Undressing Mr. Darcy

by Karen Doornebos

Lexi happened to be, of course, rooting for the winner.

  The ref raised Lexi’s champion’s hand in victory while the crowd clapped, cheered, and began to disperse.

  “And another thing—” Lexi wanted to continue her lecture.

  “Lexi, my number-one priority right now is my aunt. I have my hands full. I’m not even checking the messages in my eBelieve in-box. I don’t have the time.”

  Lexi looked confused.

  Vanessa could only feel sorry for her. Lexi had never known such love, never known the ultimate joy of putting someone else first once in a while, never known the satisfaction that came with mature adult compromise and with having to, for once, accommodate someone else’s needs. She might never know the happiness of give-and-take.

  But this kind of relationship that Vanessa had with her aunt, it primed a person for a real partnership, and she had been practicing for decades. Now that her aunt had chosen to marry, and once she was married to Paul, maybe Vanessa could put herself first again. But only after she had this Alzheimer’s thing covered.

  “Shall we visit the Shoppes at Meryton and sashay by the Naval Encampment?” asked Lexi.

  “Let’s see what my Ask Mr. Darcy app has to say,” Sherry said as she shook her phone and read it aloud: “‘Indeed I do not dare.’”

  They laughed, and the Meryton “shoppes,” under their white canvas tents, like peaks of meringue, beckoned from across the lawn. Here, smiling, costumed people sold everything from tea to Regency shoes to antique books. The breeze rippled through the trees, and children, many in Regency garb, ran past them from the shadow puppet show to the children’s tea. Surely this was part of the appeal of the cult of Jane Austen: a netherworld that us moderns could step back into, if only for a day or two. Vanessa got it now.

  Her phone pinged with a text. It was from Chase, and somehow she just knew it would be about Aunt Ella.

  Like the boxer in the ring, she’d been sucker-punched.

  All is fine—but wanted u 2 know Paul let ur aunt go for all of an hour . . . but she locked her keys in the car @ the grocery store. She was confused. She & Paul chose not to alarm u, but I thought u should know. I’ll stay w them as much as I can <3 Chase

  She thanked Chase and sent an e-mail off to Aunt Ella’s doctor informing him of the situation and asking if there were anything she could be doing for her aunt . . . from Louisville.

  Lexi and Sherry laughed with some of the naval officers at the encampment. Vanessa’s fingertips hovered over the call button. Should she call her aunt? Or would that only exacerbate the situation?

  She noticed a new e-mail had come in, and it could be from the doctor, but no, it was from Aunt Ella.

  Dearest Vanessa,

  (Because of course Aunt Ella wrote an e-mail as if it were a letter.)

  I have tried to call you, but you are no doubt in the countryside and aren’t getting reception as my calls went to voice mail. Or perhaps you are becoming less dependent on your electronic devices and have shut your ringer off? I will have to thank Jane myself if this is the case.

  Regardless, darling, I have been in touch with the doctor today after an incident involving my locking myself out of my own car. Imagine! I wanted you to be the first to know that as a result Paul and I have decided to be married by the end of the month. Save the 30th of September for the wedding! It will be a small affair, very small, but I will need you there, my dear.

  Carry on!

  Much love,

  Auntie Ella & Paul

  A quartet began to play Regency-era music as Vanessa wrestled with this bittersweet news. She checked her e-calendar for September 30, and of course it was stacked with obligations, most of them client related. One of her retail clients would be celebrating a fiftieth birthday that day.

  When she thought of “birthday,” it hit her that the surprise party she had so meticulously planned for Aunt Ella’s eightieth at the Drake Hotel might be—too late. She leaned against a tree.

  She needed to move up the surprise eightieth birthday party and take the surprise out of it. Or could she combine the party with the upcoming wedding? Her aunt’s birthday wasn’t until the end of December, and she’d made elaborate plans for it, but she had to move it up. Would her aunt approve of a birthday-wedding combo? Vanessa knew the answer to that. An emphatic no.

  Aunt Ella never combined birthdays and holidays, much less a birthday and a wedding. Besides, Vanessa knew her aunt wanted a small, quiet wedding. Meanwhile, Vanessa wanted a big, elegant blowout of an eightieth birthday party for her aunt.

