Undressing Mr. Darcy (18 page)

Vanessa laughed so hard she doubled over. A few women around them giggled, too.

She took a canvas tote bag from a hook. “We’ll no doubt need a tote bag to put it all in. I can see it now:
I Bagged Mr. Darcy
in big, bold type. Or how about a door hanger? It could say
Do Not Disturb . . . Sleeping with Mr. Darcy.
Oh, my gosh. Poor Jane Austen.”

Lexi smiled. “But she brought us together again, didn’t she?”

Vanessa nodded. “Yes, she did.”

When Vanessa and Lexi turned around, they could see they had attracted a lot of attention with their goofing around, and Vanessa took advantage of the moment by announcing Julian’s
Undressing Mr. Darcy
show. She even left some postcards on the table next to a stack of lacy white garters.

But as she was announcing this, she spotted Julian standing nearby, leaning against a tree. He smiled.

Had he seen—or heard—all that?!

Lexi held up her new cami to her chest and turned, model-like, to the left and then the right, but Julian was looking at Vanessa.

“I thought you were immune to Mr. Darcy’s charms, Vanessa, but it appears you’ve put some serious thought into the merchandising of Darcy-themed undergarments.”

Vanessa felt herself blush—and it took a lot to make her blush. “It’s all part and parcel of having a client and thinking out-of-the-box for him.”

“Is it? Fascinating.”

“It’s what we do to unwind,” Lexi said.

Sherry laughed. “I really liked your idea of
I Bagged Mr. Darcy
, Vanessa.”

Vanessa looked at Julian, who raised an eyebrow.

An older woman and her friends approached Julian. “You look familiar to me. Did I see you at the last conference?”

Just as Julian was about to explain himself, the woman interrupted. “No, it was last night. I saw you on the fifth floor of the hotel dressed in a bonnet and gown.”

* * *

R
umor has it Mr. Darcy has been seen in a gown and bonnet . . . See him reveal all @ #UndressingMrDarcy 5:00 p.m. #JaneAustenFestivalLouisville

It was all in the spin. Crisis averted. Or, at least, that one was.

Julian, shirtless, and now up on stage in Louisville, had unbuttoned the side buttons on his soft leather breeches and the front panel fell open.

Just like some other women under the big tent, Vanessa wanted to untie his cravat, tear his waistcoat off, strip off his shirt, and unbutton the front panel of his breeches and peel them off—herself.

Yes, she pictured his cravat, his waistcoat, and his breeches in a crumple on her bedroom floor.

But with every stripping off of a garment, she was the one who felt that much more exposed. He had revealed for her, onstage, her hunger, her pain, and her loneliness. And soon he would be gone.

If only he were on a social networking site or even occasionally checked his e-mail. It occurred to her she’d never seduced a guy, and no guy had ever seduced her, without at least some e-tronic foreplay! Texts, e-mails, IMs, they were all weapons in the modern-day arsenal of dating and mating. What the hell was she supposed to do? Write a love letter? Swoon with a fan in her gown and gloves?

Maybe.

How the hell would you let a guy know you were hot for him in the early nineteenth century? Tell him about it face-to-face? She shuddered at the thought.

“To break in chamois breeches, and to be sure they conform to one’s body,” Julian said, “one must dampen them with water, as I have done. The point is to get them to fit like a second skin.”

Men dampened their breeches with water? Maybe she really did belong back in Regency England. She uncrossed her legs in her seat, then crossed them on the other side, and hoped it didn’t translate into a bump in the filming she was doing. She accidently nudged the tripod with her calf.

He leaned over to undo the buttons beneath his knee, and was it just her imagination, or did he have incredibly defined and expressive shoulders and biceps? As he stood up, his rippled abs, white though they were, seemed to glisten.

“Breeches were cut wider on one side, here at the top of the thigh, and higher on the other side, to accommodate the male physique in a custom known as ‘dressing to one side.’”

Sherry elbowed Vanessa, who could only reach for her phone, her lozenge-shaped panacea, and send out a message:

Breeches were cut to accommodate . . . curves . . . #Swooning @ #UndressingMrDarcy #JaneAustenFestivalLouisville

Talk about fanning the flame—she really could use a fan. And this time she really was broadcasting her feelings.

Julian beamed a smile at the audience, and he seemed to look directly at her. Or did he make everyone feel that way? Anyway, he wriggled his hips once or twice, and the women in the audience went aflutter. Then he turned to the side, strutted, and tugged at the waistline of his breeches, flashing a bit of his drawers underneath, and the audience went wild.

It certainly wasn’t Vegas. But for the nineteenth century, Vanessa felt pretty sure it was smokin’ hot. He really knew exactly how to walk the line with this intelligent but able-to-laugh crowd.

He turned around so everyone could see his taut ass as his valet unlaced his breeches in the back, and, for a split second, Vanessa could see him in tiny, tight British-flag briefs.

