Kissing Mr. Darcy Read online

  She laughed as if being woken up in the middle of the night was standard operating procedure. “No worries, love. I don’t live far from here. Besides, any friend of my brother’s is a friend of mine.” She beamed at me before returning her gaze to the road.

  A few minutes later, she pulled up in front of one of the many Georgian row houses not far from the center of Bath. Even at night the golden Bath stone gave off a rich, warm glow. She let us in the front door.

  “Make yourself at home,” she said with a smile. “Guest room is this way.”

  She led me down a narrow hall past a sitting room and up a flight of stairs. The floors were hardwood, stained dark and polished to within an inch of their lives. Surprisingly, the walls were white and the furniture was sleek and modern. On the first floor (second floor to Americans), she pushed open the second door on the right. The bedroom was small but cozy. The walls were the same stark white. The bedding was gray and turquoise. The black furniture had simple, ultra-modern lines.

  “Everything okay?” Pippa asked with a frown, looking around as if to find something out of place.

  “It’s just...not what I expected.”

  Her expression cleared. “Ah. You expected bright colors and boho chic.” She laughed. “Come this way. Let me show you something.”

  I followed her up another flight of stairs to the third floor. I was surprised to find it was its own little apartment. The stairs opened into a large room that was comprised of a kitchen, dining room, and living room. Up here the floors were the same hardwood, but much more distressed and not polished. The walls, what I could see of them, were a shockingly bright purple. Mostly they were covered in gorgeous swaths of fabric from India and Africa.

  A multi-colored Moroccan lamp hung above the dining table. I suspected tit and the matching chairs had once been a nice stained wood. Now the table was peacock blue, the chairs were black, and the cushions were made from the same exotic materials that hung on the wall. The kitchen cupboards were the same color as the table. Persian rugs were stacked a foot deep, and brightly colored pillows, mounded high on the large red couch, spilled over onto the floor and piled against the walls. It was eye-searingly bright, totally eclectic, and absolutely Pippa.

  “This is my place. I’d have you stay here, but I’ve only got one bedroom. I figured you’d be a lot more comfortable downstairs.”

  “Who lives down there?” I asked with a frown. “Won’t they mind a stranger in their house?”

  She laughed, her eyes dancing the same way her brother’s did when he was up to mischief. “Didn’t Kev tell you?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “He owns the building. Or, rather, we do. He gave me this flat as a birthday present. The catch was, I get to be caretaker of the flat below, which he rents out as a holiday let. Like, you know, on those house rental sites where people can rent somebody’s apartment for a week while they’re on vacation.”

  I’d heard of those sites. Even used one once or twice for beach trips. “He owns that flat? But he lives in a flat share in London.”

  She giggled. “He owns that one, too.”

  I blinked. “Then why does he have flatmates?”

  She shrugged as if she considered it normal. “Business move. He knew he couldn’t afford a place here and in London, even with the income from the rentals. Not on his own. So he got flatmates. Besides, he likes the company. Can you imagine Kev having to live on his own?” She shook her head as she wandered over to the pink ’50s style fridge. “Want something to drink? I’ve got fizzy drinks, juice, water, squash, booze?”

  I smiled. “I’ll take squash.”

  “Good choice. It’s peach.” Pippa pulled a bottle of peach-colored liquid from the fridge, filled two glasses with water, and splashed in some of the liquid. The liquid would flavor and sweeten the water. I had no idea why they called it squash. It had nothing to do with the starchy vegetable.

  “Now,” Pippa said, curling up on the couch. She patted the space next to her. “Come and tell me all about tonight. I want details.”

  Chapter 7

  “I DON’T KNOW WHETHER to laugh, cry, or punch that idiot in the crown jewels,” Pippa said when I finished telling her about my pseudo date with Will Whaite. “Men. I tell you. Can’t trust ’em one bit. But don’t worry”—she patted my knee—“you are not alone. I had a similar incident once upon a time.”

  I settled back against the couch cushions. “Oh, do tell.”

