retorted. “One might say the same thing about an eligible man with pretty women throwing themselves at him.”

  Stanley's mouth twisted with rueful acknowledgement–or to hide a smile, it was impossible to be sure which one.

  “But my advice to you is unchanged,” she said, touching his arm softly. “Fall in love with someone for once. Perhaps you’ll have something worthwhile to regret, at least, if you choose to toss them aside.”

  She allowed a spark of impudence to creep into her eyes as she spoke, breaking the seriousness between them before it led somewhere irresponsible. Like the warmth coursing through her veins from being close at this moment.

  “Is that what your readers will learn in your column?” he asked.

  “For that, you shall have to wait,” she answered, with a casual shrug. "I'm very sorry you came all the way here for such a simple piece of advice. You were better off with the lengthy scolding I gave you in the restaurant."

  "And that's the sum of my advice from the authoritative Miss Darcy?" he asked. "Ordering me to fall in love with the next girl I meet?"

  Swinging her feet off the bench, she rose. "Not just anyone," she answered, as she moved towards the crowd. "Someone nice and not too self-absorbed. With a backbone to resist your temper and curb your pride." This last impertinent shot fired over her shoulder as she joined the observers of a street performance.

  The wall of admirers surrounded a fire eating troupe in red and gold, a long flame issuing from the torch of the performer in action. As the fire disappeared inside his mouth, the crowd gasped with tension.

  “Like it?” asked Stanley.

  “Impressive,” she answered, her voice proving it with soft tones of admiration. "Far from the scenes of Underground sessions and coffee shop performance art, isn't it?"

  “Wait here.” He slipped between two onlookers and entered the square. Leaning over, he slipped something into the hand of one of the performers, then stooped to whisper something in the man’s ear. The performer glanced at the item in his hand, then nodded and handed it back.

  Stanley stripped off his jacket and tossed it to the side, bending down by one of the performer's trunks for a moment to do something Miss Darcy couldn't see. He rose and reached for one of the live torches; swishing it a few times through the air, he tilted his throat back and swallowed it.

  There were a few screams of surprise from the audience, including Miss Darcy. She clapped a hand over her mouth as the sound escaped her.

  What on earth was he doing? Her eyes clenched shut for a moment in horror before opening again, just in time to see him withdraw it unscathed.

  A theatrical burst of flame followed its emergence as he brandished the torch and bowed. Returning it with a smile of satisfaction to the performers.

  Retrieving his coat, he joined her again on the sidelines. “Rather good sport, the circus arts,” he said. A smile emerging at the corner of his mouth at her evident speechlessness, the shock in her face.

  “How on earth did you do that?” she demanded, after a moment's recovery. Grabbing his sleeve as if to shake the answer out of him as he indulged in a satisfied smile.

  “I wasn’t always an empire builder,” he answered. “For a bit I worked at a circus during my university years. During the summer holidays, one needs something to do.” He pulled a little card from his pocket, bearing the insignia of a carnival troupe she had seen advertised on village posters.

  “You trained to be a fire eater,” she said, staring at the slip of paper. “For a moment, I thought you had lost your mind out there, slipping someone twenty pounds to eat a flaming torch.”

  “Who better to withstand the burn than a heartless executive?” he asked.

  Her cheeks flushed. “Do you juggle as well?” she asked, attempting to change the subject.” Her eyes avoiding his own as she propped up the walls between them mentally, reminding herself he was capable of inflicting pain.

  His lips parted in a teasing smile. “Wait here,” he said, holding up his finger. Slipping through the crowd to a display of painted wooden items, he selected four wooden balls and began tossing them lightly into the air, sending them higher each time one passed through his hands.

  “Impressed yet?” he called, dodging to the side to catch one that almost escaped. Unable to help herself, she let out a giggle and buried her face in her hand.

  She could almost hear the psychological repercussions of such an attraction, in the form of a reader's letter landing on her desk. Dear Miss Darcy, I’m falling fast for the most arrogant of confirmed bachelors… Nonsense, absolute nonsense.

