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Darcy did not respond. “Intellectual lightweight.” The phrase niggled at his memory. Where had he heard it recently?
Not that it mattered anyway. He’d probably imagined any connection between them—wishful thinking brought on by too many lonely nights in the Residence. Firs, she babbled, and then she acted like he’d killed her cat. Perhaps she was just a strange person.
Then he recalled he had used the phrase in describing Elizabeth to Hilliard. And somehow, she had heard him.
Shit.
Double shit.
No wonder she had been icy and distant. Darcy was lucky she hadn’t flung a drink in his face. His cheeks heated and his chest tightened as he imagined her overhearing his uncensored remarks. Now that he knew she wasn’t a pampered rich girl, his comments were even more egregious. He grappled with an intense desire to leave the room—or hide behind one of the eight-foot-high floral arrangements.
The proper course would be to follow Elizabeth Bennet and apologize. But he certainly couldn’t chase after her, Secret Service agents in tow, begging for a moment of her time to explain—what, exactly? He couldn’t claim he hadn’t meant the words; there was no denying he had said them. She probably wouldn’t even listen to a convoluted explanation about his annoyance with Hilliard, let alone believe it.
However, it was equally unimaginable not to apologize. Darcy started after her, but a hand on his elbow pulled him back. Bob Hilliard yet again. One glimpse of the man’s white-lipped frown and tense shoulders prevented Darcy from voicing his complaints.
Without a word, Hilliard pulled Darcy to an unoccupied table, where they were immediately joined by Caroline. Hilliard handed Darcy a scotch on the rocks—a bad sign. Hilliard spoke in a low tone. “Sir, we have a potential situation on Twitter.”
Darcy frowned at Caroline, who handled social media. His predecessor in the office had been a disaster on Twitter, but most of Darcy’s tweets—posted by his social media staff—were about his policy positions.
“Not your Twitter account,” Caroline clarified. “There’s a guest here tonight by the name of Lydia Bennet.” Darcy couldn’t recall which sister she was. “She has a picture of herself with you.” Darcy shrugged; people posted pictures with him all the time.
“She also complains that you ‘threw shade’”—Bob used air quotes—“at her sister Elizabeth. Supposedly you said ‘she is stupid and not pretty enough to dance with.’ It’s been retweeted 800,000 times.” He checked his iPad. “Wait a minute…800,015.”
Darcy was suddenly nauseated. Not only had Elizabeth overheard, but her sister had tweeted it? “That’s what I said when—” Hilliard nodded knowingly. Darcy gratefully gulped scotch before scowling at Hilliard. “That area should have been cleared before we talked.”
Hilliard grimaced. “The Secret Service should have cleared it, but apparently they didn’t check the ladies’ room.”
Darcy tossed back some more scotch. “Elizabeth Bennet heard me insult her in person?” Hilliard nodded, and Darcy stifled a groan. He had harbored a small hope that she had heard it from a third party. I’m lucky I got off with a cold shoulder instead of a slap to the face.
“The Washington Post wants to know if we have a comment,” Caroline said.
How soon was too soon to leave his own state dinner? This had been a series of fiascos. “They want us to respond to a tweet from a high school student?”
Caroline consulted her phone. “Her profile says she’s at GW University. The Post wants to know if you actually said her sister was ‘ugly and stupid’ and if you said it to her face.”
“No!” Darcy practically yelled. “I would never—” Several heads pivoted in their direction; Darcy lowered his voice. “Obviously I didn’t know she was there.”
Caroline frowned. “Her father is a big donor. Can we issue a denial?”
Darcy’s predecessor had been notorious for his falsehoods, and Darcy had been scrupulous at avoiding any appearance of being less than truthful. It was one of the ways he had gained the public’s trust and restored faith in the presidency. “No,” he said wearily. “I did say it. I haven’t lied to the press before. I’m not starting now.”
Caroline took notes with brisk efficiency. “We can say ‘no comment,’ but perhaps we should get someone working on damage control.” She shot a quizzical look at Hilliard, who nodded.
Darcy rubbed the back of his neck where the headache had now taken hold. He couldn’t help imagining Elizabeth’s reaction when he had uttered those words. How had her face looked? What had she thought? Had he made her cry? God damn it! Darcy scrubbed his face with his hands. “Can I issue an apology?”
“What?” Hilliard’s voice squeaked, and Caroline barked a laugh.
“I was irritated at you.” He waved at Hilliard. “And it was an insensitive thing to say. I didn’t even mean it.” Darcy’s breathing constricted just thinking that she might believe those ill-considered words. They were beneath him and beneath the office of the president.
“No, you can’t apologize!” Hilliard hissed. “An apology would only confirm that you said it. That would be the surest way to transform this into a media circus. It would be breaking news on the cable stations. Rule number one of the presidency: don’t admit mistakes.”
“Stupid rule.” Darcy hated to maintain a façade of infallibility. Presidents were human and made mistakes. Pretending otherwise was idiotic and counterproductive, but admitting to errors gave your enemies too much ammunition. He gripped the scotch glass so tightly that his fingers turned white.
“If we don’t say anything, it will likely die down,” Hilliard said.
Darcy stretched his neck, willing the muscles to loosen. Hilliard was right, but still. “Can I at least apologize to Elizabeth Bennet?”
“Why bother?” Caroline asked sharply.
