Beautiful friendship, p.89
Beautiful Friendship, page 89
"Yes."
"And are you going home?"
"No." Realizing he'd stumbled into a trap, he smirked at her. "I have work to do."
"Yes, we both do." She touched his tie, telling herself it was to straighten it.
The body beneath felt strong and unyielding and instantly evoked the memory
of seeing him at Pemberley. Even impressive Mikhail couldn't compare to the
sight of Will's scarred body. And that realization was doing nothing to help her cheeks cool. Wondering if he realized the sudden source of her reddening
cheeks had nothing to do with her fever, she removed her hands with a blush. "I have to return to the opera house. And Candy is waiting for you. She looks like Amazon Barbie in a pencil skirt. Failed to mention that when we played Go
Fish, didn't you, Darcy?"
"You don't have a leg to stand on when it comes to that topic, Bennet."
"No, I have two of them," she teased, strengthened by a surge of her usual pluck. "You're welcome to check for yourself."
"I mean the American you dance with every night looks like G.I. Joe. And he holds you much closer than I ever get to Candy."
"Frank?" She snorted. "Frank's like a brother to me."
"And you kiss him on the stage," he reminded her. "Repeatedly."
"Stage kisses. There's loads of difference between a stage kiss and the real thing. He'd say the same, I'm sure of it. Besides, it's not Frank you should be worried about. Mikhail's the one that asked me out today."
Will's forbidding frown morphed to a fierce scowl. "And what did you say?"
"I said I was getting lunch for another man." She tugged playfully at his tie.
"Do you still want to meet tonight?"
"Only if you feel strong enough for it."
"I do."
"Elizabeth--" He reached for her, only to find her slide from her perch on the desk and duck beneath his arms.
"Hmm?" Though she'd migrated to the door while he remained by the desk, Will still managed to pin her to her place with a look.
"Dinner tonight," he said, even as his phone buzzed. "I meant what I said about taking you out. No Benny's. No pub food. I want to take you to Ciao Claretta's on Bond Street. Are you ready for that?"
Ciao Claretta's. She knew it by reputation only. A five star restaurant, it would mean candles, low light, a musician coaxing music from a five-string harp.
There was no doubting his intentions there.
In Dublin, she'd acquired a nickname among the men in the company. Hot and
Cold Lizzie. Hot with a smile, cold to the touch. That was what they'd so
charmingly whispered in her wake. Even the opera house men, Mikhail, Johan,
Ben, would tease about their efforts chasing and chasing and getting nothing for their labor. Will was different. He seemed to have more genuine affection for her than the rest of them combined, but he was also infinitely more patient.
Maybe it was innate confidence that kept him going, or maybe it was
something else, but he never seemed to mind pausing for a balance check.
Because of this, she offered a shy smile of acquiescence.
"I'll see you at the curtain call."
Lady Leticia Elliot sipped from her wine glass, examining her daughters. To
her right, Marguerite and Charles. Her youngest daughter picked at her meal, quietly henpecking her husband and ignoring her two children, Diego and
Marco, in turns.
Anne had implied not so long ago that Marguerite was unhappy. Marguerite
had always been a difficult girl, moody, snappish, lacking the grace and beauty of her older sisters. Leticia silently blamed Walter for that. Regrettably, her youngest child took after Sir Walter's mother. Charles Musgrove had found
something he liked in her, though, or at least tolerated. It seemed a good match, even if his wealth had been acquired through trade.
Her attention shifted to her eldest daughter across the table. Elisabetta Elliot could developed crushes by the dozens, but as yet she hadn't managed to secure a serious offer for marriage. Too picky, Leticia thought. She was aiming high, and rightly so, Elisabetta was a great beauty and had a healthy inheritance. She should aim high. She wasn't looking for true love, but she was looking for rich and handsome, with a sterling lineage to boot. A rare combination, Leticia
thought. Usually it was one or the other.
