Mr. Darcy soon drew the attention of the room by his fine, tall person, handsome features, noble mien and the report... of his having ten thousand a year. —Pride & Prejudice
1
Those who say money can’t buy happiness have never been to a Pemberley party.
I know; I threw one last weekend. And I’m still floating on the high of the event. Both because it was truly so much fun and also because I’m relishing all the praise I’m getting for the successful Pemberley Pumpkin Hunt. Even though I’m a relative newbie here at Bennet Parties, my boss chose me to be the team leader for our wealthiest client, the Darcy family of Pemberley Almonds, because in Priscilla’s words, “After all, you grew up on a farm.”
It doesn’t matter how many times I tell my boss that my dad was not a farmer. The fact that I’m from Iowa and occasionally wear overalls has her convinced otherwise. I’ve told Priscilla repeatedly that not everyone in the state lives on a farm. My dad happens to be a professor, and I grew up in a modest split level in a cul-de-sac.
“But you must know all about farms and pumpkin parties,” she insisted. Um, no, I didn’t. Frankly, I’d never heard of a Pumpkin Hunt until I was assigned to plan one. But I have an excellent imagination and can do a mean Google search. I jumped at the chance to plan a party on a gorgeous estate with nearly an unlimited budget. A pretty painted pumpkin from the event rests on my desk, a reminder of my success.
“Lettie!” coos Priscilla, standing in the doorway. “This just arrived for you.” She hands me a box of very bougie, locally crafted chocolates.
“Wow! Who sent these?” I greedily remove the lid. An irresistible scent of chocolate wafts up. Each perfectly sculpted piece gleams like a gem in the afternoon light. I select one garnished with salt, hoping it’s salted caramel. I take a bite. “Mmmm... ” Yes, salted caramel coats my tongue. And ooh, is that a hint of passionfruit? So delicious! I offer the box to Priscilla and Lydia, Priscilla’s daughter, who follows her mom into my turret office. Bennet Parties is housed in a refurbished Victorian. I offer one to Jane, who shares my office; she takes one but immediately lowers her curly dark locks to whatever she’s working on.
“They were sent by Liam Darcy himself,” Priscilla says in an awed tone. One might think my boss, wearing a kilt and a leather jacket, is dressing up early for Halloween. But no, this is an everyday outfit for Priscilla, whose personal style is best described as Janis Joplin meets Cyndi Lauper (this fall, she’s going with teal hair). “And he also sent this.” She waves a creamy envelope like it’s a golden ticket. “A hand-written note.” She pauses for dramatic effect. “For you.”
I take it from her and examine my name written in a flowing script across the envelope:Ms. Lettie Benson
“Open it already!” hisses Lydia. “The suspense is killing me.”
Even Jane pauses her work. I don’t get why everyone is being so weird about this. I read the note to myself. It’s just a thank you note from a client for a job well done.
“So . . . ?” asks Lydia.
“He said he appreciated my work on the party and was sorry he couldn’t be there.”
“Mr. Darcy himself requested you help plan the Pemberley Holiday Party,” says Priscilla with a significant look.
Now this, I understand. “What an honor. Are you okay with that?” I ask. In general, Priscilla handles the Pemberley company parties herself. She only passed the Pumpkin Hunt to me this year due to a family wedding.
“Of course, dear. You’ve definitely proven yourself.”
“I cannot believe your luck!” Lydia takes another chocolate. “Liam Darcy sent you chocolates!” She starts fanning herself. “He’s soooo HAWT!” Observing my bewilderment, Lydia asks, “Haven’t you seen him?”
“No, he couldn’t make the party, and I did all of the planning with his assistant, Ms. Reynolds.”
“Such a shame.” Lydia shakes her ombre pink hair. She graduated from high school four months ago but is already so much more sophisticated than I’ll ever be. “And you didn’t Google him?”
I’m not sure what the fuss is about. I had seen a photo of the CEO on Pemberley’s website, William Darcy Jr., a pleasant-looking man in his 60s. Priscilla points to my computer. “Google Liam Darcy.”
“You mean more like ogle him,” Jane says as she rolls her chair across the worn wooden floor to my side of the desk. The others huddle behind me. The screen fills with images of Liam Darcy of Pemberley Almonds. I clear my throat. Apparently, Mr. Darcy is not the kind, portly white-haired gentleman I pictured while reading his thoughtful note. I click on the first photo, a head pic of Liam Darcy in a suit. I immediately feel an uncomfortable pull of attraction. Liam Darcy is much younger than I expected. I’d guess late twenties or early thirties. He is not the man I saw before on the website. The Mr. Darcy who wrote me must be the son: William Darcy III.
He has a strong jawline, storm cloud eyes, and tousled brown hair. Also, his mouth is quite pleasant, almost pretty. Realizing that Liam Darcy is exactly my type of handsome is distressing. Sort of like seeing the perfect pair of shoes in a shop window and then noting the price. I prefer to keep my wants within reason. And this guy is the opposite of reasonable. His good looks are downright ludicrous.
He has the rugged build of an outdoorsman—a lumberjack, a mountain guide, or a Viking. Which I suppose makes sense because, even though he’s the CEO of a successful almond distribution company, he is first and foremost a farmer. I scroll down to a photo of him rowing in college at UCLA, which explains the impressive shoulders filling out his suit coat in the next image. It’s not fair that some people are not only born rich but beautiful, too.
So, this is Mr. Darcy... I take another bite of my chocolate.
***
Next time I go to the Pemberleyoffices, I put in some effort with my makeup and wear something other than overalls. In fact, I wear my cutest dress as I stroll through the light-filled lobby, keeping an eye out for tall men in expensive suits. No luck; I meet with Ms. Reynolds, the no-nonsense executive assistant dressed in a gray sweater and a matching wool skirt. As I enter her office, she views me in one severe assessing gaze, noting the extra care I’ve taken with my appearance. Ms. Reynolds doesn’t smile with her mouth, but I swear humor lights in her clear blue eyes. I’m pretty sure she knows I dressed up hoping to see her boss. I’m certain of this suspicion when she briskly mentions that Mr. Darcy will not be involved in any party planning this year. The next time I come, I don’t fuss over my outfit. Still, I keep an eye out for tall men in dark suits.
Whenever I return from a meeting at Pemberley to the shabby purple Victorian of Bennet Parties, Lydia sits on the porch steps, waiting for me. “Did you meet Mr. Hottie?” she asks.
“Nope. No sign of him.”
“Maybe next time.”