  She grinned. “Okay, so I was visiting Kev in London. He lived in Harrow at the time, not Notting Hill. That’ll be important later. Anyway, this guy asked me out. Really cute, right? He wanted to take me dancing, and I love dancing, so I’m like, why not?”

  I nodded.

  “I was especially keen when he asked me to Ministry of Sound.”

  “I’ve seen ads on telly. They do those cool remixes of pop music, right?”

  She snorted. “Right. That’s what got me in trouble. I thought that’s what they’d be playing, and it would be a fun night.”

  “It wasn’t?”

  “I’ll get there.” She smiled, lounging against a mound of colorful pillows. “I’m thinking club night. We’ll meet somewhere at nine, have a bite to eat, and then get to the club around ten, right? Wrong! He wanted to meet at midnight.”

  “That seems a bit late.”

  “Not for the MoS, apparently.” Her tone was dry. “Anyway. We met at the nearest Tube station and walked over together. Frankly, I’ve never seen so damn many people. And I swear they were all high as kites.” She frowned. “Not really my scene. We get inside and it’s packed. Like insane. And the music—!” She shuddered. “Worst thing I ever heard. Some kind of bizarre house stuff. Horrid. So we start dancing. After about an hour, I’m tired, I hate the music, I want to go home? But I knew the Tubes have stopped running for the night, and the nearest night bus doesn’t start until four in the morning.”

  “Oh, yuck. Why didn’t you take a taxi?”

  “You want to pay eighty pounds for a taxi?”

  My eyes widened as I did the math. One hundred and twenty dollars. “Yikes. I had no idea it was that much.”

  “Exactly. Total price gouging if you ask me. Anyway, at this point I’m stuck. I guess he realized I wasn’t having fun, because he kept plying me with tequila, trying to get me drunk.”

  “How’d that go?” I asked.

  She giggled. “Not well. Apparently tequila is like a dose of caffeine to the bloodstream for me. The more he gave me, the more energy I had. . It really wasn’t my scene. Worse, he kept flirting with other women, putting his hands all over them right in front of me!”

  “Bastard.”

  “Exactly.” She nodded firmly. “Pretty sure he was high, too. I thought I’d tough it out, seeing as how getting back to Kev’s would be difficult, but finally, about four in the morning, I’d had enough. The night bus was finally running. Unfortunately, it only went as far as Baker Street. The bus I needed to get home didn’t start again until eight, seeing as how it was a Sunday morning. The Tube opened at seven, so I thought I’d wait. It was freezing, and the only thing open was McDonald’s. I sat there for three and a half hours. I think the McD’s people thought I was homeless or something. A little before seven, I wandered over to the station, only to find the Tubes had delays and wouldn’t start until eight!”

  “Oh, good, grief.”

  She laughed. “Yeah, it wasn’t the greatest date.”

  “That’s the understatement of the century,” I said. “It sounds like we have a lot in common in the bad date department.”

  “We should start a club.” She laughed. “Or a twelve-step program. Let’s just say I’ve avoided online dating since then.”

  That sounded like a plan I should maybe embrace myself.

  THE NEXT MORNING PIPPA gave me a ride to the station, and I caught a morning train back to London. I found myself wishing she lived closer. She was the sort of person I could really be friends with. Bet we
’d have a hoot going out on the town together.

  The minute I got home, Kev shoved a cup of tea in my hand and pushed me down on the couch. “Tell me everything,” he ordered. So I did. “Oh, girl,” he said with an eye roll when I’d finished, “What you need is Auntie Kev to play wingman for you. No more losers. Repeat after me: no more losers.”

  “No more losers,” I said with a laugh. “It’s fine, Kev. These things happen. I’ll find my Mr. Darcy. I know I will.”

  He let out a huff. “Maybe if you stopped trying to compare real men to a fictional character, you would. Oh, idea!” His eyes brightened. “Let’s go out over the weekend. I’ll introduce you to some of my mates. We’ll go dancing. We’re sure to find you somebody with boyfriend potential. Or at least boyfriend adjacent.” He winked.

  “Okay, you’re on. But I expect good things from you.”

  He snorted. “I couldn’t possibly do worse than you have.”

