Mr. Darcy Broke My Heart Page 6

  “Dinner?” Not a very clever reply, but it was all I could manage at the time. Surprise—and abject fear—clogged my throat.

  “The dining hall leaves a lot to be desired,” he said, as if that were sufficient explanation for his unexpected offer. But I had actually enjoyed my meal the night before. Then again, I’d been rather distracted by my encounter with Harriet Dalrymple.

  “Aren’t we supposed to eat all our meals there?” I wondered if we were allowed “off campus.”

  “We’re all adults,” James said with a frown. “I don’t think they take attendance or expel you. Besides”—he paused to grimace—“I’ve got to get out of here before I start using words like prodigiously in normal conversation.”

  I laughed.

  “So will you go to dinner with me? I can have a taxi waiting at seven outside Tom Tower.”

  Well, I had come to Oxford for a little adventure, hadn’t I?

  “Seven o’clock,” I repeated and he nodded, but the firm set of his mouth showed he ’d never doubted my agreement. “I’ll see you then.”

  “Okay.”

  He was gone before I’d barely formed the word, striding off across the quad with a great sense of purpose. One minute he was, well, very Darcy-like, to tell the truth. Proud and haughty to the core. And the next moment he was reaching out and trying to establish a connection between us. No wonder Elizabeth Bennet had been so confused.

  No wonder I was, too.

  The Cherwell Boathouse could have been any riverside pub, a gabled building of unremarkable brick and plaster that had stood the test of time. The cab pulled to a stop outside the entrance. James slid out and then turned and offered his hand to me. I placed my fingers in his palm and wondered if anyone had ever offered to help me out of a car before. I couldn’t imagine Neil doing anything like it. And while I was as forward-thinking as any self-respecting American woman, the chivalrous gesture stirred something within me. I’d spent so much of my life taking care of other people that I never expected anyone to take care of me, even in such a small way.

  Once I was on my feet on the pavement, James didn’t release my hand but tucked it under his arm in an old-fashioned gesture and guided me toward the door. A hostess seated us outdoors on a broad terrace overlooking the river. Enormous trees arched overhead, shading us from the last of the day’s heat. I still hadn’t become accustomed to how late it stayed light.

  James ordered a bottle of wine and a starter for both of us. I did bristle a little at his preemptive choice, but there was also an appeal to having the decision taken out of my hands. Still, I wasn’t completely certain we were on a date, and so I planned to pay my own way. And my way would probably have been to choose a less expensive menu item, not to mention a budget bottle of wine.

  “It’s beautiful here,” I said, looking around at the tranquil river and the willows that hung over it in a graceful bow. If I hadn’t known better, I would never have guessed we were still in the city. “How did you find it?”

  “The porter suggested it.” The smile lines at the corners of his mouth showed me he was glad I’d approved his choice.

  I smiled too, pleased that he ’d gone to the trouble to get a recommendation and a reservation. Maybe we were on a date after all.

  “You asked the right person, then.” I gave a small, nervous laugh and then busied myself unwrapping my silverware and settling the napkin in my lap.

  The waiter arrived with the wine, and James tasted and approved it. Our starter appeared a few moments later—seared king scallop with cauliflower puree, pea jelly, and lemongrass butter. A far cry from take-out barbecue with Neil while watching a Royals game. I took one bite and thought I’d achieved heavenly bliss. If the starter was this good, I could only imagine what the rest of the meal would be like.

  We ate in silence for several minutes, lulled by the fading sunshine and the soft breeze in the trees. The tables on the terrace filled quickly, and soon we were surrounded by the soft hum of other people ’s conversation, punctuated by bursts of laughter. The clink of silverware and glassware accompanied the midsummer evensong.

  “So, Claire, have you ever wanted to do anything besides practice medicine?” James lounged in his chair, one well-manicured hand resting on the pristine white tablecloth.

  I felt a flush rise to my cheeks and tried to will it away. “Um, well, I suppose so. Doesn’t everyone fantasize about their life being different?”

