Dating Mr. Darcy - Kate O'Keeffe Page 0,58
if I ever see a bus or a plane again.”
“Tell me about it. I had Shelby snoring next to me half the flight, and the other half she kept talking about how she and Sebastian are made for one another. It got old super fast.”
“Did she warn you away from him?” Kennedy asks.
“She told me that it didn’t matter if he showed me any ‘special attention,’ as she called it, because she is his destiny.” I use air quotes.
She raises her eyebrows. “Special attention, huh? Like kissing your face off?”
“What? No!” I protest, although I’m sure the color in my cheeks gives me away.
“Are you telling me that if you were presented with the opportunity to kiss our wonderful Mr. Darcy, you would turn him down?”
Heck no. I’d be on that in a flash. I don’t say it. I’m still fighting these new feelings I’ve got for him—feelings that aren’t reciprocated, no matter how much he might tell me he likes having me around. Instead, I reply, “I don’t know. You?”
She bats me lightly on the arm. “Hey! Stop deflecting, girl. Would you kiss him if you were given the chance?”
Camille’s face pops up over the back of the seat in front of us. “I bet she already has.”
Great. That’s all I need: Camille weighing in with her two cents’ worth, only in her case it’s a dollar’s worth, thanks to her family’s wealth.
“What makes you say that?” Kennedy asks as I glare at Camille.
“Haven’t you noticed the way she’s always making googly eyes at him, like he’s her favorite flavor of ice cream?”
“I do not!”
“Yeah. You do. I bet you follow him around like a love-sick puppy.”
“Camille, you’re just jealous because Sebastian obviously likes my girl here, that’s all,” Kennedy says.
“You see, that’s where you’ve got it wrong,” Camille replies. “A man like Sebastian, with all his wealth, fine breeding, and sophistication would never go for someone like her.” Camille shoots me a look that tells me the mere idea is beyond disgusting to her.
“I suppose he’d prefer someone like you. Right, Camille?” Kennedy replies.
“Naturally,” she replies with a lift of her skinny shoulder. “We’re from similar worlds, you know. We understand each other. Sebastian and I are sympatico.”
Kennedy rolls her eyes. “Sympatico? More like psycho.”
I try not to scoff, but I’m pretty sure I fail. “You’re trying to tell us you’re an English aristocrat now, Camille? Because I’ve got news for you. You’re not.”
“Sticks and stones, girls. Sticks and stones. We’ll all see who comes out on top soon enough, and I can tell you one thing for sure: it won’t be ‘your girl,’ Kennedy.”
“I guess we will see, Camille,” I reply with as sweet a smile as I can manage, which is to say it probably resembles more of a scowl.
Deciding her work is done, with a flick of her hair, Camille turns her back on us and disappears behind the seat.
“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: She is just lovely,” I mumble, and Kennedy and I both burst into snorting giggles as we try to keep our voices down. No one wants to poke the Camille beast twice in one day.
A few miles later, the bus slows and turns off the charming country road we’ve been traveling down, with its rolling green fields and quaint stone fences, into a long tree-lined driveway. We pass by two tall pillars flanking the entranceway and I read the word “Martinston” on a brass metal plate.
“Oh, my God,” I say. “We’re here.”
Kennedy leans over me to get a better view. “Seriously? Is he the frigging king of England?”
The coach crunches along the gravel driveway, under a line of old trees that form an archway over our heads. Surrounding the driveway are fields of lush, green grass, speckled with cows and sheep. And then, after what feels like minutes, the house comes into view.
It takes my breath away.
It’s magnificent. There’s no other word for it. Three-stories tall, the huge building with its turrets and long windows towers over gardens leading to a gorgeous pond. I’ve got no clue about architectural styles, but I can tell it’s old, maybe a few hundred years. Just the sight of it transports me back to a time of horse-drawn carriages and ladies and gentlemen playing croquet on the lawn. It’s elegant and whimsical and looks like ... well, it looks like Mr. Darcy lives here. Which is quite appropriate, really, considering he does.
I stare out of the window at the house, utterly