  “Ouch!” I couldn’t help but laugh since he was right. “I guess we’ll see.”

  “How about a bet?” he asked with an eyebrow waggle. “Five quid says I find you a fabulous date.”

  My smiled widened. “You’re on.” Secretly, I hoped I lost the bet.

  Chapter 8

  “IS THIS SEAT TAKEN?”

  I glanced up, startled as the deep voice interrupted my thoughts. The man standing next to me was blond, tall, and gorgeous in a Viking sort of way. I glanced around, wondering why he wanted to sit next to me.

  The lecture hall was nearly full, only a few available seats left. I shrugged and moved my legs to the side so he could get by.

  He plopped down next to me with a huge grin. “Titus,” he said, offering his hand.

  “Emma.”

  We shook hands, his large one engulfing mine. He made me feel tiny and petite and sort of delicate. Granted, I was not a tall person at five foot one, and the only truly big thing about me was my boobs. Still, I was pretty sure this massive guy could bench-press me.

  He leaned closer, and I caught a whiff of his cologne. Something woodsy and manly. No surprise there. It suited him perfectly.

  “What’s your area of study?” he asked. It wasn’t a casual question. It actually seemed like he wanted to know.

  “Regency era English literature with a focus on Jane Austen and gothic romance novels,” I said, waiting for him to mock me for selecting such a useless subject. I was used to people rolling their eyes or telling me I was an idiot for not picking something more practical, like engineering or dentistry.

  “Fascinating.” He grinned, and I nearly fell over. If I’d thought he was gorgeous before, his smile was downright orgasm inducing. “I admit I like a bit of Austen myself. I think my favorite is Persuasion. You know, love conquers all eventually.”

  “I just started reading that,” I admitted. “I picked up a copy in Bath. I’m enjoying it, although my favorite is Pride and Prejudice.” It was so nice to talk to someone who actually knew Austen’s work, not just the movies.

  “Ah.” A knowing look crossed his face. “Mr. Darcy.”

  I felt a blush rise and fought it back without much luck. “Well, he is the most enduring off all Ms. Austen’s heroes. And for good reason.”

  “You like the strong, silent type?”

  “It’s not that. It’s—”

  “Good morning, everyone. Welcome to the History of Gothic Literature.” The professor stomped into the room, bellowing as she came. She was a tall, spare woman with gray-streaked, reddish hair in a severe bun on top of her head and a mouth just a little too wide for beauty. Interesting was the best word I could use to describe her. She was wearing Wellies—Wellington boots, or rubber boots as we American’s call them—that left puddles on the off-white tile floor. She shook out her umbrella, sending raindrops flying everywhere, spattering those in the front row. She leaned it against the desk, shrugged out of her black Macintosh, and faced the class with her hands on her boney hips. “Professor McGillicudy. I don’t care about your names. All I care about is if you’re sitting in those seats, you damn well better be paying attention.”

  She swung around and marched to the white board at the front of the room and started scribbling random names in blue marker. “You all should have read at least the first five chapters of The Castles of Athlin and Dunbayne by Mrs. Radcliffe circa 1789. This is an excellent example of an early Gothic novel...” She rambled on as I scrambled to take notes.

  Professor McGillicudy was a fascinating, if brusque, teacher. Her no-nonsense manner was in direct opposition to the overly dramatic material. I thoroughly enjoyed the class, though I admit I snuck more than a few glances at the delicious man sitting next to me.

  At the end of class, I fiddled around with my things, packing them away slowly, hoping Titus would talk to me again. He didn’t. He simply gave me a wide smile, wished me a good day, and went on his merry way.

  Drat the man anyway.

  “WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?” Kev asked, leaning against the wall next to me, a wine glass dangling artfully from one hand. Around us swirled a manic crowd of energy as dancers shimmied and shook to the latest samba sounds. “You’re supposed to be having fun, not moping in the corner.”

  I shrugged, feeling decidedly pouty. “No one’s asking me to dance.” It was bad enough Titus had blown me off, but now I was stuck playing wallflower.

  He snorted. “Since when has that ever stopped you? I seem to recall that at Kate’s wedding, you were front and center on the dance floor.”

