6
“Books oh! No. I am sure we never read the same, or not with the same feelings.” —Pride I might not know how to dance. But I will not let these critical stares intimidate me. I hold my head high and do my best to follow his lead. He’s not a bad teacher. His warm breath tickles my ear as he counts the time and whispers instructions. He peppers me with encouraging words, such as, “You’ve got this... you’re a natural. You certain you haven’t had lessons?”
I accidentally step on his toe. “Nope, no lessons.” I chuckle.
“Who cares? You’ve obviously spent your time on better things. Watching you debate my aunt was totally worth it. I’ve never been so entertained.”
“Thank you... ” I ask the question that’s been bugging me. “How did you know I write?”
“Jane told me.” Of course, she told him. I hope she didn’t tell him everything.
“What exactly did she tell you?”
“That in addition to having two jobs, you spend most of your free time writing. I find that impressive.”
“Or foolish. I don’t make money writing.” That’s not the whole truth. I’m making some income, but to Liam Darcy, it’s pocket change.
“You don’t make any money, yet,” he says with an assured smile. “Someday, you’ll be wildly successful. Soon, Lettie Benson will become a household name.”
“Unless I decide to use a pen name.”
“Why would you do that?”
I already write under a pen name, but he doesn’t need to know this. “To keep my privacy.”
“That makes sense.” He nods. “I wish I could do that, have a secret identity, like a superhero.”
“If you had a secret identity, then maybe all the single women wouldn’t be glaring daggers at me.”
He laughs. “I could listen to you all day.” This is an even better compliment than when he said I was beautiful.
“What pen name are you considering?” he asks. I can’t help but find it intoxicating how genuinely interested Liam is in the details of my life. “May I suggest Dr. Kate Debourgh.”
I laugh so hard I miss a step and stumble. Liam catches me and pulls me in a little closer.
“Your aunt would be furious!”
“The opposite. She’d brag to everyone that she did indeed write a bestselling book because, of course, your books will all be best-sellers.”
My resolve to despise Liam is faltering. I didn’t expect him to have a sense of humor, and the way he’s so confident about my success makes me feel like he’s on my side. I’m not going to tell him my pen name: Collette Best. Best is my mom’s maiden name. I think it’s a shame that she gave up such an awesome surname in favor of boring old Benson. Dad should have taken Mom’s last name. (If I ruled the world, married couples would always go with the most stylish of the two last names.) I chose Collette because someone once asked me if Lettie stood for Collette, and I wanted to say yes. Collette seems so strong and sophisticated compared to my real name.
“If you have any more suggestions, please share,” I say.
“I already gave you my best one—Kate Debourgh.” When he laughs, I notice his smile creases, almost like a dimple, but better. I find myself wanting to run a finger down those lines on his cheek.
“Any reasonable ideas.” I amend.
“Hmm... it’s hard to think of one. I love your name.” This comment makes me unaccountably happy.
“Now I’m going to throw you out for a spin,” he whispers in my ear. “Then pull you back into my arms.” He does exactly as promised, and it’s a whirling delight. The black beads on my dress make a swishing sound as I move, reminding me of soft rain on water. Inside, my emotions fizz, a bewildering concoction of joy and trepidation. When I return to his arms, the expression in his eyes shifts, taking me back to that moment in his kitchen. His eyes fix on my lips. He wants to kiss me. My heart hammers; I want to kiss him. But also, I’m terrified. I am out of my depth with this man.
“Shall we go outside for a breath of fresh air?” he asks. Oh yeah, he’s definitely planning on kissing me. I’m on the brink of panic. Perhaps I should say I need to go home early. Or claim that I want to dance longer. But I refuse to back down from things that scare me. “Yes, let’s.”
***
We swing by the coat check before we go to the balcony. Liam thinks I might get chilly, and I’ll want my wrap. It takes us forever to make it through the crowd. Everyone wants to talk to Mr. Darcy of Pemberley Almonds. A woman of indeterminate age, somewhere between 45 and 70, with brilliant red hair, greets Liam with double air kisses.
“Liam, who’s this?” she asks, eying me with curiosity
“Fiona, this is Lettie Benson. Lettie, this is Fiona McCombs, a good friend of my mother’s. She’s also on Pemberley’s board of directors.”
“Lettie?” she asks. “You aren’t by chance related to Lettie Benson, who married Dean Elliot?”
“Wow! No one ever asks that. I am. She’s my aunt. I’m named after her.”
