President Darcy

by Victoria Kincaid

  Exclamations of surprise suddenly drew Elizabeth’s attention. People in the crowd pointed and yelled. The limo had stopped. Right before reaching Pemberley’s gates, it had come to a complete standstill.

  Then it began backing up.

  “What the hell?” someone behind Elizabeth exclaimed.

  “Maybe they’re going out for a gallon of milk,” the woman next to Elizabeth joked to her friend.

  Elizabeth couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Her thoughts were scattered. Above all, she tried not to hope this had anything to do with her. It was probably some security thing. She remained frozen in place as the limo reversed until its rearmost door was directly in front of her.

  The door opened to reveal the president. He was not smiling, but his eyes sparkled as he extended a hand to her. He looked utterly delectable in black jeans and a close-fitting blue t-shirt the same shade as his eyes. “C’mon,” he said to her. “Get in!”

  Chapter Thirteen

  She hesitated. Was he talking to her? Shock had even stolen away her voice. Her eyes fixed on his hand, trembling slightly as it offered her a second chance.

  Will’s face softened. “Please, come.”

  Game over. She could no more have refused that entreaty than she could have commanded her heart to stop beating. She placed her hand in his, relishing the warmth as his fingers curved around hers. People in the crowd around her yelled and cheered—and filmed with their phones.

  Will pulled her gently into the interior of the limo, bringing her from bright sunshine into abrupt dimness. He gestured to the seat next to him, and she fell onto it gratefully. A man in a suit—a Secret Service agent?—swung the door shut behind her and then spoke into his phone; the limo lurched forward.

  Will turned toward her, giving her a slight smile for the first time. “Hello, Elizabeth. What brings you here?”

  ***

  Darcy’s day had not improved. The short flight to New York had been uneventful, but that hadn’t eased his throbbing head. Bing had briefed him on the latest threat to nuclear non-proliferation, and Darcy had spent much of the plane flight wrangling on the phone with two difficult congressmen who seemed determined not to support the administration’s position. By the time he finished the second call, he was nauseated, irritable, and tired.

  The presidential limo, nicknamed “the Beast,” was extremely secure but, surprisingly, rather cramped on the inside—with only two seats facing forward and three seats facing back. Today the close quarters irritated him more than usual. Perhaps sensing this, Bing and Fitz had tried to lighten his mood with jokes and banter, but Darcy had growled at them until they fell silent. Now, half listening to Bing’s report on flooding in Mississippi, Darcy kept his temper in check by dreaming about a cool, dark room at Pemberley.

  When the gates of Pemberley loomed into sight, Darcy had been overwhelmed with relief. He just wanted the sanctuary of his private suite and a respite from the scrutiny—even the well-meaning concern of his friends.

  The only thing between him and his sanctuary was the usual crowd of gawkers clustered at the gate, baking in the July sun and holding signs either cheering or condemning him. Darcy steeled himself, knowing he would need to wave and smile at the crowds; if he didn’t, a local paper or cable news station would report how he was unfriendly to the voters, or it might launch rumors that he appeared ill. Never in his life had Darcy felt less like greeting random strangers, but he plastered on a grin and managed a feeble wave.

  When he first saw her, he dismissed her as a hangover-induced hallucination. “Elizabeths” had popped up all over Washington for weeks; upon a second glance, they were always revealed to be women with dark hair who bore almost no other resemblance to the actual Elizabeth Bennet.

  But the resemblance didn’t fade upon a second look; it grew stronger. Another second of staring confirmed that he was, in fact, viewing the actual Elizabeth Bennet. She met his eyes unflinchingly and with a wide smile, but her blush suggested an endearing touch of embarrassment.

  What the hell is she doing here? What did her presence mean?

  Taken off guard, Darcy’s smile and wave faded. He could only gape at her, twisting his head to keep her face in view until she was out of sight. Everything he’d dreamed of saying to her—the apologies and explanations—flashed through his mind. How could he leave them unsaid when she was so close?