  He leaned forward. “And what do you fantasize about?” He reached across the tablecloth and captured my hand in his. I was glad he’d taken hold of me. Otherwise I might have slid right out of my chair and onto the concrete terrace. I really was easy pickings.

  “What about you?” Since I couldn’t exactly answer honestly, I decided to turn the question on him. “Do you wish your life had turned out differently?”

  He paused. “As you say, doesn’t everyone?”

  A shadow crossed his face, and for the first time, it occurred to me that he might have secrets of his own. Perhaps that was part of the appeal of a summer seminar like this, so far from home and reality. People could reinvent themselves, be whoever they wanted others to see instead of who they truly were. Such deep and potentially dangerous thoughts could only lead to unwanted self-examination, so I took a hearty drink of my wine and tried to focus on the breathtakingly handsome man across from me.

  “I can’t imagine that anything about your life is less than perfect.” I tried to smile flirtatiously but probably only looked as if I was in a moderate amount of pain.

  “I’m flattered that you’ve imagined anything about me.” He squeezed my hand. “I like the sound of that.”

  To a more worldly woman, a woman with more experience with men, the words might have sounded as slick and self-serving as they were. But to me, at that point in time, they were like balm on a wound I’d never realized I had. I’d never been one to seek out flattery, which was what made me so susceptible. I’d known that most women were better looking than I was, were more successful, had more education.

  Maybe that’s why I’d ended up with Neil. He was nothing extraordinary. His very ordinariness had been his main attraction.

  And then I felt another blush rise to my cheeks, but this time the heat was from shame, not attraction. Neil deserved better. Certainly he wasn’t the most attentive of boyfriends, but he was a decent guy, patient and good-natured.

  “Have you always worked in publishing?” I said to cover my own discomfort. “It sounds very cerebral.”

  He waved his free hand in dismissal. “Pretty routine. Dreary, really. But it pays the bills.”

  So much for that line of conversation. I took another sip of water and tried again. “What’s your topic for your presentation?”

  He shrugged. “I’m not sure.”

  “You haven’t written your paper yet?” My eyes must have been bulging out in a most unattractive manner.

  “After today’s fan-girl video, I’m not too worried.”

  I had to laugh, but I also felt a little bit ashamed. Rosie and Louise were such dears, and their work had come from a deep devotion to Austen’s hero.

  “You didn’t enjoy the Mr. Darcy retrospective?” I asked in a teasing tone.

  “That’s an awful lot for an average guy to live up to,” he said before reaching to refill our wine glasses. “All that nobility. Not to mention wealth.”

  “I’m not exactly Darcy’s biggest fan, but I’ve watched my sister swoon, and I don’t think money’s the appeal.” Although with my recent change in circumstances, I could now understand Jane Austen’s concerns about personal finance more personally.

  “You don’t think it’s the money?” He half smiled and half grimaced. “You can’t separate Darcy from his wealth. He could never have forced Wickham to marry Lydia without his power and influence, or his cash.”

  I opened my mouth to refute his assertion, but then I realized that he was right. “Um…”

  “There’s no arguing with t
hat. I don’t hold it against you, though.”

  “Against me?”

  He nodded. “Not you personally. Women in general. Some things may have changed in the last two centuries, but I don’t think a woman’s wanting a man to look after her has gone completely out of style.”

  “I would never expect—”

  He stopped me by the simple expedience of placing his thumb against my lips. The gesture was both frustrating and disturbingly sensual. “I know you wouldn’t. That’s one of the reasons I asked you out.”

  “Oh.” I had no idea what to say after that. Fortunately, our entrées arrived at just that moment, and I could busy myself with the business of eating while I tried to sort through my churning thoughts and feelings.

  We were on a date. He liked that I was independent. And I quivered like a big bowl of Jell-O whenever he touched me. Beyond that, I wasn’t sure I was very coherent.