  “What next?” He caught the last ball, tossing it back into its basket. “Shall I tame a tiger? Or perhaps the lady prefers sword eating to flames?”

  “Stop,” she said, struggling to keep her voice as casual as possible. “I would rather not be guilty of murdering one of the world's greatest businessman for sheer entertainment.”

  “You doubt my skill?” The gleam of challenge in his eye proving he spoke of more than his carnival tricks. As if fire eating and expert juggling were mere footnotes in his repertoire of surprises.

  “I’m sure your experience is indisputable,” she answered, avoiding his eyes momentarily. A slight tremor seemed to have invaded her voice, a sudden rush of heat to her cheeks that couldn't be explained by the damp air around her.

  Something cool touched her skin, a drop of moisture escaping the overcast skies. She looked skywards as the first pattering became visible on her sleeve, glimpsing drops on the shoulder's of Stanley's jacket.

  "It's raining," she said, stating the obvious simply to hear the sound of her voice under control again. "Do you have an umbrella hidden up your sleeve, by chance?" With an impertinent grin as the shower became a steady downpour.

  "Nope," he answered. "We'll have to run for it, Miss Darcy." He took her elbow and hurried away from the open market square, weaving his way through the crowd of grumbling tourists getting drenched.

  The rain fell in torrents, beating the pavement like the drums shouldered by the traveling band, the colored scarves of the tents beaded with drops. Olivia felt the slickness of the paving stones beneath her boots; Stanley caught her hand, his fingers weaving between her own as he dodged through the crowds and tables of wares, in between performers fleeing for cover with their instruments.

  "There's a stone walkway up ahead!" he shouted as his voice was momentarily drowned out by a rumble of thunder overhead. A giant canopy flapped before them in the wind, a blur of red and white stripes momentarily obscuring the stone archway ahead.

  Breathless, they ducked beneath its cover, dripping wet and gasping with laughter. She shoved her hair from her face with one hand, the wet curls clinging to her cheeks.

  Her other hand was still in Stanley's keeping, his fingers interlocked with her own. Beads of moisture coursed from his face, the strands of tousled hair now plastered close to his skin.

  "We'll shelter here for a few minutes," he managed, gasping for breath. "It'll be over in a moment."

  Reaching up, she brushed away a twig from his collar. "Bit of something from the wind," she apologized. "The debris from the storm." Her voice was trembling again, her knees a trifle unsteady.

  "No doubt I'm covered in leaves, too," she continued, her hand brushing some of the water from her soaked jacket. He shook his head as he stared at her.

  "You look lovely," he answered.

  It was not the same voice as the arrogant charmer from the restaurant, nor the businessman who plied her favor in the coffee shop. Shoulders huddled forward as if in apology, his free hand stuffed in his pocket as if he was uncertain what to do with it.

  The other hand was still holding hers as their eyes met again. Despite the posture of the schoolboy, those grey depths were glowing, alight with passion and energy. The hopeful half-smile of the Christopher Stanley who juggled red balls and ate fi
re to impress a mere columnist.

  Their lips met, the suddenness of the kiss more like urgency than tenderness. Her pulse pounded in her ears, racing against the storm pounding on the bridge above them as her body closed the distance between them, her fingers cradling his face. His kiss deepened, the sandpaper of his five o’clock shadow rough against her skin.

  Her hand broke free of his hold, her arms winding around his neck tightly as he pulled her close. Another kiss and then another, the sound of rain echoing off the stone around them. His embrace lifted her off the ground almost, her fingers twining in the damp hair at the base of his neck.

  She broke away after a moment, gasping for breath. Sliding from his arms as she turned away, hiding the expression on her face as a thousand different thoughts raced through her mind.

  "We shouldn't–" Her words trailed off. "I shouldn't have. It was– it was the rain perhaps; or perhaps the performance earlier." This, with a shaky laugh.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean..." He trailed off, rubbing his neck awkwardly in a movement that made her weakened knees wobble inexplicably.