  Elizabeth wouldn’t have trekked all the way to Pemberley if she still cursed his name. She had smiled and waved, hadn’t she? If he didn’t talk to her now, he might not get another opportunity.

  Darcy hit the intercom button. “Tucker, stop the car,” he ordered the Secret Service officer who was driving. As the limo abruptly halted, Kinski, the head of his security detail—who sat opposite Darcy in the back of the limo—was instantly on alert. “Is there a problem, sir?” His hand was already reaching under his suit jacket for his shoulder holster.

  Shit. How did he explain this? Darcy held up his hands. “No, nothing like that. I…um…recognized someone in the crowd…”

  Kinski hadn’t removed his hand from the butt of his gun. “Someone who’s been in other crowds?” The Secret Service was always alarmed when people showed up too frequently at presidential events, fearing a potential assassin awaiting an opportunity.

  Darcy sighed. “No, no. It’s Ms. Bennet, the woman who hitched a ride on Air Force One back from Paris.”

  Beside Kinski, Bing sat up straighter. “Elizabeth is out there? Is Jane with her?”

  “I didn’t see her.”

  Now both Fitz and Bing were craning their necks to catch a glimpse of Elizabeth out of the rear window. Kinski murmured into his phone, no doubt explaining to the rest of the detail why the presidential limo had stopped so unexpectedly. He lowered the phone. “There’s probably a reasonable explanation for Ms. Bennet’s presence,” he said in a clipped voice. “I’ll send an agent to question her.”

  Darcy waved his hand impatiently. “Good Lord, no! She’s not a suspect! I just want…I want…” Bing, Fitz, and Kinski gawked at him, awaiting the end of the sentence. What do I want? “I just want to talk with her.”

  This is that chance I said I wanted. I can apologize. Show her that I’m not proud and difficult—at least not always. Demonstrate my affection…

  Kinski’s scowl deepened.

  Darcy could continue on as if nothing had happened, maybe calling her later. But the very thought was utterly intolerable. His eyes met Fitz’s, recalling the multiple bourbons from the previous night. He would do almost anything to avoid that feeling again.

  “Back up. I want to give her a ride,” he told Kinski.

  The agent nearly fell out of his seat in shock. “Sir, we can’t—the presidential limo doesn’t pick up hitchhikers!”

  “Back. Up,” Darcy said firmly.

  Kinski was still bug-eyed. “She hasn’t been cleared—!”

  “She’s wearing a sundress.” A quite fetching sundress. “There’s no place for a concealed weapon.”

  Kinski shook his head emphatically. “Sir, you don’t know—shoes, purses, weapons could be anywhere.”

  Darcy rolled his eyes. “She doesn’t want to kill me.” Shout at me, perhaps. Kill me, no.

  “I can send an agent to collect her—”

  That would be logical…but she might refuse to go with an agent. Then Darcy would lose track of her again. He might be setting himself up for heartache once more, but it was better than certain despair. “No,” Darcy didn’t raise his voice, but he was very firm, “I want her in the limo. Now.”

  Kinski’s face was quite red, and he appeared on the verge of a stroke. Bing had gone bug-eyed at Darcy’s uncharacteristic behavior, but Fitz’s eyes danced with merriment.

  “Sir, you cannot simply—”

  “Reverse. The. Car. Now,” Darcy said in his best leader-of-the-free-world voice.

  They locked eyes for a moment; then Kinski, muttering curses under his breath, took out his phone and gave the order.
>
  The car reversed. When it stopped, Kinski pulled out his gun, ready to jump out of the vehicle if necessary. But Darcy only had eyes for Elizabeth—and her shocked expression as they opened the limo door. He extended a hand to her. “C’mon. Get in!” Her mouth hung open, and her hand was at her throat. She didn’t move. Had he misinterpreted her presence at the gate?

  Oh God, he didn’t want her to refuse. He needed her in the limo beside him, teasing him about being stiff. “Please, come.” He didn’t even care that the words sounded completely desperate.

