Kissing Mr. Darcy
Notting Hill Diaries – Book 5
Shéa MacLeod
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Kissing Mr. Darcy
Notting Hill Diaries – Book 5
Text copyright © 2015 Shéa MacLeod
Text copyright © 2020 Shéa R. MacLeod
All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Cover Art by Tugboat Designs
Editing by Theo Fenraven
Also by Shéa R. MacLeod
Dragon Wars
Dragon Warrior
Dragon Lord
Dragon Goddess
Green Witch
Dragon Corps
Dragon Mage
Dragon's Angel
Notting Hill Diaries
The Art of Kissing Frogs
To Kiss A Prince
Kiss Me, Chloe (Coming Soon)
Kiss Me, Stupid (Coming Soon)
Kissing Mr. Darcy (Coming Soon)
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Also By Shéa R. MacLeod
Kissing Mr. Darcy (Notting Hill Diaries, #5)
Prologue | Mr. Jailbird
Chapter 1
Mr. Know-It-All
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Mr. Geeky Hipster Dude
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Mr. Expectations
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Mr. Poker Face
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
About Shéa MacLeod
Other books by Shéa MacLeod/Shéa R. MacLeod
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Also By Shéa R. MacLeod
For Reann,
whose obsession with Mr. Darcy is only matched by my own obsession with Captain Wentworth. Here’s to Ms. Austen!
Prologue
Mr. Jailbird
I WATCHED IN FROZEN horror, pool cue clutched in my hand, as a strange woman stormed up to my date and threw an entire pint of beer in his face. I opened my mouth, but literally nothing came out. My mind was a broken record stuck on repeat: What the actual heck?
“You stupid prick,” the woman screamed, her face red with rage, hands curled into fists so tight, I thought she might draw blood with her extra-long, silver glitter-painted nails. I couldn’t tell if she was pretty, her face was so contorted. I was half afraid she might spontaneously combust with anger. “How dare you show your face? You are going to regret this.” She whirled on me. “I’ll bet you were in on it, weren’t you? You’ll pay. Don’t think you won’t.” And then she whirled and stomped away, her bleached blonde ponytail swinging wildly, her butt jiggling in snug, rhinestone covered jeans.
I glanced over at my date to find him leaning against the pool table, staring after the woman with a baffled expression that probably matched mine. Beer soaked his gray Henley and dripped onto his matching Chucks. He scrubbed at his short, dark hair in confusion.
“Dom, are you okay?” I asked. “Who was that woman?” This was our third date, and Dom had always been a total gentleman. Just like my hero, Mr. Darcy. I found it hard to believe he’d done anything to deserve...that. He’d always been so polite.
“I have no idea, Emma,” he said with a reassuring smile that looked a bit strained around the edges. “She must have mistaken me for someone else. Got one of those faces, I guess.” He shrugged nonchalantly, but something shifted behind his dark eyes.
Something in me tightened. I didn’t quite believe him, but I’d been brought up to always expect the best of people. Generally I found when I did, I was right. People were usually quite nice. Of course why the crazy woman thought I had anything to do with whatever nastiness she’d dreamed up was beyond me.
“Do you want to leave?” He was soaked and reeked of booze. I couldn’t imagine it was comfortable.
“Nah. I’ll just clean off a bit in the bathroom.” He leaned down to kiss my cheek and then disappeared into the men’s room, leaving me standing by the pool table alone. I sighed. Not exactly the fun date I’d imagined. Well, it had been until the crazy woman showed up. Really. What was that all about?
Dom returned from the bathroom somewhat less damp, although still smelling like a brewery, and we continued our game of pool as if nothing had happened. Doubts swirled in my head. Had she really mistaken him for someone else? I suppose it happened, especially if you were a bit drunk and the person looked like...whoever.
The doors to the bar crashed open and about half a dozen Portland police officers rushed in, guns drawn. My eyes widened as they charged toward me. Instinctively I raised my hands above my head like I’d seen in the movies.
Next thing I knew I was flat on my face on the sticky barroom floor, my hands being wrenched behind me and cuffs snapped onto my wrists. Quite frankly, this was turning into the Worst Date Ever.
“NAME?”
I sighed tiredly. My eyes felt like sandpaper, my mouth was dry, and I was weary of repeating myself. This was like the fourth police detective I’d talked to. “Emma Roberts.”
The huge, bald cop scribbled something in his notebook. How retro. “And you know Dominic Stovy how?”
Stovy? His last name was Stovy? Egads. That wasn’t nearly as sexy as Darcy. Or Fitzwilliam even. I could have gone for Wentworth, but Stovy?
“We met online. A dating website. This was our third date. I didn’t even know his last name until just now.”
“Really?” The officer’s beetled eyebrow went up as if he didn’t believe me.
I nodded, folding my hands on my lap. “Really.”
“Do you make a habit of dating people whose last names you don’t know?” He made it sound as if I was running around with a biker gang or engaging in some other hussy-like behavior.