Had a preoccupation with him become her new, life-affirming obsession in the light of fear about her aunt?

Forget why. She wanted him.

The breeches were tight, but he pulled them off, literally, with cool British finesse and stood tall in thin, tight drawers that left little to the imagination.

The audience began to clap, but he spoke over them.

“In the summer, I would typically not wear any drawers under my breeches. These breeches in particular have a thin lining in them. But, it being early fall, I have chosen to wear drawers—also rather snug fitting.”

Vanessa took a few still shots, for PR purposes, of course.

The crowd clapped louder, cheered, and stood, and he didn’t even need to finish out his talk. He bowed and thanked the crowd, which now spilled beyond the confines of the tent.

Vanessa stood and made her way to the stage. “Thank you, Mr. Darcy, for, ahem,
exposing
us to such fascinating historical material. Rather seductive material, too, I might add,” Vanessa said as she picked up his breeches from a chair and handed them to him.

She turned to the crowd. “Please allow our Mr. Darcy to get dressed, and he will be at the table in the back signing copies of his book. Some of the proceeds from the book go directly to helping restore his Regency-era mansion. You can get in line right now if you’d like a signed copy. Make sure you follow him on all the social media sites. Thank you!”

The line soon snaked all the way around the tent, and Vanessa guessed that at least two hundred people were lined up for the book. Meanwhile, behind the dressing screen, she caught a glimpse of him yanking his breeches back on.

For a moment she felt as if she were in his bedroom and he was getting ready in the morning. Exactly what did his bedroom in his crumbling mansion look like? she wondered.

She squeezed her eyes shut and pictured him in a white room, sprawled on a bed atop a white “duvet,” as he would say, in nothing but his British flag briefs.

A ping signaled a new e-mail from Aunt Ella’s doctor. He said locking the keys in the car combined with her aunt getting lost while driving a few weeks earlier meant it was time for Vanessa to have the talk with her aunt. The talk about taking away the car keys.

She steadied herself against the chair on the stage. How long could she possibly put that talk off?

As Julian made his way to the signing table, one of the Louisville conference coordinators came up to Vanessa.

“Great job. Thank you for everything,” she said. “Your event was by far the best attended of the whole festival. I brought you and Julian a pitcher of ice water.”

The ice clinked and cracked in the glass pitcher as she handed it over along with two glasses. It sent a chill right through Vanessa.

“Thank you,” Vanessa said. “I’ll bring it to the signing table for him.”

The coordinator sighed. “Well. Last event of the festival! Hard to believe it’s almost all over.”

“Yeah, it is, isn’t it?”

C
hapter 11

T
he only thing better than picturing Julian in British-flag briefs was actually being with him on Oak Street Beach in Chicago, lying on the sand. They were steps away from the Drake Hotel, where everything had been arranged for the party, thanks to the combined efforts of Vanessa’s and Lexi’s connections. Chase, too, had helped out, and he would be there tonight.

They were also just hours away from the party and a day away from Julian’s departure. Tomorrow he would be flying on to New York for the last leg of his tour and then back to England.

She didn’t want to think of him in the hands—literally or figuratively—of another PR girl.

He had already complimented the beauty of the beach against the skyscrapers, and she’d treated him to Chicago-style pizza and a tour of the city, and they’d had conversations about art, literature, politics, and the campaign to raise more money for his estate. She’d done a very good job of sticking to her work and successfully avoiding being alone with him these last few days. She had also avoided having the car keys discussion with her aunt and, instead, asked Paul if he could take the lead in driving until she had a chance to broach the subject.

To avoid getting too close to Julian, she’d made sure not to learn his middle name or his favorite color, and she’d cut him off as soon as he started talking about his horses. She didn’t want to hear about his pets.

But the truth was, even as he sat beside her, she missed him, as if he were already gone. He had packed his leather trunks.

His hot, if rather pale, body glowed in the glare of the midday sun as he read his stack of newspapers. He wore a British blue Speedo swimsuit, gold-rimmed steampunk sunglasses with round green lenses, and—nothing else.

She wore the sexiest bikini she owned.

“Still taking care of work on your tablet?” he asked.

“No, I’m finished now, until tomorrow,” she said.

He folded his newspaper and peered onto her screen. “Hm, eBelieve? Whatever is that?”

“If you must know, it’s an online matchmaking service. They’ve provided me with quite a few interesting matches.”

“Are any of these suitors worthy?”

“They’re not really suitors—I haven’t even met them.”

“You haven’t met any of these men, yet you ‘eBelieve’ they might be interesting matches for you?”

“Yes. We share common interests, the same hobbies and life goals.”

“I see.”

She knew more about these online men than she did about Julian. “I can meet them if I want. Anytime! One in five relationships starts online, I’ll have you know.”

