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Darcy hurried back toward the East Room, refusing to slow his stride for Hilliard’s shorter legs. It was petty, but Darcy didn’t care. So what if polls found him aloof? The way to fix that was creating policies and drafting legislation that helped the American people—not dancing. The press secretary’s prodding had pushed Darcy to say something indiscreet and, worse—something he didn’t mean. As someone who prided himself on his honesty—a quality the voters also appreciated—he was annoyed at Hilliard and even more angry with himself.
If Hilliard had just shut up about the dancing! That Bennet woman was a hot button for some reason. The memory of luscious dark hair and moss-green eyes caused his breathing to grow ragged. I wonder where she is? I could find her and invite her to sit at my table…
Perhaps this was the result of reading too many briefing books in too short a time: you began to hallucinate an instant connection with a stranger. Maybe he and Elizabeth enjoyed some…chemistry, but it was nothing more and would be easily dismissed.
She hadn’t managed to say anything intelligent to him, not even “nice to meet you.” Dancing with her would require him to attempt conversation. It would also foster rumors. Having his name associated with an inarticulate, pampered nouveau-riche princess whose father hawked excessively processed foodstuffs? No, thank you. Not the family background he sought in a romantic partner.
Of course, he wasn’t seeking a romantic partner. The presidency occupied all his time and energy. Damn Hilliard for observing his reaction to Elizabeth! Hopefully everyone else remained oblivious.
Although who wouldn’t have noticed her in that dress? Understated and elegant—so flattering to her slim figure. Completely unlike the gowns worn by her mother and sisters. Despite her superior taste in dresses, she was probably one of those empty-headed daughters of wealth who lived in tasteless McMansions until they met the right rich guy to father their precious babies. Shallow, uninformed, and self-centered.
Darcy could practically write the script for what women like that would say to him. She would flatter him excessively while discreetly touting her own virtues and accomplishments. He shuddered, recalling the woman at a recent reception who couldn’t stop bragging about which sorority she had pledged.
Certainly, he’d dodged a bullet with Elizabeth Bennet.
Darcy braced himself for the onslaught of noise as he crossed the threshold into the East Room. It was a magnificent room, beautifully decorated to convey a sense of history and tradition, but after more than a year in office, Darcy still felt like a visitor—as he did in most of the White House. Technically it was his home, but many parts were used for ceremonial or official functions and didn’t feel like “home” at all. Even the Residence was more like a well-decorated hotel than his actual domicile.
The mingled sounds of approximately 120 voices blasted him. The band at the other end of the room couldn’t compete with the hubbub. One hundred and twenty voices, and every single one of them wanted to talk to Darcy. Each one thought they knew him. Each one had some idea or grievance they wanted to share. If he contemplated it too long, the sheer scale would overwhelm him.
His eyes were caught by an image on the large-screen television opposite the entrance. Elizabeth Bennet stared down at him. The picture appeared to show a refugee encampment, probably in Africa. Elizabeth’s thick dark hair was tied up in a ponytail, but loose strands fell around her face and stuck to her cheeks with sweat. She sat on the ground feeding a small girl about two or three years old from a bowl in her lap.
Darcy allowed himself a second to admire the trim physique displayed by her cargo shorts and Red Cross t-shirt. Then he contemplated the revelation that
she was a Red Cross staff member. The dirt smudged on her face…the sweat…the rip on her shorts. This was someone who worked hard in difficult circumstances. And looked hot doing it.
Maybe she wasn’t as much of a spoiled princess as he had assumed. The Red Cross only hired the best. She had to be pretty damn good, particularly to be working for them at her age—which looked to be her late twenties. She was seemingly smart and compassionate as well as beautiful. And he had massively misjudged her.
He tried to ignore the tightening in his chest. It didn’t matter; she would never know what he had said about her. Still, he couldn’t help staring at the image until it faded from the screen and was replaced by one of a middle-aged man carrying a box of supplies. Only then did he notice many pairs of curious eyes watching him. Thirteen months into his first term and he still wasn’t used to the scrutiny.
I need to stop this. I’m busy leading the free world. I don’t have time to worry over maligning a woman who doesn’t even know about it.
Pivoting, he strode toward the head table. Two Secret Service agents in front of him cleared a path—one perk of the office. Darcy considered his political priorities. So far he hadn’t managed to buttonhole anyone he needed to talk with. That was unacceptable. His administration had accomplished a lot in his first year, but he needed to keep pressing forward. So much more needed to be done.
As he walked, Darcy’s eyes skimmed over the dance floor where Jane Bennet was partnered by Bing, doing his usual goofy flirty thing. She was smiling and eating it up. Bing always knew the right thing to say to a woman. He even managed to remain friends with all his exes.
That kind of charm was missing from Darcy’s DNA. He could cajole governors into supporting his environmental initiatives and persuade independent voters to cast ballots for him, but he evidently didn’t have the temperament for flirtation—or the qualities necessary for a successful relationship. He’d only had a few serious girlfriends, and one had been all too happy to bad-mouth him to the press during the election.
He’d resigned himself to singlehood while in the White House. Dating in office could lead to all kinds of rumors and conflicts of interest. Plus, he simply didn’t have time to meet eligible young women. Darcy grimaced. It hardly mattered if he’d misjudged Elizabeth Bennet; she could never have been more than a spin around the dance floor anyway.
The self-enforced celibacy had led to rumors he was gay. Hilliard was concerned the rumors were gaining more traction and that they would hurt his favorability ratings among Republican voters, who, sick of his predecessor’s failures, had supported him in big numbers. Hilliard wanted to showcase Darcy’s heterosexuality whenever possible—another reason to be seen with female dance partners. Darcy personally didn’t care what people believed about his sex life, but it was galling when stupid rumors interfered with the good work of his presidency.
On the other hand, dancing with a single woman could provoke crazy rumors; he had danced with a single congresswoman at a Christmas party, and within hours the Internet buzzed with stories about a secret engagement. Darcy sensed the beginnings of a headache. There was only one woman he’d known long enough that their association wouldn’t raise eyebrows.
But the prospect was not enticing.
“Will!” a female voice trilled from behind him. Perfect timing. Darcy managed not to wince. Most of his staff called him Mr. President in public, but Caroline Bingley insisted on using his first name to demonstrate how closely their families were connected.
Darcy slowed but didn’t turn, allowing Bing’s sister to reach him. She teetered in her high heels, always seemingly on the verge of wiping out completely. “Hello, Caroline,” he said with something resembling a smile. Uninvited, she tucked her arm into his and pressed herself against his side. He could feel his muscles tense. Caroline had set her sights on becoming first lady, and her persistence had become an irritant.
Over the years, he had dropped many subtle and unsubtle hints that he viewed her solely as a friend, but she clung to the delusion that he might change his mind. Unfortunately, as a member of the White House communications staff, she was involved in Darcy’s life on a daily basis. She was damn good at her job and extremely loyal, but that didn’t compensate for the ground-down teeth and elevated blood pressure he experienced in her presence.
However, at that moment Darcy didn’t see any of the legislators he needed to speak with, so he might as well get one unpleasant chore out of the way. Tall and fashionably skinny—with her brother’s blonde good looks—Caroline was attractive enough. But her dress (no doubt from the latest Milan designer) was boldly colored and sequined, far too ostentatious for Darcy’s taste.
He rewarded her expectant look with what he knew she wanted. “You look exquisite.”
“Thank you,” she purred.
“Would you dance with me?” Darcy asked, trying not to sound like he was requesting surgery without anesthesia.