  She’d have to move up the big party—and fast. To avoid putting the emphasis on birthdays and her aunt’s illness, she wouldn’t call it a birthday party anymore. She’d turn it into . . . an impromptu engagement party. It would still be the blowout she wanted, but with a better spin.

  She’d have to pull some serious strings to get this off the ground. She cranked out a few e-mails, one of them to the special events coordinator at the Drake, and a text to a party-planner friend. And she had to figure out something really special for entertainment. But what?

  Just beyond her phone screen, two black leather boots with a brown flap folded down on each came into view. She had seen a lot of gentlemen’s boots in the past few days, but none compared to the authenticity of—Julian’s.

  Her phone flipped from vertical to horizontal texting mode.

  Her eyes trailed up from the boots to the muscular legs in tight breeches to the tailored coat, the cravat, the strong jawline, the smiling mouth, the squared-off sideburns, and the dark eyes, sparkling despite the hangover.

  “Feeling better?” she asked.

  “Now I am.”

  She got another e-mail; this time it happened to be a message from an eBelieve prospect. “Do you remember what you said last night, or is it rather fuzzy?”

  “I meant everything I said, Vanessa.”

  He did? People began to recognize him. They stopped and looked at him. Others pointed at him from across the green and walked over.

  She snapped her fingers. “Wait a minute. You’re exactly what I need . . .”

  “I thought you’d never realize it, my dear. You’ve finally agreed you need a bit of Mr. Darcy in your life?”

  “No, really, Julian. What time is your flight to New York again this Thursday?”

  Her party-planner friend texted her back. The Drake had had a last-minute cancellation, and a smaller room had become available Thursday, from six to eight thirty. I’ll take it! Vanessa texted back.

  “My flight departs at noon.”

  “Oh.”

  “Why?”

  “No matter. I’m bumping up a party to celebrate Aunt Ella’s engagement to Thursday evening, and I thought if you were in town, you might make an appearance—”

  “I will simply change my flight.”

  “You would do that for her?”

  “I would do that for you.”

  Vanessa tried not to read anything into this.

  “Consider it done. I don’t have to be in New York until teatime on Friday for an Undressing show and book signing . . .”

  “Could you dance with her—and her friends? I will pay you, naturally.”

  “Of course. I’d be honored. No remuneration necessary. It’s the least I can do for you after all you have done for me.”

  She wanted to jump into his arms, wrap her legs around him, and hug him—and that wasn’t all. Instead she simply smiled and said, “Thank you, Julian.”

  He bowed. He bowed?

  But then she remembered he was on Mr. Darcy autopilot. Soon, fans engulfed him, and that was what she wanted, right? For women to swoon over him at every turn? She handed out postcards touting his appearance that night to everyone around. He had made her day by deciding to change his flight.

  “Vanessa.” Lexi motioned her over to the shoppes under the white canvas tents. “You have to see this. What an opportunity missed.”

  Lexi and Sherry led Vanessa past a shoppe that
never, until a few days ago, would have tempted her. But she had to stop at Bingley’s Teas. There, amid the aroma of tea, stood a tower of boxes of tea, cleverly crafted to look like books, and there on the cover of one, in a font Vanessa now knew to be a replica of Austen’s handwriting, she read:

  Jane Austen Tea Series

  Mr. Darcy

  A Mr. Darcy tea? She flipped over the back of the box: Like the man himself, this elegant, dark tea, grown in rich soil, with a bold beginning, yet a smooth finish, has a complexity of character that will leave you wishing to know more . . .

  Lexi nudged her. “Let’s go.”

  Vanessa laughed. “Look at this. Coffee? Tea? Or Mr. Darcy? How about two of the three?”

  Lexi nodded. “It’s all part of the marketing machine that is the Jane Austen brand. But look over here.” Lexi dragged her toward the next tent. “It’s Lizzie’s Lingerie. Only they haven’t taken full—advantage.”

  This shoppe sold Regency-inspired corsets and modern lingerie. Vanessa looked at the camis, boy shorts, and nighties.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Lexi asked.