  Then—with excruciating slowness—she placed her hand in his and gave him a tentative smile. Darcy’s heart melted, followed by the rest of his body. He pulled her into the limo with an arm as limp as a wet noodle. Once inside the vehicle, Elizabeth glanced around dazedly. Fitz quickly vacated the seat next to Darcy, and she slid into it just as Kinski slammed the door shut and the limo started moving again, gliding past the gates of Pemberley.

  Only then did Darcy allow his gaze to linger over her. She was here. She was actually in his limousine. “Hello, Elizabeth,” he said. “What brings you here?”

  She didn’t answer immediately. Her mouth fell open as she perused the inside of the Beast.

  Kinski scrutinized her from head to foot, but her thin sundress and flip-flops didn’t leave a lot of options for concealed weapons. The agent reached over and gently pulled Elizabeth’s small purse from her hands; she surrendered it with only a slight widening of her eyes.

  As the agent examined the contents, Elizabeth noticed the other occupants of the limo. “Hello, Elizabeth!” Fitz waved cheerfully to her.

  “Um, hi, Fitz,” she said slowly, blinking.

  Bing stretched his arm across the space between them to shake her hand. “Good to see you again.”

  Her jaw tightened as she shook his hand. Darcy couldn’t help remembering what she had said about her sister.

  Kinski returned the purse to her, evidently having failed to discover any pipe bombs or Uzis.

  What now?

  Darcy hadn’t thought much beyond getting her into the car. To be honest, he hadn’t thought much beyond “Elizabeth. Want. Now.” His lips itched to kiss her silly; they hadn’t done nearly enough kissing. But, he recognized reluctantly, that might not be her plan, particularly in front of an audience.

  Now he could conceive a hundred reasons this might be a bad idea. Maybe she’d come to Pemberley because she was still angry. Maybe she hadn’t read Darcy’s letter at all and still believed Wickham’s lies. Maybe she had read Darcy’s letter and still believed Wickham’s lies. Maybe she was dating Wickham. Shudder.

  Maybe she was traveling with a friend who wanted to show support for the administration’s environmental policies, and she hadn’t wanted to come to Pemberley at all.

  He took a deep breath to slow his racing thoughts. He could only learn her thinking by talking to her. Earlier today I was pining away for an opportunity to apologize to her and set things right. Now is my chance. And damn the audience.

  Their eyes locked. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “I’m sorry,” Elizabeth said simultaneously.

  He blinked in confusion while Elizabeth jerked her head back.

  “You’re sorry?” he asked. “What are you sorry for?”

  “I believed George Wickham’s lies. I misjudged you. I made assumptions that weren’t true,” she said in a simple, matter-of-fact tone.

  He shrugged; her sins were nothing compared to his. “I’m sorry I was arrogant and condescending and rude. I was so certain you would leap at the opportunity to date me that I made assumptions and started kissing you without—”

  “It’s okay,” Elizabeth said hastily.

  Darcy was acutely aware of the limo’s other inhabitants. Staring intently at his phone, Bing was doing a good imitation of someone who wasn’t overhearing a painfully intimate conversation. On the other hand, Fitz was watching them frankly, his arms crossed over his chest and a smirk on his face. Kinski stared out the window—as his job demanded—but he was clearly fighting a smile.

  “You weren’t that bad,” Elizabeth demurred.

  “Yes, I was,” Darcy insisted.

  “No, really, you weren’t. I wasn’t that offended.”

  “Yes, I was.” He wasn’t about to let himself off the hook.

  Her eyebrows knit together. “No, you weren’t.”

  “Yes, I was.” Why couldn’t she acknowledge it so they could move on?

  “No, you weren’t—”

  Fitz gave an exasperated sigh. “For crying out loud! Will you two get over it already?”

  Elizabeth laughed. “I suppose we’ll have to agree to disagree on that point.”

  The limo had stopped in front of Pemberley’s main entrance, but no one had exited the vehicle. They were waiting for Darcy. Perhaps they should continue the conversation in a more private setting. “Elizabeth, can I give you a tour of Pemberley?” he asked.

  “I would love that.”

  Darcy had won the election as President of the United States. Why was today the day he felt like he’d won the lottery?

