President Darcy

Elizabeth’s musical laughter traveled over the waves. Ah, screw dignity.

“Yeah,” he heard himself replying, “I want to borrow it.”

Chapter Fourteen

Elizabeth regarded herself critically in the mirror. She adjusted the strap on her dress. Fortunately, her aunt had the foresight to pick up the only semi-nice piece of clothing Elizabeth had packed—a summery cotton dress with purple flowers. With no plans to socialize, Elizabeth had left her fancier dresses at home. It was the best she could do on short notice. Naturally, Caroline Bingley would appear in a designer frock that cost more than Elizabeth’s monthly rent. Elizabeth bit her lip. Maybe I shouldn’t have agreed to stay; there’s no doubt the Gardiners and I are out of our element.

No. Pushing away the negative thoughts, Elizabeth smiled at her reflection, and her eyes brightened. No matter what the other woman thought, Elizabeth was not at Pemberley to compete with Caroline. Will invited me. If he’d wanted to date Caroline, he would have done so long ago.

Her stomach growled. She had developed an appetite during her time on the beach—which had become particularly energetic after Will had joined in with his high-powered water gun. He’d had surprisingly good aim, but Elizabeth had retaliated once Bing gave her another gun. Her muscles were sore from running around the beach, and her stomach hurt from laughing so much, but it had been a long time since she’d had so much fun. I don’t think I ever heard Will laugh before.

Her phone trilled, and Elizabeth glanced at the caller ID. Lydia. Damn it. She was very tempted not to answer and ruin her good mood, but Lydia would just keep calling. Might as well get it over with. “Hello?”

“OMG!” Lydia squealed. “There are pictures of you on the news! You’re like marginally famous.”

“What?” Elizabeth sank onto the edge of the bed before her knees gave out. “Pictures?”

“It’s some shot of you getting into the president’s limo. I guess he isn’t too proud and rude after all, huh?”

“Shit.” Elizabeth buried her head in her palm. Of course, she’d seen people taking pictures but hadn’t considered that they would be newsworthy. In retrospect, it was a rather naïve assumption; the presidential limo surely never picked up people by the side of the road.

“It’s really not a very flattering picture,” Lydia prattled on. “It’s blurry, and only part of your face is showing. You look constipated.”

Elizabeth groaned. “Great. I’ve always wanted to look constipated getting into the presidential limo.”

“Now you can check that off your bucket list,” Lydia chirped.

Did Lydia even get sarcasm?

“Did they know my name?” Elizabeth asked.

“No. They called you ‘unidentified woman.’ I might not have recognized you, but I know that puke-yellow dress you’re wearing. I was jumping up and down over at Tanya’s house and pointing at the TV yelling ‘I know that dress! I told her not to buy that dress!’”

I’m on national television, and all my sister can do is diss the color of my dress.

“However, I’m a big enough person to admit that I was wrong. Obviously that color works for you. ‘Cause it’s going to get you laaaaid!” Lydia drew out the last word with a flourish.

Oh Good Lord, I hope she doesn’t put that on Twitter. “It is not. I’m not getting laid. There is no laying going on,” Elizabeth insisted. “I am staying completely upright.”

“Has it already happened?” Lydia adopted a knowing tone. “That was quick work. But I shouldn’t be surprised after the Air Force One incid—”

“Nothing has happened, and nothing will happen,” Elizabeth said through gritted teeth. If she couldn’t convince her sister of that, how could she hope to convince the rest of the world?

“Riiiight. You get in a limo with a gorgeous guy to play pinochle, whatever that is.”

“Aunt Maddie and Uncle Thomas are here, too, you know.”

“Like they’re going to stop you?”

“We’re just having a fun day at the president’s beach house.”

“But then comes the night. They have to sleep sometime!” Lydia sing-songed.

Elizabeth ground her teeth, wishing she hadn’t answered the phone. “Nothing is going to happen between me and the president,” she said in a low, firm voice. “He invited us for dinner and to spend the night, and we’ll go back to the Gardiners’ cabin tomorrow.” She peeked at the clock on the bedside table—already five minutes late to dinner. Damn.

“If you say so.”

Why did it have to be Lydia who put all these pieces together? “Just. Don’t. Say. Anything. To. Anyone,” Elizabeth ordered.