  This was what Vanessa had missed. She and Lexi had an eye for marketing, and just for fun, they would bandy about product ideas. This was what made them a great team back when they had their own business.

  “Yes. They need someone to come up with slogans for these—thongs.” Lexi held up a pink silk thong.

  Vanessa lowered her voice to a whisper. “How about: Mr. Darcy was here printed on the crotch panel?”

  Sherry laughed.

  “Yes!” Lexi agreed.

  Lexi pointed to a baby blue cami with a built-in bra. “The cami should say, We Support Team Darcy across the boobs.” She actually bought the cami she loved her idea so much.

  Vanessa smiled and picked up some white cotton boy shorts and held them up to her waist. “How about, Mr. Darcy Likes Dirty Petticoats.”

  “I’m surprised you know about the muddied petticoats,” Lexi said.

  “I know all about the significance of six inches of mud on a lady’s petticoat,” said Vanessa.

  Lexi pulled a sheer white nightie tank top from a clothes rack. “This nightie needs to say, The Lake Scene Made Me Wet.”

  Vanessa laughed so hard she doubled over. A few women around them giggled, too.

  She took a canvas tote bag from a hook. “We’ll no doubt need a tote bag to put it all in. I can see it now: I Bagged Mr. Darcy in big, bold type. Or how about a door hanger? It could say Do Not Disturb . . . Sleeping with Mr. Darcy. Oh, my gosh. Poor Jane Austen.”

  Lexi smiled. “But she brought us together again, didn’t she?”

  Vanessa nodded. “Yes, she did.”

  When Vanessa and Lexi turned around, they could see they had attracted a lot of attention with their goofing around, and Vanessa took advantage of the moment by announcing Julian’s Undressing Mr. Darcy show. She even left some postcards on the table next to a stack of lacy white garters.

  But as she was announcing this, she spotted Julian standing nearby, leaning against a tree. He smiled.

  Had he seen—or heard—all that?!

  Lexi held up her new cami to her chest and turned, model-like, to the left and then the right, but Julian was looking at Vanessa.

  “I thought you were immune to Mr. Darcy’s charms, Vanessa, but it appears you’ve put some serious thought into the merchandising of Darcy-themed undergarments.”

  Vanessa felt herself blush—and it took a lot to make her blush. “It’s all part and parcel of having a client and thinking out-of-the-box for him.”

  “Is it? Fascinating.”

  “It’s what we do to unwind,” Lexi said.

  Sherry laughed. “I really liked your idea of I Bagged Mr. Darcy, Vanessa.”

  Vanessa looked at Julian, who raised an eyebrow.

  An older woman and her friends approached Julian. “You look familiar to me. Did I see you at the last conference?”

  Just as Julian was about to explain himself, the woman interrupted. “No, it was last night. I saw you on the fifth floor of the hotel dressed in a bonnet and gown.”

  * * *

  Rumor has it Mr. Darcy has been seen in a gown and bonnet . . . See him reveal all @ #UndressingMrDarcy 5:00 p.m. #JaneAustenFestivalLouisville

  It was all in the spin. Crisis averted. Or, at least, that one was.

  Julian, shirtless, and now up on stage in Louisville, had unbuttoned the side buttons on his soft leather breeches and the front panel fell open.

  Just like some other women under the big tent, Vanessa wanted to untie his cravat, tear his waistcoat off, strip off his shirt, and unbutton the front panel of his breeches and peel them off—herself.

  Yes, she pictured his cravat, his waistcoat, and his breeches in a crumple on her bedroom floor.

  But with every stripping off of a garment, she was the one who felt that much more exposed. He had revealed for her, onstage, her hunger, her pain, and her loneliness. And soon he would be gone.

  If only he were on a social networking site or even occasionally checked his e-mail. It occurred to her she’d never seduced a guy, and no guy had ever seduced her, without at least some e-tronic foreplay! Texts, e-mails, IMs, they were all weapons in the modern-day arsenal of dating and mating. What the hell was she supposed to do? Write a love letter? Swoon with a fan in her gown and gloves?

  Maybe.

  How the hell would you let a guy know you were hot for him in the early nineteenth century? Tell him about it face-to-face? She shuddered at the thought.