  ***

  Nowhere did the gap between Elizabeth’s childhood and Will’s become more evident than in Pemberley. The Bennets were in the upper echelons now, but her upbringing had been solidly middle class. That had never been true for the Darcy family.

  The estate was lovely, of course. Pemberley was far enough from the road that it was a world away from the crowd at the gate. Elizabeth knew the Hamptons weren’t that big and the real estate wasn’t cheap. How many acres did the Darcy family own here? As they climbed out of the limo, she could see another house not too far away, so the property couldn’t be too large.

  “Who are your neighbors?” she asked Will, pointing to the house. “Anyone I know?”

  He coughed. “Um…that’s the estate’s guest house.”

  Well…shit, it was big enough to be another mansion.

  The initial exhilaration of being with Will again was beginning to fade, and a kind of queasiness was replacing it. Everything at Pemberley was tasteful, beautiful, perfect…and completely overwhelming. The exterior of the house was weathered shingles, giving it a seaside New England appearance. But the size was far beyond any fisherman’s house. The circular drive had deposited them at a white-columned portico that easily accommodated three additional cars from the motorcade. More columns adorned a porch that ran the length of the house. The house appeared to be three stories and stretched dauntingly in both directions.

  Elizabeth glanced at Will’s patrician profile as they approached the front door. Maybe she could get a tour, stay for an hour or so, and then discreetly depart.

  The double doors were tall enough to admit any small-to-medium giants who happened to be in the neighborhood. As they approached, someone—a waiting servant perhaps?—opened one side so Will and Elizabeth could enter, followed by Bing and Fitz. The two-story, marble-clad foyer featured twin staircases and an understated yet elegant chandelier. The paneling was exquisite, a light-colored wood that Elizabeth couldn’t identify, which contrasted nicely with the gray marble of the floors. “How old is the house?” she asked.

  “A little more than one hundred years,” Will replied. “It was designed by the renowned architect Stanford White, and I had it renovated and modernized ten years ago, not long after my parents’ death.”

  “They did a very nice job.” That was a stupid understatement. “It’s exquisite.”

  “Thank you,” he said simply.

  People flowed into the house around them. Secret Service agents bustled into different rooms to secure the building. One agent appeared to be setting up communication equipment in a corner of the foyer. Staffers carried luggage up to the second floor. Bing hurried up the stairs, with Fitz following more slowly. No doubt they had visited many times before.

  Will led her through the doorway between the two staircases. “Let me show you my favorite room.”

  Elizabe
th gasped. Two stories tall, the room boasted windows—well, not really windows so much as a wall made from glass panels—that provided a stunning view of the ocean. Tearing her eyes from the scenery, she noticed that the room had dual conversational areas with all-white chairs and sofas grouped around two antique stone fireplaces. Her parents had a large living room but nothing on this scale. Balconies crafted from simple ironwork ran halfway up three of the walls, revealing entrances to second-story rooms. As if reading her mind, Will said, “That door leads to the master bedroom suite”—he pointed—“and the other side has doors to two of the bedrooms.”

  Elizabeth drank in all the details so she would be able to describe them later to Jane. The décor wasn’t at all ostentatious; in fact, it was the very simplicity and understated elegance of the room that made it so appealing. It was big, but not nearly as grand or formal as the White House—and consequently it felt much more like a home.

  Will observed her intently as if her reaction to the house was terribly important. “It’s…um… magnificent,” she said in awe. The word was completely inadequate, but he appeared very pleased nonetheless. “It just—it takes my breath away, Mr. President.”

  His brow furrowed. “I thought we were past the ‘Mr. President’ stage.”

  “Are we?” He’d said something to that effect on Air Force One, but she hadn’t taken it seriously.

  “I just picked you up by the side of the road. Surely that counts for something.” His lips twitched. “I would like to believe you don’t get into cars with strangers.”

  She laughed. “I don’t. I turned down the previous two presidential limos that happened by.”

  This sally provoked a broad grin—the equivalent of a full-belly laugh for this man. “Would you like to see more?” he asked.