  "It was just a moment of forgetfulness," she said. “That's all." Her heart still beating wildly in her chest as she searched desperately for something to do with her hands, tucking aside strands of wet hair, smoothing her jacket– anything to avoid giving in to the impulse coursing through her veins.

  "The rain has practically stopped," she announced, moving backwards from beneath the bridge shelter, even as the cool stream dripping from above trickled over her shoulders.

  "Olivia," he began, "I mean–Miss Darcy; I didn't–"

  "We don't want to miss the rest of the show, do we?” She kept her tone lighthearted despite its tremor. Turning towards the strains of music floating through the air, pulling her jacket close around her despite her warmth.

  She knew that he was following her, even without glancing over her shoulder to be sure. That he quickened his pace to close the distance between them, chasing after her as she hurried ahead.

  She was almost ashamed of herself for making certain that her own was not quite swift enough to lose him in the crowd.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Dear Miss Darcy: I’ve got a crush on a guy and now my head’s in the clouds all the time. I can’t concentrate on my studies, my job, anything! What am I going to do?

  – Infatuated in Ipswich

  The message was waiting in her voicemail, as she well knew it would be. As she listened to the sound of Christopher Stanley’s voice, she felt a strange thrill pass through her frame. Snapping it closed, she gave herself a moment to recover before exiting the stairwell of the Post’s main office.

  The usual stack of mail awaited at her desk–along with something else perched on its edge. Arms crossed, Mariah surveyed her with a cool glance.

  “Look what’s finally hauled herself to work,” she declared. “Was it another of the odious Mr. Stanley’s girlfriends, what dragged you off four hours early yesterday?”

  “It was not,” Olivia answered. “For your information, I haven’t seen any of his ex-girlfriends in almost a week now.” She swiveled her chair away from the computer and sat down. “I had an urgent appointment yesterday.”

  “That book must be putting your head in the clouds.” Mariah hopped down from her seat. “You’ve had your cell phone turned off since yesterday, your desk is a mess–”

  “And when is it not a mess?” Olivia countered. “I’m quite fine, Mariah. Really.” She tucked a few stray curls behind her ear and offered her friend a reassuring smile.

  “Collins alert.” The copy editor hissed this in their direction as he walked by. Mariah met her eyes with a look of distaste, slipping discreetly away as he approached.

  An open copy of the morning paper was tucked beneath his arm, a toothpick protruding from his mouth. “Congratulations,” he said. “It looks as if you’ve survived the battle, Miss Darcy. Emerged as the victor, as it were, against Stanley and his powers.”

  “I still have one column to go,” she reminded him. “Are you sure you don’t want to wait until you see it in print tomorrow morning?” The proofs for her advice column lay waiting for review. A soft answer, she felt, but that was her own fault for wasting too much time. Not that it mattered after today.

  “Maybe I’ll just catch its appearance in your book.” A leering grin as he tapped the stack of proofs on her desk. “Just remember, this column has to keep afloat when the playboy and his lot are gone. Best be giving some thought to the next steam session, eh?”

  He plucked the toothpick from his mouth and tossed it into the dustbin. “If you think of a good follow-up, we’ll give you a bigger piece of the weekend spread,” he added. Two oily fingers patted her cheek before he strolled off.

  The temptation to toss her pencil cup after him was momentarily strong; instead, she pounded the computer’s password into her keyboard. “Odious, loathsome creep,” she muttered under her breath.

  “My sentiments exactly,” Henry whispered. He dropped a folder on her desk. “Did you mean for Rory to keep sending up this stuff on Stanley?” he asked. “She’s got a whole archive of stuff printed off downstairs for you.”

  “More?” Olivia’s glance widened. “She emailed me half a dozen files weeks ago.” She opened the folder and glanced over the articles, mostly on PyroTech’s stock sales. Christopher’s picture was prominent in several, causing a strange weakness in Miss Darcy’s knees.