“Charming,” he said with a half smile.

“It’s smart,” Vanessa said. “Saves time.”

“Have you ever considered that you live a virtual half life by sifting through men on your computer? I believe in serendipity. That’s what I believe in. A chance encounter, a smile across a crowded room. I believe in chemistry that is palpable. I believe—”

“I believe we should consider putting some sunblock on,” she interrupted. He was leaving tomorrow and she didn’t want to start anything with him now. “And let’s finish up our discussion about how you can build on the momentum you’ve stirred up here with your show and your book.”

“I suppose we should finalize our business together,” he said.

“Finalize” sounded so—final.

Buff, tanned, and nearly naked beach bodies were piled up like beautiful, shimmering carnage all around them on this hot and gorgeous September afternoon. People had ditched work because it was fall and this could be the last summerlike day until May.

She pulled a tube of SPF 30 out of her bag. She handed it to him, but he refused to take it.

“No need.”

“It’s going to be awfully hard to wriggle out of those breeches in New York if your legs are sunburned.”

He watched, unabashedly, while she smoothed the lotion on her legs, including over the tattoo near her ankle, the heart wrapped in barbed wire.

He sat up. “You’re right. You do care for me, don’t you?”

He’d called her on it. What could she say? What should she say at the eleventh hour?

“Of course I care. I wouldn’t be here with you, making sure you aren’t getting sunburned, if I didn’t. I worked hard to be able to take time off to be with you right now.”

“Thank you.” He slid his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose and looked her in the eyes. “I’d like to kiss you right now.”

“To what end?”

“Must everything have an end goal? Are there results that need measuring? Does every feeling have to be backed by a mission statement?”

What could she possibly do with this man-client?

Letting it go, he picked up the tube and handed it to her. “Perhaps you would oblige?”

She stood up and then knelt behind him, her knees touching his ass, as she rubbed the sunblock on his shoulders, neck, and back. Skin-on-skin contact. It felt good; it felt right. Her mind wandered as the lotion glistened on his back and a coconut aroma filled the beach air. Maybe he was right—not everything needed to be backed by a mission statement. Maybe she could give in to her attraction to him and not expect or want a relationship.

He leaned into her hands as she slathered his rock-solid biceps then moved seductively from his prominent shoulder blades down, slowly, to the small of his back and the line of his swimsuit. She snapped his swimsuit waistband playfully, and it was as if it were the first time all summer she’d relaxed enough to want, to crave, to hunger for someone, to hunger for . . . him.

Undeniably, she was tempted to kiss him, too, or maybe even devour him, there, starting with the back of his neck, and she very nearly did so, because he tilted his head back, with his thick black hair, and turned just enough for her to see his square-cut sideburns, which she had wanted to touch ever since she’d first seen him at the airport. He even let out a slight groan and readjusted himself on his towel.

But, as her luck would have it, just at that moment, a throng of loud little boys ran up, with a spray of sand, and plopped down beside them. They were all dressed as pirates, in plastic tricorn hats and wielding plastic swords. A very tanned pirate mom with a bandanna tied around her head and wearing a slinky bustier pirate blouse and shredded black miniskirt hauled a cooler decorated to look like a pirate chest.

Pirate chest. She sure had one!

“Guys, I have some treasure here,” she shouted.

Okay, that ruined the moment. Although Vanessa stayed behind Julian, her knees had now sort of locked on his sides, and, for some reason, she couldn’t wrench her hands from his shoulders.

“Anybody want a juice box?” asked the pirate mom. “Oh, look! There’s Captain Jack Sparrow now!”

She pointed to the frothy waves, and there, as if rising out of the surf itself, like a male form of Aphrodite, Chase appeared, in his Jack Sparrow costume, doing a funny Jack Sparrow walk right toward the kids, who all squealed and ran toward him.

“Captain Jack! Jack Sparrow! Cool! Super cool!”

Chase sauntered up, with boys hanging all over him, and caught a glimpse of Vanessa with her hands on Julian.

“Why, fancy meeting you here, Elizabeth Swann,” he said to Vanessa.

One of the boys piped up. “She’s not Elizabeth Swann!”

“Perhaps not.” He raised an eyebrow at her hands on Julian’s shoulders.

She took her hands off Julian and stood. “Hello, Jack.” She couldn’t hold back a smile. Chase had to be slightly nuts.

He tipped his hat at Julian. “But her friend sure looks like Davy Jones, doesn’t he, mateys?”

“Yeah!” The boys all jumped up and down, swinging their plastic swords, as if they were readying to do some damage.

But Chase diverted the pint-sized mob. “And who’s this swashbuckling beauty?” He bowed to the pirate mom.

“That’s my mom!” one of the boys said.

“Then you, my first mate, must be the birthday boy. How old are you now? Sixteen? What are you drinking here? Rum?”