Take Sheldon Rushworth, for example. The oil scion was their guest for the
evening. Absurdly wealthy and utterly idiotic, Rushworth had been invited to the table tonight per Walter's insistence. Walter's designs in doing so were obvious, though Leticia couldn't help but feel a stab of pity for Elisabetta.
Every time her eldest daughter looked at foppish Rushworth, Leticia saw
indignation and disdain warring with the realization that this absurd guest was worth an equally absurd amount of money. Leticia held back a sigh. If only
love and marriage were a bit easier to navigate.
Lastly, Leticia's gaze shifted to Anne at the far end of the table. Her middle daughter was absolutely glowing with her own quiet beauty. Anne was the
Elliot daughter who exhibited the most grace, the most sweetness, the most
humility, and compassion. It was Anne, Leticia thought stubbornly, who should have landed the greatest match of all.
Leticia had prepared her for it, too. At six, little Anne had sat at this table with her mother, fidgety, eyes more attentive to the flickering candles on the table than to the lesson. But still, she'd been attentive to her mother's coaching. Anne was a keen student, learning quickly and competently how to handle herself at a dinner table. "With genuine interest in the guests," Leticia had coached her,
"but with no vulgar displays of emotion. The table is not the place for familial quarrels or political debates."
At sixteen, Anne had received further lessons that Leticia deemed necessary for a young woman: how to discern crystal stemware from mere glass, how to
politely summon a servant at the table, how to indicate which guests required wine, how to discretely communicate dissatisfaction with a meal.
But there would be no manor houses, and no great halls needing diner
arrangements in Anne's future. How it galled Leticia that the only daughter
worthy of this lifestyle had been the one to turn her back on it. Quiet, kind Anne proved the truly rebellious child, abandoning the wealth and privilege
she'd been born into---and for him. Frederick Wentworth.
And yet, she'd never looked better. Anne boasted an absolutely lovely figure now. Charming even, and to Leticia's great approval, never vulgar in her
display of it. Her cheeks held a sweet blush, her lips bloomed with color. She was beautiful. Glowing. And still attentive to her family. Anne would always speak when spoken to, she was quietly attentive to Marco and Diego in a way
their mother never was, and she gently coaxed Rushworth into conversation
when Elisabetta would have none of it.
But Leticia knew her daughter better than Anne realized. It was Frederick
Wentworth who clouded her thoughts. It was obvious for those who thought to
look for it. In no mood for spirits, Anne hadn't touched her wine glass. And whenever her fingers weren't occupied cutting the meat on little Marco's plate, she would touch the band on her finger, thumbing it like a talisman, eyes
drifting to the empty chair at the table. Leticia knew her thoughts. There should be ten people at this table, not nine.
Frederick had joined them here before. It was years ago, but Leticia still
remembered it That golden haired boy with his proud back and his stubborn
mouth. His hair had been neatly combed, his posture ramrod straight. His
conversation was intelligent, his answers restrained, and immeasurably polite.
A streetwise wit lurked underneath, Leticia could see him check it on more than one occasion.
The problem wasn't his behavior. It was the name. No prefix, no suffix, no
fortune. And that profession. There would be many long hours like this for
Anne, suffering and waiting and worrying over Wentworth's well-being.
Leticia, too, worried for him, though she'd be hard pressed to admit it. Even Walter, for all his disdain, had scoured the papers for news connected to his son-in-law. Perhaps it was just as well they'd invited insufferable Rushworth to dinner. With the Elliots distracted, Rushworth could do the talking for all of them.
"In my opinion," said Rushworth, "Rushworth Oil has been quite unjustly maligned for the Rushworth tanker that ran aground in Alaska and the oil spill that followed. Its impact on our national interests has been grossly, grossly misunderestimated."
"Mis--" Anne frowned. At least one person was paying attention.
"Yes, and one must consider the silver lining in all of this. I think we are all quite fortunate not to own any property in Alaska, are we not?" Rushworth continued, "and happily none of the penguins on Kolai Island can ring up anyone to prosecute. No fingers, you see. Just wings. Did you see that little documentary about penguins? It was the most charming little film and they are such happy creatures, aren't they?"