I shrugged. “This is the modern age, right? Lots of people do.” Including me. Apparently my search for my own personal Mr. Darcy had taken a very dark turn.
“Have you ever been to Mr. Stovy’s house?”
I shook my head. “No, sir, I haven’t. We aren’t really at that stage.”
“So you weren’t aware there was a warrant out for his arrest?”
My jaw dropped. “Excuse me? What? Is that why that crazy woman threw beer all over him?”
He smiled a little at that. “That crazy woman is Patricia Suarez. Girlfriend of Stovy’s roommate.”
“Okaaaay. I don’t get it. Why’d she throw beer on him?”
He leaned forward and peered at me as if he could somehow develop telepathy and read my mind. Maybe he could. My uncle was a retired cop, and I swear he was telepathic.
“According to Suarez, Dominic Stovy beat up his roommate, Andrew Miller, threw him out of a second-floor window, and then tossed all of Miller’s possessions on the front lawn and lit them on fire. She has a video of Stovy roasting hot dogs over said fire.”
With each word my mouth dropped open a little farther. “Are you kidding me?”
He gave me a measured look. “I don’t have a sense of humor.�
��
No, I see that. I cleared my throat. “I still don’t understand why I got arrested.”
“Suarez claims you were involved, however you are not visible on the video, and Miller has since confirmed you weren’t present at the time of the incident.”
Well, that was a relief. “So I can go?”
He nodded and stood to escort me to the door. “I apologize for any inconvenience.” His words were a little stiff, but I decided to accept them at face value.
“I guess that’s the last time I go on a date with someone from Plenty of Matches.” I tried to go for cheerful, but my voice came out squeaky.
“That sounds like a really good plan, Miss Roberts.”
I SLUMPED ON THE SOFA with a heartfelt sigh, staring blankly at the dark TV. The day’s mail was scattered around me like so much confetti. What on earth was I going to tell my mother?
She was one of the loveliest people I knew. Always kind and generous. But her daughter being arrested by the police would probably try even her long suffering soul. And trying to explain I was dating a man wanted for aggravated assault and arson? I winced at the thought.
Who on earth would light someone’s belongings on fire and then roast hot dogs? That was just nuts.
Another lunatic to add to my long string of dating mistakes. Funny, I’d always felt sorry for my cousin Kate and her bad luck with men. Seems I was no different after all. Of course, my mother blamed my obsession with Jane Austen’s glorious novel, Pride and Prejudice. I’d read it in grade school, and it had cemented my love of romance and my ultimate dream man as none other than Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy.
Handsome, gentlemanly, and so refined, plus his self-restraint, self-confidence, and his kindness toward those less fortunate. How could one not fall in love with such a man? He was the epitome of what all men should be.
Alas, the men of the twenty-first century had apparently missed that memo.
One of the letters scattered on the living room carpet caught my eye. I frowned. The stamp was not American, at least not one I’d ever seen. How odd.
I leaned over to pick it up and let out a little squeal. The letter was from London, and it looked extremely official. The return address and logo denoted one of the most sought after advanced education institutions in the whole of the United Kingdom. My hands shook a little as I ripped open the envelope.
Dear Miss Roberts,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to...
I jumped off the couch and flailed wildly around the living room. Oh my word, I was going to London. Me, Emma Roberts, Jane Austen-obsessed tea enthusiast, was headed to London to study for my Masters at the prestigious London University. Maybe my mother would forget all about the little police drama.
Chapter 1
“IS THAT REALLY ALL you have?”
I stared at the single, large gray suitcase and the smaller green carry-on. It wasn’t much, but I’d seen a video online about packing and had practiced the tips religiously until I could fit nearly the whole of my wardrobe into one suitcase. “Yes. Is there something wrong?” I glanced up at my new roommate. Flatmate, I corrected myself. When in London.
The handsome, ginger-haired man crossed his arms and tapped one well-shod foot. “I should think so. Kate told me you were a clothes horse. These are not the suitcases of a clothes horse.” He seemed offended, as if he’d been led a merry chase and left hanging.
I grinned. “I assure you, my cousin Kate was correct. I love clothes. But I am also exceptionally good at packing. Plus I figured I could buy a lot of cute stuff here.”
“Oh, girl, you are a woman after my own heart!” I found myself lost in a flurry of hugs and cologne. Suddenly he shoved me away and gave me a stern look. Well, as stern as Kev Baker could manage. “We must plan a shopping trip straight away.”
I laughed. “I don’t suppose you’ll allow me a few minutes to recover from jet lag?”
Kev waved his hand airily. “They say the best way to get over jet lag is to exercise. And what is shopping if not exercise? Come”—he grabbed my bags—“let me show you your room.”
I trailed him down the narrow hall, past the living room and kitchen, to the back of the flat. I expected him to push open the door on the left instead, he shoved open the door straight ahead and led me into a large room with high ceilings and a massive wardrobe.
“I thought I was getting Kate’s old room,” I said. My cousin, Kate, had been Kev’s roommate before she got married. The idea was for me to take her room.
