Chapter 21 #3
“And you should.” Elizabeth lifted her sister’s hand and inspected her manicure.
“Charles will stay with Will the night before the wedding. I’ll stay with you.
Sylvia and her whatever can stay at our place in New Jersey.
They can have it until the end of the October when the lease runs out as far as I’m concerned. ”
Jane raised her eyebrows and then nodded. “That would be perfect. But Lizzy? Where will you be then?”
Elizabeth shrugged and watched her man striding toward her, smiling and dripping wet. She sighed. Yum. He’s at the top of my “To Do” list.
“You’re bringing Rich to the book party tomorrow, aren’t you?”
Darcy smiled. “Of course. Neither of us would miss it.” Last week, he’d quietly re-scheduled a long-planned trip to London to be with her for this event.
Nothing would give him greater pleasure than being with Elizabeth for her big night although their current activity—slowly undressing each other in what was becoming their favorite before-dinner ritual—had filled him with anticipation all afternoon.
He decided he wouldn’t allow four o’clock meetings on his calendar any longer.
“Good. You two might see some old friends there, Hero Boy.” Elizabeth draped his necktie on the headboard and untucked his shirt. She twisted to allow him access to the zipper on her skirt.
“‘Hero Boy’? Seriously?” Darcy sucked in a breath as her cold fingers, busily working his buttons, tickled the hair on his chest. He paused in his endeavors to allow her to finish and pull off his shirt then tugged her skirt down over her hips and gently pushed her down onto the bed.
“Okay, my white knight.” She laughed and stretched out beneath him. “My Prince Charming. My man who knows his way around the Yankees’ bench.”
He grinned. He hadn’t seen the book yet, just a photo of the cover she’d snapped on her phone and texted to him. Every time the subject came up, she just smiled. She didn’t want to talk too much about it. “Remember, I played soccer. I’m a tad superstitious.”
Instead of getting her to open up about her hopes for the book, he’d elicited a long list of her pre-game superstitions, from having to wear a certain pair of socks on the days of her junior high school games to her college eating and grooming rituals.
He envied her youthfully vivid imagination of all the variables that could have gone wrong and how she’d tried to ensure they did not; after all, he’d lived years mulling over how small decisions and casual choices could lead to tragic outcomes.
“Of course, half the time it was all for naught. I’d wear the fraying gray cardigan that I wouldn’t put in the washer and eat only the crust on my toast and we’d still lose.”
Right now, in his bed, she was his happy Elizabeth, giggling as she reached for his belt buckle. “We need to get you out of your utility belt, Prince Charming.”
He leaned down and gave her a deep, thorough kiss.
“Stop mixing your metaphors, love.” He smiled and concentrated on a pesky button on her blouse.
“Your book would be marvelous with or without anything I did. I can’t wait to see it.
” Success attained, he slipped off her blouse and bra, tossed them on the pile with her skirt, and began kissing her neck.
She had the most beautiful body. He knew she didn’t think so; she said she had an athlete’s body. Right. He’d never seen, tasted, smelled, or touched anything so spectacular, so soft yet firm, as her skin.
“You are so beautiful,” he whispered.
“Says the man who just brought a blush to my face and curled my toes,” she replied weakly, snuggling up into his side and tracing the ribs that were too obvious for her tastes. “You’re still too thin. We need to fatten you up.”
He ignored her and shook his head. “No, don’t change the subject. You are beautiful. I’ve thought so for ages, but you brush it off whenever I tell you. Why don’t you believe me?”
She shrugged and looked uncomfortable. Looking past him, she saw a small furry creature gazing at her. It made her smile. One or the other of the cats always seemed to be watching them in bed. It would be creepy if it weren’t so funny.
“Elizabeth, you are beautiful, and you never let me say it. You turn away, physically or with words, and I need you to believe it. You need to believe it.”
“Why? Why do I need to believe it? I’m not vain, Fitzwilliam. I know I’m in good shape, and I know I’m smart. I like my eyes. I’m cute, despite these freckles you love. And I finally found the right conditioner, so my hair looks good.” She pulled out of his embrace and sat up.
Darcy stared up at her, wondering at her denials and the edge in her voice.
