Even if he looked miserable with her.
Still blinking as his eyes adjusted from the bright March sunshine to the dimly lit restaurant, Darcy scanned the room, looking for his cousin.
“Sir, can I help you?” A petite woman, her thin face punctuated by unnaturally blue eyes, beamed at him.
“No, thank you. I’m meeting someone. I’m late. He’s probably already seated.”
“Do you have a reservation?”
“Uh, I’m not sure.” He glanced at his watch.
Finally, in the furthest corner, he spotted the familiar posture of his broad-shouldered cousin. “Excuse me.” He gave the woman a tight grin and headed toward him.
“You’re late. Hope she was worth it.”
Darcy slid into the silk-covered booth. “Shut it, and tell me you ordered me a tonic.”
“I ordered you a tonic.” Richard Fitzwilliam stroked his beard and gave him a once-over. “So, rumor has it you looked at a woman today. It’s been a while, right?”
Darcy leaned back in his chair and leveled a hard stare at his cousin.Does he have eyes in the back of his head?
“Why is it you enjoy inquiring about my love life rather than, say, my work? Or world affairs? Or the state of your stock portfolio?”
Rich laughed. “Are you denying you smiled at our lovely hostess over there?” He gestured toward the brunette standing at the dining room’s entrance. “Her name is Lila.”
Darcy rolled his eyes and reached for the glass being delivered by the server.
“Oh, fine,” Rich sighed. “I suppose that nothing amuses me more than hearing your stuffy denials in that plummy accent. Honestly, you’ve lived here for so long now, and we’ve sat through so many Yankees games, I sometimes expect to hear the nasal tones of the Bronx come out of your mouth.”
“As opposed to your refined East Hampton vowels?” Darcy smirked. It was good to see his cousin. He’d been his closest friend for years. Rich knew him as well as anyone could, but they’d spent less time together in the past year.
Darcy was weary of the ribbing about his personal life. Rich’s parents were the ones behind the leading questions and the joking asides. He hadn’t seen them since the holidays, but he’d had little patience over Christmas for the couple’s less than subtle hints and name-dropping of everyextremelyeligible,extremelyintelligent,extremelywonderful woman of their acquaintance. “A young man of good fortune, indeed,” he’d heard his aunt whispering. And that was even before the sherry had been served.
He’d never cared for such advice. His private life was private, and he rarely opened up, even to Rich. Not that he had much to talk about lately, other than an occasional torrid dream or a momentary flirtation with a woman he knew he wouldn’t meet again. And those were definitely off-limits for discussion, as was that regrettable interlude with Elizabeth Bennet. He still recalled the long-ago night when his parents, at what was by then a rare family dinner, had dissected the possible pairings at his first formal dance. Red-faced, he’d stormed out of the dining room and run to his bedroom. Ten minutes later, his mother hadknocked on the door, carrying a small covered tray. Georgiana, in pink pajamas, had toddled behind her, carrying a plastic teacup.
“Tea party!”
He looked up from his slumped position on the window seat and reached for the empty pink cup. “Thanks, Georgie.”
His mother set the tray on a table and removed the lid. She handed him a plate with a large slice of cheesecake. His eyes widened, and he sat up straighter.
“Mrs. Reynolds defrosted the last one today. I wanted to surprise you.” She sighed and pushed her hair behind her ear. “Will, I’m sorry if we embarrassed you. We got a little carried away, hmm?”
He nodded, his mouth full of cheesecake.
She sat at the other end of the window seat and gathered Georgie into her lap. “I know it’s only a dance. It’s not a wedding; it’s not even a date. It’s not a big deal in the scheme of life.” She glanced at him still devouring his rare American treat. “But it’s important to you, isn’t it?”
“A little.” His ears burned.
“I was thirteen when I went to my first big dance too.”
Georgie turned and put her hands on her mother’s cheeks. “Mama danced with Daddy?”
“No, sweets. I lived in New York then. I danced with American boys.”
“Silly boys.”
“All boys are silly at thirteen, aren’t they?” She leaned over and squeezed his knee. “Their parents usually are too. They start to realize their boys are becoming men and”—she hugged Georgie—“their little girls are becoming big girls.”