  “I’ll toss them for you,” Henry offered, lifting the folder towards the recycling bin.

  “No, don’t,” she said, adding quickly, “they might be handy later on.”

  “Only if you’re going to write a book on confessions of playboy lovers,” countered Mariah. She poked her head around a nearby filing cabinet, now that Collins was gone. “Toss them and be done with that rotter for good.”

  “Don’t make him sound like the villain of the year,” Miss Darcy snapped. “There are worse people in the world, you know. Drug dealers, murderers, serial criminals and the like.” Snatching the folder, she tossed it in her desk drawer.

  “Serial daters, too?” Mariah quipped. “Seriously, Livvy, the man was a scoundrel. And he led you on a merry dance with regards to your column– aren’t you the least bit pleased that he’ll be erased from your life in another day or so?”

  “I enjoyed the success of the series, that’s all.” Olivia answered. She realized her tone was defensive, hardly what they would expect from her right now.

  “You’ll feel better after a night out,” said Mariah. “How about a bite to eat tonight, somewhere away from Northanger? Lucas’s maybe.”

  “Oh, I can’t tonight,” Olivia said. “I’ve got the edits on the manuscript. But tomorrow night’s good.” She kept her gaze trained on the envelopes her fingers were tearing open, hoping that Mariah couldn’t detected the slight lie in her voice. Please, please don’t ask me any more questions. Not now, not today, not ever about Stanley and his charms.

  “See you for lunch,” Henry called over his shoulder as he pushed his cart to the next desk.

  “Same here,” said Mariah. “Unless you have other plans?”

  “Not at all,” said Olivia, pretending to be confused. “Why would I?” She met Mariah’s face with perfect nonchalance.

  Mariah shook her head. “I have no idea, Livvy,” she answered, with a wry grin. As she walked away, she glanced over her shoulder to meet Olivia’s placid smile.

  Scolding herself inwardly for the last few minutes of confusion, Olivia tried to whistle a cheerful little tune as she tore open the latest letter. Everyone expected her to celebrate her victories right now. A success for her column, a triumph for her manuscript. And, as far as they knew, the end of her relationship with Christopher Stanley.

  If they knew the truth about her plans tonight, what would they say? Undoubtedly that she had lost her mind and was doing something dangerous to her romantic health. As if she didn’t know all of the above without their a
dvice.

  *****

  In the dining room doorway, Olivia hesitated momentarily. It wasn’t too late to turn back, was it? Clever Miss Darcy could evade the trap set for her by the charming playboy. A cell phone call from the privacy of the washroom hall was all she needed to escape.

  They were just friends. Just two people attempting to forge a truce in the aftermath of the battle. Nothing romantic was destined to happen between them.

  As her eyes met Stanley’s, a warm smile spread across her face. Too warm, she realized–he would begin to think her interest in meeting him wasn’t strictly platonic. She drew her mouth into a serious expression as she crossed the room to his table.

  “Good evening, Mr. Stanley,” she said.

  “Miss Darcy,” he replied, rising to draw her chair out. “A pleasure to see you this evening.”

  A smile tugged around the corners of her mouth, but she resisted. “I think we can dispense with those formalities at this point,” she said. “You may greet me as you would greet any of the company heads who do battle with you in business.”

  “Not very likely,” he answered, seating himself across from her again. “Since I typically offer them a cigar and buy them a drink to console them for their losses.”

  “How do you know I don’t smoke?” she asked, raising her eyebrows in defiance.

  “I don’t,” he said. “But in this case, you have all the gains after the battle. So you’re hardly in need of consolation, Miss Darcy.” With a smile that sent a small shiver traveling up her spine in spite of her resistance.

  “I thought as friends we agreed to drop the formalities,” she reminded him, laying her handbag on the table.

  “So we did,” he answered, his tone softening. “Olivia, then. And as for me ...”

  “I never agreed to call you by your first name,” she interrupted, playfully. “I’m afraid it would never suit, after being in the company of the commanding Mr. Stanley.”