“You’re the spitting image of her.” Fiona’s eyes soften with nostalgia.
“This is her dress,” I say, running my hands down the beaded skirt.
“Yes, that’s probably what made me think of her.” Fiona steps closer and admires my gown. “We were friends when I lived in Beverly Hills. So sad to lose her.”
“Yes, it was,” I answer solemnly. My aunt’s death was hard on all of us.
But Fiona has moved on to ask Liam some questions about water rights. Liam wraps an arm around me, pulling me close to his side. I savor the warmth of his body. “I’d love to talk to you about that later this week, Fiona. Right now, I’m lucky enough to be with Lettie, and I want to make the most of my time with her.”
“Oh, of course.” She smiles at us indulgently. “Have fun!”
Liam uses this same excuse with nearly everyone who wants to talk to him, and this is a lot of people. I’m surprised to be introduced to Joe Whittaker, who I recognize at once as Noah’s father. He looks like his son, just with gray hair and wrinkles. “This is one of my dad’s oldest friends,” explains Liam. Both men look uncomfortable, maybe because it’s hard to talk about William Darcy, but I sense there’s more at play. The exchange doesn’t last long. Liam uses me as an excuse to get away at least two more times before we make it to the outside terrace.
We stand shoulder to shoulder, gazing at the distant sparkling city lights in the frosty air. “Tell me the truth,” I ask. “Did you invite me because I give you a built-in escape plan?”
“It worked; everyone understood why I’d want to be alone with the prettiest woman here,” he says flirtatiously. “But, Lettie.” His voice becomes more sincere as he angles toward me. “I invited you because I wanted to be with you. You’ve made a night I’ve been dreading so much fun.”
“Even when I was teasing Dr. Debourgh.”
“That was the highlight. I live for a good debate.”
“Do you? Do you agree with your aunt?”
“I don’t read romance, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m more of a nonfiction guy.”
This does not surprise me. I should just be grateful that he reads at all. But something about his tone (maybe it’s his height) makes me feel like he’s looking down at me.
“Let me guess... you like non-fiction because you learn from it. Because you always want to improve your mind.”
“Not improving my mind per se. But I admit I’m not sure what I’d learn from a romance.”
“Perhaps that it’s bad form to call a girl tolerable,” I say, teasing.
“Are you ever going to let that go?” he says good-naturedly.
“Never.”
“Good.” He smiles at me fondly, successfully obliterating all my plans to keep him distant. He takes a small step toward me.
“In all seriousness,” I say to break the building tension. “I think you’d learn more reading a romance than from any old World War II book.”
“How did you know I like World War II books?”
“All guys like World War II books—nothing wrong with that. I just get annoyed when they act like their histories are superior to romantic fiction. Is the story of two people falling in love any less important than that of a nation at war?”
“You must admit war has greater significance,” he says.
“I admit nothing. Love is the hope of the human race. War is the end of it.”
“Sure, but war affects more people.”
“Love affects everyone, or it should. Besides, the world could use more hope and happy endings.”
“Beating the Nazis seems like a happy ending to me.”
“What about the atomic bomb?” I rebut.
“Touché. But I’m still not convinced that a couple falling in love equals a happy ending. Half of all marriages end in divorce and then there’s death.” His voice falters, maybe he’s thinking of his father, but I’m too riled up to tread carefully.
“Death is all the more reason to seize love when we find it.”
“I agree. But one doesn’t have to read about romance to find love in real life.” The way he’s looking at me has me flustered. He inches closer. I’m losing my train of thought. Here I am, standing face to face with one of the city’s, strike that, the state’s most eligible bachelors, and he looks as if he is about to kiss me. I want to kiss him. But am I just another date for Liam? I think of what Noah said about Darcy being a player and edge away ever so slightly.
“But that’s not what I’m arguing; my point is that the public at large dismisses romance because it’s written and enjoyed by women. Whereas similar stories told by men are automatically given more credit.”
“Such as... ?” He looks at me expectantly.
“ Twilight , for example.” I’m not sure where I’m going with this. I’m not the biggest Twilight fan, but it’s always felt a bit sexist the way some people love to hate on it. “Everyone mocks Twilight . But is it really that more ridiculous than say... Star Wars ?”
“Yes, it is,” he says with a cocky look that is both sexy and irritating.