  “So who do you think will volunteer to present tomorrow?” I said, trying to steer the conversation back to a neutral subject.

  James chewed for a moment and then swallowed. “Martin, I hope. He should have something more than swooning admiration of Mr. Darcy to contribute to the conversation.”

  “I ran into him in the bookstore yesterday. He’s quite the Austen devotee.”

  James paused in the act of cutting his food and gave me a strange look. “You don’t know?” He laughed, a little too much at my expense, but he smiled too, and my heart fluttered. “Martin came to Oxford to be a visiting professor in the fall. He’s one of the world’s leading Austen scholars. I don’t know why he ’s part of our seminar, though. He must be bored to tears among such a collection of amateurs.”

  “A professor?” But he hadn’t looked bored, I thought with some surprise. In fact, of all the people in the room, he’d seemed the most delighted with Rosie and Louise’s fan video. A new knot formed in my stomach, taking up residence with all the others that had formed there since my arrival at Christ Church. At the rate they were moving in, they’d need to form a homeowner’s association before long.

  “He’s an expert? On Jane Austen?” And then it occurred to me that Martin was the very man I needed. He would know if Harriet Dalrymple’s manuscript was the real thing.

  The thought came out of nowhere just as I swallowed a bite of lemon sole. I gasped and then started coughing, pressing my napkin against my mouth to keep from spraying James with fish.

  “Are you okay?” He was out of his chair and next to mine in an instant. “Claire? What can I do?”

  His furrowed brow and the concern in his eyes made it even more difficult to breathe, but I managed. I waved my hand toward his chair and kept the napkin firmly against my lips.

  “I’m okay,” I gasped between coughing jags.

  He stepped cautiously around the table and took his seat again, but he was eyeing me as if I were a grenade that might detonate at any moment.

  “Really. I’m fine now.” My voice was weak but otherwise normal. I took a sip of water. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause a scene.”

  He looked around. “No one’s watching.” He reached across the table, and his fingers brushed mine where I was clenching the stem of the water goblet. His touch flustered me, and I could barely disguise the fact. I hoped he would attribute my flushed face to the choking incident.

  “I can usually eat a meal without requiring medical attention.”

  “But you have a doctor on call everywhere you go,” he said with a smile.

  “What?”

  “You have a doctor wherever you go.” He nodded toward me. And then I caught on. Which almost sent me into another coughing fit.

  “Um…yeah,” I said in a strangled voice. “I guess so.” My pulse leaped in my throat, and I could only pray that no one would fall to the ground in need of medical attention before we could finish our dinner and leave.

  My misery was my own fault, of course. I was on eggshells in James’s presence, since I had to be on guard not to say anything that might expose me for the liar I was. By the time we arrived back at Christ Church, I just wanted to escape to my room. The pretense of being a completely different person was far more exhausting than I could have ever imagined.

  We crossed beneath Tom Gate and came out into the bare quad.

  “Well, good night,” I said. I resisted the urge to stick out my right hand for him to shake. “Thank you for dinner. It was wonderful.” My whole body felt as stiff and fragile as the words I was saying.

  James looked at me with a curious expression. “Can I walk you to your room?”

  “Oh no. It’s four flights up for nothing.” And then I blushed like a teenager. Because of course I’d just told him that any potential good-night kiss at my door was nothing. “I mean—”

  “Are you normally this nervous, or is it just around me?” He quirked one eyebrow and smiled.

  I melted. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I haven’t done this in a long time.”

  “Done what? Stood outdoors talking to a man?” His tone was teasing but gentle. He seemed to have so many sides to him—taciturn one moment, charming the next. But which one was the real James Beaufort?

  I shook my head. “Dated. I haven’t dated in quite a while.” Which was one of the truest things I’d said all evening. Neil and I either went to one of his softball games or watched some sporting event on television. We hadn’t been out to dinner in months, and I usually ended up cooking something at my apartment and taking it with me to his house.

