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Elizabeth continued, “Of course, he needs Congress’s permission to declare war or pass a budget. But for something as simple as a dinner invitation, I would think it’s one of the privileges of the office.” Mrs. de Bourgh goggled at Elizabeth. Taking advantage of the momentary silence, Elizabeth addressed President Darcy. “Do you do it often? Benefit from your aunt’s hospitality?”
He had a faint smile on his face. “Not often, no. But occasionally I find her events useful.” How often did he invite women to such occasions?
Mrs. de Bourgh recovered her voice. “You were always like that, even before you were elected to the Senate.”
“Always like what?” Fitz asked, returning with a glass of white wine, which he handed to Elizabeth, and a gin and tonic for himself.
“Inviting random people to my dinners,” the older woman said.
Fitz gave her a rakish grin. “That’s because Darcy is just trying to liven them up.”
“It’s a dreadful habit,” the older woman sniffed. “Very MC.”
Fitz and the president both froze, although their aunt seemed oblivious to the sudden tension. Elizabeth wasn’t familiar with that acronym, but the others reacted like the older woman had uttered a curse.
Ah, who cares if I appear ignorant. The president doesn’t like me anyway. “What’s MC?” she asked. Fitz shifted uneasily while President Darcy appeared fascinated by something on the other side of the room. Then comprehension dawned. “Middle class? You actually say things like that?” Wow, talk about pretentious. Shaking with suppressed laughter, Elizabeth nearly spilled her wine.
The president had the grace to look embarrassed. “Aunt Catherine is rather old fashioned—”
The woman in question interrupted ruthlessly, struck by a sudden need to question Elizabeth. “Bennett, hmm? Are you related to the Connecticut Bennetts?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Or Kevin Bennett? He runs a hedge fund.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Ms. Bennet’s family spells it with one ‘t,’” the president explained.
“One ‘t’? Whoever heard of such a thing? Why on earth would anyone spell Bennett with one ‘t’?”
The woman was so rude that it was almost comical. Elizabeth shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. They didn’t consult me.”
The president shoved his hands in his pockets and looked away while Fitz’s twitching lips suggested repressed laughter.
The older woman regarded Elizabeth like an interesting puzzle. “What does your family do?”
“Do?” There were very few things her family did as a group.
Elizabeth very much doubted Mrs. de Bourgh wanted an account of making Thanksgiving dinners or fights on family trips.
The woman gestured impatiently. “Where does your family’s money originate from?”
“We own On-a-Stick, Inc.” Unsurprisingly, Elizabeth received a blank look. “Doughnut On-a-Stick. Cheese On-a-Stick? That sort of thing.”
Now Mrs. de Bourgh looked like she had sucked on a roomful of lemons. “You don’t say.”
Elizabeth squeezed her wine glass harder. The woman’s attitude had triggered a perverse desire to shock her. Her snobbishness actually exceeded her nephew’s. “My father says that food on a stick is the wave of the future,” Elizabeth said, pasting on a blithe smile. “It’s becoming quite popular here in France. The company has received inquiries from some of the top chefs of Europe. I would imagine that the next time you visit France, there will be some food on a stick options on every menu.”
Fitz’s hand covered his mouth, but Elizabeth heard a faint snort of laughter. The president’s expression was harder to read. Mrs. de Bourgh appeared slightly nauseated. “No. Certainly not—”
Irritation made Elizabeth a little reckless. “And I believe that my father spoke to President Darcy about Zucchini On-a-Stick for the White House.”
All eyes turned to the president; would he call her bluff? “We did have that discussion,” he said in a neutral tone.
“I didn’t realize you were from that family,” Mrs. de Bourgh sneered.
Elizabeth was on a roll now, and nobody was safe. “It’s a distinguished family tradition. My great-great-grandfather sold mutton on a stick from a street cart in the Victorian era, and a very distant ancestor sold salted pork on a stick during the Revolutionary War. My father’s company merely elaborated on the concept.”