The boys laughed. The pirate mom laughed, too, and got her camera out and started taking pictures of Chase with her son.

He had a way, a way with everyone.

“He’s not sixteen!” one of the boys said.

“He’s six, Captain Jack!” said another.

“And that’s a juice box!” said another boy.

Vanessa bent down and picked up Julian’s wrist to check the time on his watch. Vanessa felt comfortable around Julian—perhaps even more comfortable since in less than twenty-four hours he’d be gone.

It gave him a certain cachet.

“Three o’clock?” she asked out loud and looked over toward Chase with her hands on her bikini hips. “Captain Jack, shouldn’t you be at work?” She smiled at the kids, then at Chase. “I—I mean at work pillaging and looking for treasure—and, you know, all those things pirates do during working hours?”

Chase laughed and initiated swordplay with the boys. “I might ask you the same. What brings you to the beach during working hours?”

“It’s Julian’s last day. He’s flying out tomorrow.”

“I see,” said Chase. He fended off the boys for a moment and leaned in toward Vanessa to whisper, “And this little birthday boy has leukemia, so that’s why I’m here.” And then in a louder voice he asked, “Savvy?”

Vanessa skipped a breath. “Yes—savvy.” Her hand fluttered up to her chest. “I had no idea. Wow.” She stepped back in the warm sand. “How cool of you.”

Now that she felt like a complete idiot, she moved her towel and sat on the opposite side of Julian.

Chase lifted the birthday boy and ran around with him, pretending to hoist him into the lake. The boy’s hat fell off, revealing a bald head with a red bandanna wrapped around it.

Julian leaned back and closed his eyes, but Vanessa couldn’t stop watching Chase, thinking how easily he added meaning, deep meaning, to his life and his work.

After a few minutes he made his way back, with kids trailing behind him. “Since it’s Mr. Darcy’s last night, why don’t you both join me for a boat ride after your aunt’s party? I have a few friends coming. Around nine o’clock? DuSable Harbor?”

“Thank you, Chase, but I don’t think—” Vanessa said just as Julian, without so much as sitting up, said, “Absolutely.”

“Good,” Chase said to Julian. “It’ll be fun.” With that he led the boys along the beach, pretending to fumble with and unfold a big treasure map.

“What did you do that for?” Vanessa asked.

“I did it for you. You’re smitten with him.”

“Really? How do you figure that?”

“It’s obvious.”

“Well, you’re way off base.” And just in case he didn’t get that baseball reference since they played cricket in England, she clarified. “You’re wrong.”

How could he not see—anything?

“Regardless, I fancy a boat ride to see the city lights.”

So that was what he wanted to see.

He sat up. “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you something. It’s something important.”

She sat up and propped herself on her locked arms, showing herself in her bikini to her best advantage—just in case.

But he looked her in the eye. “I’ve written down the perfect Jane Austen quote for you to incorporate into your speech tonight for your aunt. Remind me to give it to you at the dinner.”

“Oh. Oh, thank you.” She leaned back on her elbows.

He opened his newspaper with a distinct ruffle. “Being at the beach like this reminds me of a quote from
Pride and Prejudice
,” he continued. “It was Mrs. Bennet who said, ‘A little sea-bathing would set me up for ever.’”

Was he a method actor or something? Because he’d just switched back into his Mr. Darcy mode. It was all Vanessa could do to keep from screaming. And not in a good way, either.

* * *

T
hat evening, when Julian entered the room in his Regency best, all the ladies turned their heads, and Aunt Ella beamed when he took her by the hand and led her to the dance floor.

Vanessa had told her aunt of the party, so she wouldn’t be too surprised, and informed her just enough so she’d enjoy it and wear what she wanted to be seen in most.

Her aunt and Julian danced two slow waltzes together, even though the waltz, according to Julian, had just been introduced during the Regency and was considered very risqué due to hand-on-shoulder and hand-on-waist contact, but this only added to his appeal in the crowd.

The middle of the second waltz was Paul’s cue to cut in, which he did, and then Julian acted as if he were truly affronted. That wasn’t part of Vanessa’s direction, but it sure got a laugh from the crowd. And he really started improvising when he asked her to dance while Aunt Ella and Paul were dancing. They were supposed to have the floor all to themselves.

“No, thank you, Julian,” she said.

But he didn’t give up and, instead, kept standing at her chair, holding out his gloved hand. Her eyes darted across the room, where Chase held court with an entire table of older women, all of them laughing and smiling. He did clean up well. He had swapped his usual pirate look for a white button-down and an off-white linen suit that really showcased his tan.

“Is your dance card full?” Julian asked.

She smiled. “Hardly.”

“Go on,” said one of Aunt Ella’s friends at Vanessa’s table. The entire room was ninety percent female. She nudged Vanessa with her elbow.