“Hear me out. Both are cultural phenomenons. “
“Phenomena,” He corrects me trying and failing to suppress a smug smile. “The word is the plural of phenomenon.” I hate that he’s right about this. I especially hate that my word-loving heart can’t help but go aflutter for a man with an excellent vocabulary—even while he’s stepping on my ego.
“You know what I meant,” I give him an exasperated look. “Both are a bit hokey and have problematic relationships. But Twilight is universally ridiculed while Star Wars is celebrated.”
“You can’t compare Twilight to Star Wars ,” he says like it’s given. “There’s no comparison.”
“Why not?” I say, warming up to my argument. “They’re both chock full of cheesy dialogue and clunky special effects.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. Star Wars’ special effects were amazing for the time. Have you even seen the movies?”
“Of course. And I like them.” I admit begrudgingly. “Most women I know like Star Wars . In a world ruled by men, we’ve adapted by being open to the things you like. If only men would have the same open mind about what we like. Did you see Twilight ? I’m not even going to ask if you read it.”
“Yes, I saw some of the first film. All that I could stomach. It was intolerable.” There he goes with that word again. But he doesn’t even notice. “ Twilight is just... just so silly.”
“Silly! Would you say that if men loved it?” I’m getting a little heated here. The way he keeps stating his opinions as if they were facts is infuriating. I fold my arms across my chest. “Well, personally, I think Star Wars is silly. It has swamp muppets!”
“You can’t be serious. We’re talking about Twilight versus Star Wars here.” He places a hand on my shoulder. Even in my anger, I’m hyperaware of his touch. “Tell me, Lettie, do you like Twilight more than Star Wars ?” I’m caught. He looks so amused, so self-satisfied, I want to slap him. And now he’s laughing. “So you don’t actually like Twilight ?”
“I... like Twilight .” I sputter. I’m not going to tell him how, as a teenager, I gobbled up the books. But I also really like Star Wars , especially Obi-Wan Kenobi (in the prequels). “That’s beside the point. I’m arguing that if Stephenie Meyer were a man, people wouldn’t make fun of Twilight half so much.”
“Hmm... ” He looks at me skeptically. “Not everything is sexism. I like plenty of books by women.”
“You’re not even listening.” I’m beginning to lose it. “It makes me furious that anything created by a woman is fair game to be mocked, even by women or especially by women. While the work of men is accepted with far less scrutiny.”
“You’re overgeneralizing,” he says. “What about Harry Potter or Hunger Games ? They’re written by women. Face it, Lettie, you’re wrong about this.”
“You’re so arrogant.” I stare at him in disbelief. “To think I was beginning to almost like you. You’re just a snob.” Liam flinches but in my fury I go on. “Turns out you’re exactly the jerk I thought you were.”
He’s quiet for a moment.
“Let’s go.” He marches ahead of me to the exit, his coat fluttering like Darth Vader’s cape.
Several people try to approach us as we cross the small foyer leading to the grand staircase. But Liam has such a fine-tuned death glare that one look and the approaching person backs off. Even his aunt does not dare approach us. If I weren’t seething, I’d find his ability to repel party talk with one quelling glance admirable.
We silently exit the mansion and wait for the valet to bring his car. I’m furious, angry at Liam for making such a fuss, blowing everything out of proportion with this dramatic departure; but even more angry at myself for letting a little argument run amok.
The small space in the car ripples with our combined anger, like the air in Iowa before a tornado. He hits the gas, and his black Jag roars down the street at a dizzying speed. I feel sick with regret and disappointment. I don’t know who I’m more disappointed with, Liam or myself. A part of me wonders if I picked a fight because I was scared of liking him too much. He parks his car on the street outside of my apartment. He turns off the engine.
“Why, Lettie? Why, if you thought I was a jerk, did you go out with me?”
“I was hoping you’d prove me wrong,” I snap back.
“I asked you out because I liked you, I thought ... ” He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. I was wrong. You disappoint me.”
Before I realize what is happening, he exits the car and opens my door for me. I step out in a daze. How did the evening disintegrate so fast?
“Forgive me for taking up your night,” he says, standing under the streetlamp in his tux. “Don’t worry. I have no desire to kiss you good night or to ever see you again.”
I’m speechless. Sure, I was rude and let my temper get the best of me. Then again, how dare he be so pretentious and condescending. He gets in his car and revs the engine. You disappoint me. Who says that? As if I care what Liam Darcy thinks of me. But as I watch his taillights disappear into the cold darkness, I realize I do care—far too much.