"Seemingly less so now, Mr. Rushworth," spoke Elisabetta with a smirk.
"Let's adjourn, shall we?" questioned Lady Leticia, ringing a nearby bell to summon one of the servants. Beside her, Sir Walter jerked awake.
"Dessert?" he grunted.
"No, dear, polite conversation in the drawing room."
For Anne, 'polite conversation in the drawing room' mostly consisted of
worrying about Frederick and preventing Diego from destroying anything
priceless. Like the bust of Emperor Alexander at the far corner of the room (her father fancied a resemblance). Or her mother's French serving table. Or the
Degas mounted on one wall--
"The Degas---Diego, no!" Anne scrambled over to the boy just in time to prevent Diego from putting crayon to canvas. She took the crayon from his
grip. "You mustn't touch things that don't belong to you. This painting belongs to Grandfather. It's very expensive. If you want to color, you must never touch the paintings. Ask politely for a piece of paper. You're older than Marco, and you know very well what's expected of you."
"But I'm bored," Diego frowned.
"Little monsters, aren't they?" Elisabetta spoke in Spanish next to her, before declaring in English. "Let's take them on a walk before the sun sets, shall we, Anne? You and me."
Surprised by the sudden assistance, Anne glanced at her sister. Elisabetta rarely took much interest in the children. But her sister would do anything, perhaps, to get away from Rushworth.
"We have a guest for the evening---"
"Rushworth's thoroughly engaged in conversation with Father. The children could use some fresh air before bed time. The Musgroves are staying the night here, did you know?"
"And the nanny?" Anne glanced over at Charles and Marguerite's new live-in babysitter. Remarkably pretty, entirely tractable, and barely twenty years old, Colette hailed from France. She was affectionate and kind with the children, and polite to Marguerite and Charles. From the looks of it, Marguerite tolerated her. Charles more than tolerated her. He was actively distracting the nanny, which accounted for her ignorance at the near-ruined Degas. "I think we should bring her along."
"You're so polite, Anne," Elisabetta said, dropping her voice to a whisper. "I think we both mean that the further we can get Colette from Charles, the better.
Yes, let's go on a walk."
It was July, the mid-summer mark. The sun stayed late and high in the sky, and the children were all too happy to play in the garden, dashing ahead of their minders in a game of tag. While Colette tagged along with the children,
Elisabetta and Anne lingered behind.
"Can you believe Father? Sheldon Rushworth, what an idiot," Elisabetta sighed.
"You could try finding someone on your own, Elisabetta," Anne suggested.
"Perhaps look further than the country clubs."
"What, and marry for love, like you did with Frederick? Oh, Anne, the very thought of it is painful."
"What do you mean?" Anne frowned.
That was a large, circular fountain at the center of the garden, and Elisabetta settled on the edge of it. She reached for her sister's right hand, extracting what she knew Anne had kept possessively close for the whole of the evening: her
mobile phone.
"I mean this. Waiting by the phone, on pins and needles to hear about the fate of the man you love, with absolutely no power to do anything about it."
"Elisabetta--" Anne reached for the phone, memories of youthful keep-away flashing in her mind. "Please, give that back. If Frederick returns to London tonight, I have to let him know where I am."
"The phone will be right here beside me," Elisabetta assured her, placing the object on the ledge next to her. "Just try a few minutes not having it clutched so closely to you. How do you feel now? Freer?"
"Worried," Anne said, settling beside her sister with a frown.
"Exactly. Don't you see, Anne, that's why I can't marry for love," Elisabetta declared. "I want my husband to be handsome and I want him to be rich,
andeveryone knows I couldn't abide an idiot like Rushworth. But I don't need true love. Love makes any entanglement so much more complicated. And more
frightening. For goodness sakes, Anne, I don't even love Wentworth the way
you do, and even I'm worried about him."
Anne's eyes softened. "Are you?"
"Yes," Elisabetta sighed. "It's the most dreadful feeling. I don't know how you're coping with it."