He knew she was nervous about the book party and the decisions she hoped to hear soon from publishers for her new work.
But she hadn’t been this contentious with him since…
before they were them. Was their first fight going to be over whether or not she thought herself beautiful?
He looked at her steadily, fear and frustration warring within him.
“Sweetheart…” He rolled to the side of the bed and grasped her hand, pulling her down beside him. Carmen meowed and raced out of the room. “You overwhelm me. You take my breath away. I will never stop telling you these things. I can’t.”
“But no one has ever…” Her head dropped and she stared at her toes. She’d teased him and painted her toenails orange last week. It really was a hideous color. She sighed shakily. “I’m sorry, Will. This is stupid. I don’t want to argue about this…me.” She looked up at him. “I’m just nervous.”
“I know,” he said quietly. “But it’s a good kind of nervous, right? Because you’ve put in all the work, and the book is brilliant.” He put his finger on her lips as she started to protest. “Elizabeth, you know it’s great. Just enjoy it now.” He smiled. “Enjoy your moment.”
She reached for him and pulled him into an urgent, desperate kiss. As they fell back into the sheets, she stayed him with her hand and whispered, “Our moment.”
He sent flowers to Elizabeth’s office in the morning, and that night, he watched her at the book party, dazzled by her smile, her mastery of the crowd and the subject, and her easy way with everyone there.
Darcy knew she was nervous, but she didn’t betray it for a moment.
Not when a book critic asked about PEDs and drug scandals.
Not when a partygoer raised her eyebrow upon learning Elizabeth had her master’s in creative writing.
Not when Mr. Philips knocked over a stack of books onto the foot of the Sports Illustrated reporter.
She won the room, and she won the attention of a few young men (and women) who clearly—to Darcy, anyway—wanted more than just an interview with his girlfriend.
It felt good to be territorial, and he didn’t mind showing it off in front of his cousin.
Rich just laughed and made Darcy promise he’d be the best man.
“I’m already writing the toast in my head. ”
“Good to hear something is going on in there,” Darcy replied. “Otherwise, the world has gone to hell.”
“Yes, it has. But you’re in love with a beautiful woman, so all is right with yours.”
Darcy’s slow, happy smile prompted another round of eye rolling.
A literary agent desperate for a mojito caught Rich’s eye, and he dashed off to make her acquaintance before escorting her to a bar just around the corner.
Darcy watched them leave, and it hit him that, for the first time since he’d met Elizabeth, they’d be leaving a party together.
Charlotte, near the bar talking with Jane and Mary, had made sure to tell Darcy he was a lucky man, getting over his previous stumbles and winning the heart of her best friend.
Mary, silently observing Darcy and Elizabeth exchanging glances and holding hands, had nodded when Jane asked her to stay quiet about the unsurprising and not unwelcome romantic development.
She rather liked the quiet, well-read man.
He was definitely the best-looking guy she’d ever met who’d actually read The Hobbit more than once.
The remaining members of Elizabeth’s family had sent their regrets, though only the Gardiners, home with two sick children, were genuine in their regret and truly missed.
Ted Bennet had told his daughter that, while coffee-table books about sports stars might pay the rent, they couldn’t feed the soul.
Thinking he would inspire her, he’d added that he’d wait for something of greater substance to emerge from her highly educated brain.
Darcy ground his teeth thinking about the expression on Elizabeth’s face as she’d told him that last night.
He still knew her family only tangentially; she preferred not to introduce him as her boyfriend until Charles and Jane’s wedding to spare him her father’s jokes.
More likely, she was sparing herself his scorn, the only emotion Darcy had seen the man offer beyond semi-benign neglect.
One of these days, he’d finally get her to talk about them.
And perhaps, one day, she’d tell him exactly what Aunt Patricia had said, though he had his suspicions.
Now as he watched her, it hit him that, as paltry a father figure as Ted Bennet was, the larger issue was that Elizabeth didn’t have a mother either.
Her stepmother filled in—somewhat—but the ghost of Sylvia Bennet lingered.
She was alive, but Elizabeth never referred to her as mum or mom or mother.
She’d abandoned her daughters—made them feel less than deserving of love.
Like him, Elizabeth had lost her mother, but it had been her bloody mother’s choice.