He snorted. “As if I’d put you in there. Matt didn’t want to move anyway. I don’t know if he’s lazy and just doesn’t want to switch rooms, or if he actually likes that tiny space.” He rolled his eyes. “Whatevs. Why don’t you start unpacking so we can see what goodies you have, and I’ll pop the kettle on? Nothing like a good cuppa to revive the soul.” And with that he sailed out of the room and down the hall to the kitchen.
With a bemused smile on my face, I hefted the smaller of my two suitcases onto the bed, which was bare. No sheets, duvet, or even pillows. I would definitely have to rectify that before tonight. Good thing flights from Portland got into Heathrow midday. I had plenty of time to shop, for all my eyes were drooping.
As I unzipped my green bag, I wondered what Matt was like. Was he cute? Maybe he had boyfriend potential. I shook my head. Then again, dating your roommate—flatmate—was probably not the best idea. I’d just have to keep looking for my Mr. Darcy elsewhere.
I removed the contents of the bag and placed them appropriately around the room. In the corner, wedged between two windows, was a desk with a bright red chair. Or it had been bright red at some point. Now it was about the same color as cream of tomato soup and had worn spots on the seat. That would definitely need fixing. Some lovely fabric to make a slip cover, perhaps in a nice blue. I’d have to add that to my list.
Across from the double bed was a small Victorian fireplace with a mantle. Next to it was a cheap wardrobe painted black. A short bookshelf leaned precariously beneath another window. The carpet was oatmeal (better than the TARDIS blue in Kate’s old room) and the walls magnolia white. Not exactly inspiring, but I could definitely see potential.
I took my emergency outfit out of the carry-on and hung it in the wardrobe, which tickled my nose with the faint scent of cedar. The room had no bathroom of its own, so my makeup kit went into one of the desk drawers. I preferred not to work at a desk, so with a few tweaks it would make the perfect vanity.
My hair dryer, flat iron, and jewelry joined the makeup. My laptop, along with its bag of accessories, went on the nightstand — no way was I trusting it to the bookshelf, which looked in imminent danger of falling apart. I’d have to fix that too. Maybe Kev had a hammer and nails lying around somewhere.
Once the carry-on was empty, I moved to the big suitcase. Mostly clothes and shoes, I quickly emptied it and stashed all the items in the closet. The suitcases got tucked under the bed. And that was that. Not exactly homey. I let out a sigh. Yes, shopping was definitely in order.
I pulled out my smartphone and quickly tapped a list of things needed: bedding, pillows, and the like; something to repair the bookshelf; something to cover the hideous chair; a mirror and light for my new vanity, and so on.
A languid knock sounded at the door, and Kev popped his head in. “How are we getting on? Ready for shopping?”
“Definitely.” My stomach let out a loud rumble. “And maybe some food.” I laughed.
“Well, get your kit and let’s go.” He disappeared, leaving me to wonder what a “kit” was.
I grabbed my cross-body bag and started to follow him, then hesitated. I grabbed my umbrella and added it to the bag. While most Portland natives didn’t bother with umbrellas, you just never knew in London.
As we exited the front door, I noticed a line of young women standing along the sidewalk next to the stairs leading to the basement flat. It was odd to say the least. I mentioned it to Kev, who laughed.
“Kate and I wondered about it, too. In fact, I was sure it was white slavery or something. Kate thought people were being murdered.”
That sounded like my cousin Kate. Vivid imagination, that one. “What was it?”
“Silvia, the woman who lives there, runs an au pair service. Sometimes she has interview days. All very dull and ordinary, I’m afraid, but the mystery kept us amused for weeks.”
AFTER A QUICK LUNCH at a local cafe, Kev took me to the British Home Store (BHS for short) to pick out bedding. I immediately gravitated toward a hot pink duvet cover. Have I mentioned I love pink? Every shade of it. If I could have everything pink, it would make me extraordinarily happy.
“Oh, honey, no.” Kev grabbed my hand and jerked it away from the offending bedding. “That is just all wrong.”
“But I like it.”
He let out a long-suffering sigh. “And it will totally limit your ability to decorate. Trust me on this. Come, let me show you the ways of the fabulous.”
I giggled. “Show me, oh, wise one.”
He dragged me up one aisle and down the other, selecting a white, ruffled duvet (it was romantic and tres Parisian and would go with anything, Kev assured me), pale pink sheets (“Fine! If you must have pink.”), and pillows and throws in every shade of pink imaginable. I began to think Kev was a genius.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll help you fix the bookshelf, too. Shouldn’t be too hard.”
“You know how to do that?”
He gave me a look. “Sweetie, I’m gay, not defective.”
I flushed. “Sorry,” I muttered. “I didn’t mean...I just thought...I don’t know how and...oh fudge.”
He snorted with laughter. “Fudge? Really?”
My flush grew deeper. “My mother doesn’t like swearing.”
“Sweetie, you’re an adult. You can swear like a sailor if you want.”
I knew he was right, but I’d just never got the hang of it.
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