  “This is different. It’s a couple’s dance.”

  “Please.” He waved one hand airily. “You can make any dance your own if you’ve got the mind to do it. And I know you got the mind, girlfriend.” He gave me a pointed look. “Now tell me what’s really wrong.”

  I sighed. “Okay, so there’s this guy at school...”

  “Already? High five!” He held up his hand, palm out, so I smacked it as expected.

  “He’s kind of perfect. Really hot. And totally into Jane Austen. Makes a point of sitting next to me in class. Oh, and he smells delicious.”

  “Sounds like you finally found Mr. Darcy.” I saw Kev manfully withholding an eye roll.

  “You’d think. Problem is he hasn’t even come close to asking me out.”

  Kev gave in and rolled his eyes. “Girl, this is the twenty-first century. You can ask the guy out, you know.”

  I shrugged. “I guess. But I’m not totally comfortable with that. I mean, aren’t guys all about the chase and whatnot? Like, if you’re too forward, they lose interest.”

  Kev almost spewed his drink. “Sweetie, this is England. There are only two ways to get an Englishman to date you: get him drunk enough to loosen up, or grow a pair and ask him first. If you wait around for him, you’re likely to end up a Miss Havisham, moldering away in your wedding dress.”

  I scowled, not liking being compared to Charles Dickens’s famous spinster. “I haven’t got a wedding dress.”

  “Don’t be cheeky. You know what I mean.”

  I did. I just wasn’t the forward sort when it came to guys. That was more Chloe’s arena. Kate’s best friend didn’t have a shy bone in her body. I’d been raised kind of old-fashioned. Guys did the asking. Girls were supposed to be ladylike or something. Besides, any Jane Austen fan knows the woman doesn’t go chasing after a man. A real Mr. Darcy would know he needed to ask me out, right?

  “Listen, sweetie. Forget the school hunk, all right? There are loads of delicious men here tonight. Look around.” Kev waved his hand like a game show host, a big grin on his face.

  He wasn’t wrong. The tiny hole-in-the-wall club was heaving, and over half the customers were of the male variety. Plenty of them were attractive, too, although most of them lounged in the corners, watching the dancers instead of asking someone to dance. I held back a laugh at the thought of how that was exactly like Mr. Darcy at the country dance.

  “Come on, girl, let’s get our boogie on,” Kev said. He tossed back th
e last of his wine, grabbed my hand, and dragged me out to the middle of the dance floor. Soon we were jiggling away, and I forgot all about Titus the Hot as I moved to the beat.

  The music shifted to something slow and sexy. I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to find myself staring at Britain’s answer to a Greek god. He wasn’t tall, maybe five foot seven or eight, but that was tall enough for me. Chiseled cheekbones and sun-streaked hair set off a pair of bedroom eyes that would make any girl whimper. I certainly did.

  “Dance with me?” His accent was faintly exotic and very not British. His full lips were quirked in a sultry smile that sent my heart racing.

  My voice suddenly stopped working. I opened and closed my mouth a couple of times before finally managing, “Uh, sure.”

  He pulled me close, and we began moving to the music, twisting and swaying in a way that was pure sex on a stick. I found myself fantasizing about other ways he could move like that. Fire shot straight to my cheeks. I prayed it was too dark in the club for him to see.

  His hand splayed low on my back, just at the curve of my butt. Heat scorched me through the thin material of my dress, and the fantasies got a little wickeder.

  Okay. A lot wickeder.

  His lips skimmed my temple. Whether purposefully or not, I couldn’t tell, but it sent a shiver of want down my spine.

  We never said a word, but when the music was over, he pulled me to the side. “What’s your name?” he asked, eyes undressing me.

  “E-Emma,” I stuttered like an idiot. Why couldn’t I be cool and calm in the face of flirtation?

  “I’d like to take you out sometime,” he said in a low husky voice. “Somewhere we can talk properly. Get to know one another.” Was it just me, or was there a double entendre in his words?

  “I’d like that,” I said, suddenly feeling awkward and shy but desperately wanting to see him again.