"I love him, Elisabetta," Anne explained quietly. "Whether we were married or not, that feeling will always be there. I can't turn my back on him, just because of his profession. I wouldn't."
"I suppose." She exhaled. "He's a handsome fellow, your Fred. And very brave, and smart. And well, perhaps it's just as well he does lack a title."
"Why?"
"Because I would have gone after him," Elisabetta laughed. "And how dreadfully foolish I would have felt if I had invited him to Kellych Hall only to watch him give long, searing looks at my younger sister." She picked up Anne's phone, holding it out to her. "You should call him. At least let him know you'll be here for the night."
"I'm not staying for the night. I haven't brought any clothing."
"Sure you are, mother's insisting on it. Wouldn't you rather stay with the family than sleep in an empty house, with nothing but boxes for company? Call him,
Anne. Maybe he'll answer."
"I doubt it," Anne said as she switched her phone on. "Sofia's husband is an admiral, and he said Frederick was in confinement on base, being debriefed."
"Don't they allow mobile phone access?" Elisabetta's nose wrinkled.
"Sofia explained that they normally do," Anne answered softly. "But Fred's security clearance makes the issue more complicated. He's not a footsoldier, he's Naval intelligence. He's not allowed to communicate with anyone outside the base until he's received the proper clearance. The security risks are too great."
"That's absurdly medieval," Elisabetta declared while Anne dialed.
The phone rang. And rang and rang until at last Anne reached his voicemail.
This is Fred. If you're listening to this message, I'm away from my phone.
Anne turned away from her sister, prepared to rattle off her own message. "Hi, Frederick. It's me, Anne." Her voice softened, "I'm thinking about you. I hope you're safe. It's just past supper time, and I'm at my parent's house at Kellynch Hall, but I wanted to let you know that I-"
"I'm the fastest!" called Diego.
"No, I am!" shouted Marco, trailing behind.
"I am!" shouted Diego.
The boy's game of tag had migrated toward the center of the garden and Diego chose that exact moment to bolt, tumbling directly into his aunts. Diego flailed, Elisabetta screamed, and Anne froze. As for the phone, it tumbled from her
grasp-and directly into the fountain's drink, landing with a decidedly un-aquatic plop.
As the towering grandfather clock in The Dashell Hotel chimed ten, Will Darcy slid his champagne glass on a nearby serving tray and gestured to Hayter.
"I have to go."
"Go?" Charles Hayter repeated. "Will, weren't you the one reminding me that we had to go to this wine and cheese fest in the first place?"
"Yes."
"And aren't you the one that all the big-wigs were trying to talk to? It's you they're after talking to, not me. I spoke to Magistrate Fernsby about maritime disputes and at the end of it, do you know what she asked me?"
"What?"
"Did I happen to know the time?"
"Oh Charlie, you can't blame her," Candy cut in, stealing a piece of cheese and a cracker from Charlie's food plate. "She was probably distracted by your pretty eyes. Have a good night, Will. Charlie, come find me if you get too
bored. I love a good maritime conversation."
"Charles," Will spoke his friend's name, though Charlie Hayter was too busy staring at Candy's departing form to notice. "Charlie."
"Huh?"
"Don't you know an invite when you hear one?" Will nodded in the general direction Candy had retreated towards.
Charles' mouth dropped open. "Wait, what-you mean Candy?"
"Yes, Candy," Will confirmed. "You've been hung up on her for months, haven't you?"
"Yeah, but---" Charles hesitated. "Mate, have you seen her? She is out of my league."
"Charlie, if you want something, there's no sense in holding back. Just make it happen."
"And where are you going again?"
Will flashed him a grin. "Making it happen."
A midsummer night in downtown London was bound to be crowded---there
were tourists and West Enders buzzing about, teenagers, university kids, night clubbers and lovers all vying for a piece of the crowded sidewalk. Cabs
honked, breaks hissed, and the journey from the Dashell to the Opera House
was a slow trudge. Or maybe it just felt that way because he was envisioning the woman he would reach at the end of his journey.
There was no bribing his way back stage tonight, and no need to ask Jenna