  “To break in chamois breeches, and to be sure they conform to one’s body,” Julian said, “one must dampen them with water, as I have done. The point is to get them to fit like a second skin.”

  Men dampened their breeches with water? Maybe she really did belong back in Regency England. She uncrossed her legs in her seat, then crossed them on the other side, and hoped it didn’t translate into a bump in the filming she was doing. She accidently nudged the tripod with her calf.

  He leaned over to undo the buttons beneath his knee, and was it just her imagination, or did he have incredibly defined and expressive shoulders and biceps? As he stood up, his rippled abs, white though they were, seemed to glisten.

  “Breeches were cut wider on one side, here at the top of the thigh, and higher on the other side, to accommodate the male physique in a custom known as ‘dressing to one side.’”

  Sherry elbowed Vanessa, who could only reach for her phone, her lozenge-shaped panacea, and send out a message:

  Breeches were cut to accommodate . . . curves . . . #Swooning @ #UndressingMrDarcy #JaneAustenFestivalLouisville

  Talk about fanning the flame—she really could use a fan. And this time she really was broadcasting her feelings.

  Julian beamed a smile at the audience, and he seemed to look directly at her. Or did he make everyone feel that way? Anyway, he wriggled his hips once or twice, and the women in the audience went aflutter. Then he turned to the side, strutted, and tugged at the waistline of his breeches, flashing a bit of his drawers underneath, and the audience went wild.

  It certainly wasn’t Vegas. But for the nineteenth century, Vanessa felt pretty sure it was smokin’ hot. He really knew exactly how to walk the line with this intelligent but able-to-laugh crowd.

  He turned around so everyone could see his taut ass as his valet unlaced his breeches in the back, and, for a split second, Vanessa could see him in tiny, tight British-flag briefs.

  Had a preoccupation with him become her new, life-affirming obsession in the light of fear about her aunt?

  Forget why. She wanted him.

  The breeches were tight, but he pulled them off, literally, with cool British finesse and stood tall in thin, tight drawers that left little to the imagination.

  The audience began to clap, but he spoke over them.

  “In the summer, I would typically not wear any drawers under my breeches. These breeches in particular have a thin linin
g in them. But, it being early fall, I have chosen to wear drawers—also rather snug fitting.”

  Vanessa took a few still shots, for PR purposes, of course.

  The crowd clapped louder, cheered, and stood, and he didn’t even need to finish out his talk. He bowed and thanked the crowd, which now spilled beyond the confines of the tent.

  Vanessa stood and made her way to the stage. “Thank you, Mr. Darcy, for, ahem, exposing us to such fascinating historical material. Rather seductive material, too, I might add,” Vanessa said as she picked up his breeches from a chair and handed them to him.

  She turned to the crowd. “Please allow our Mr. Darcy to get dressed, and he will be at the table in the back signing copies of his book. Some of the proceeds from the book go directly to helping restore his Regency-era mansion. You can get in line right now if you’d like a signed copy. Make sure you follow him on all the social media sites. Thank you!”

  The line soon snaked all the way around the tent, and Vanessa guessed that at least two hundred people were lined up for the book. Meanwhile, behind the dressing screen, she caught a glimpse of him yanking his breeches back on.

  For a moment she felt as if she were in his bedroom and he was getting ready in the morning. Exactly what did his bedroom in his crumbling mansion look like? she wondered.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and pictured him in a white room, sprawled on a bed atop a white “duvet,” as he would say, in nothing but his British flag briefs.

  A ping signaled a new e-mail from Aunt Ella’s doctor. He said locking the keys in the car combined with her aunt getting lost while driving a few weeks earlier meant it was time for Vanessa to have the talk with her aunt. The talk about taking away the car keys.

  She steadied herself against the chair on the stage. How long could she possibly put that talk off?

  As Julian made his way to the signing table, one of the Louisville conference coordinators came up to Vanessa.

  “Great job. Thank you for everything,” she said. “Your event was by far the best attended of the whole festival. I brought you and Julian a pitcher of ice water.”

  The ice clinked and cracked in the glass pitcher as she handed it over along with two glasses. It sent a chill right through Vanessa.