  “Men in Kansas City are idiots.” He lifted a hand and cupped my cheek. “We’ve got all week, Claire. Don’t worry about it.”

  Gratitude, relief, and regret swamped me. Gratitude for his understanding. Relief that he didn’t think I was a complete weirdo. And regret that I’d spurned his good-night kiss.

  “I’ll see you in the morning?” I said, half statement and half question.

  He nodded. “All Jane Austen, all the time.”

  I giggled, a sound I hadn’t made in a very long time. And before I could do or say anything else to embarrass myself, I stepped away from him. “Good night.”

  “Good night, Claire.” He was so incredibly handsome, standing there in the fading light. Not to mention my heart ache.

  An unexpected sob rose in my throat, but I turned and hurried across the quad before it could burst free.

  Whatever I was feeling at that moment, I again had only myself to blame. The thought provided no comfort at all as I raced back to my room and a long night with a guilty conscience.

  The next afternoon found me following the riverside path once more toward Harriet Dalrymple ’s cottage. I had debated going there for most of the morning during Olga’s presentation on Jane Austen’s view of the British navy and then during the cardiologist’s graphically detailed account of Jane Austen’s struggle with Addison’s disease. Both had been fairly interesting, but the appearance of Jane Austen in the flesh wouldn’t have been enough to distract me from my dilemma.

  Oddly enough, the dark looks Eleanor Gibbons kept shooting my way finally made the decision for me. If the problem was merely Harriet’s dementia, I didn’t think Eleanor would seem so upset. No, the situation was far more complicated than simply a worried daughter and an ailing mother.

  I approached Harriet’s cottage with trepidation. Perhaps she would turn me away after my abrupt and ungracious departure on Sunday. Still, I had to try. I lifted a hand to knock on the blue door, but it opened before I could make contact with the brightly painted wood.

  “Claire!” Harriet’s round face glowed, and she smiled at me as if greeting a long-lost friend. “You’ve returned.” Her eyes actually twinkled. “I thought you might, once you’d had time to think it over.”

  “I’m sorry if I was rude the other day,” I said as she waved me over the threshold and into the cottage. “It was all just rather—”

  “Overwhelming. I know. But now you’ve seen sense and we can proceed.”

  “Proceed?” W
ariness sent a quick chill down my spine.

  “With more of the manuscript. I assume that’s why you’re here. You know what they say about curiosity, my dear.”

  “Um, that it’s a leading cause of death among felines?”

  Harriet laughed, a scratchy but melodious sound, like a vinyl record that had seen better days but still retained its tune. “Well done, my dear. Well done. Now, come through to the sitting room and let me see if I can find another chunk of that manuscript for you.”

  That manuscript? Were there others? What if Harriet’s cottage held more than one undiscovered treasure? My eyes darted over objects as we made our way down the short hallway and into the sitting room. Only Harriet knew what all of the cabinets, baskets, and boxes contained, and even she might not still remember what was there.

  “Sit here again.” She patted the sofa with the broken springs. “Let me find those pages, and then I’ll make some tea. I set them aside for when you came back.”

  I perched with care on the sagging cushion nearest me. “Harriet, would you mind answering a question?”

  She was riffling through the desk at the end of the room. She looked back at me over her shoulder. “Not at all, dear. What would you like to know?”

  “You said you were left the manuscript. If it’s not too nosy, I was wondering who your benefactor was.”

  Her hands paused in the act of searching. She straightened and turned toward me.

  “Yes, yes. I suppose this is as good a time to tell you as any. Oh, there it is!” She moved across the room with amazing alacrity for a woman her age. She picked up a pile of yellowed pages from a bookshelf crammed with volumes of every shape, size, and description. “That’s the next bit I wanted you to read.”

  She crossed to the sofa and handed me the papers. Then she sat down next to me. “I wasn’t sure whether to tell you before. You seemed so agitated.”

  Agitated was an understatement, but I didn’t reply. Instead, I waited for her to speak her piece.