She didn’t have to guess at the topic of conversation.
At least Jane seemed to be having a great time. Since Brendan first joined her and Caroline on the dance floor, he hadn’t moved more than two feet out of her orbit. Not to dance with anyone else, talk with anyone else, or notice anyone else. Elizabeth would almost resent her for it if she didn’t seem so happy.
Kitty laid her head down on her arms. “When can we leave?” she slurred. “I want to go home.”
Mary snuffled and rolled onto her side.
“We leave whenever Mother wants to,” Elizabeth replied.
Kitty groaned. Jade in any social situation was risky, but a captive audience was the most dangerous of all. She’d be happy to stay until threat of forcible removal.
Elizabeth pushed a glass of water towards her sister. “Drink it all,” she said. “I’m watching you.”
Kitty whined, taking enough of a sip to wet her lips.
“Drink it,” Elizabeth repeated.
Feedback screeched over the AV system, followed by a chorus of loud screams and hoots. Plucky, sensitive strings and piano wailed with feedback through the speakers in a melancholy introduction. A wet, heavy breath sounded into the microphone as the singer waited for their cue. Elizabeth could only watch, open-mouthed and horrified, as her mother stumbled through the first few lines of the song.
An off-rhythm clap sounded as she strained for the notes, voice cracking. Teresa Teng, she was not.
On the floor, Jane didn’t notice. She and Brendan only had eyes—and hands and attention—for each other.
With great effort, Brendan managed to tear himself away, whispering something against the shell of Jane’s ear before drifting towards the direction of his own table.
Elizabeth had to hand it to him. The man knew how to exploit an opportunity.
Jane slowly fluttered back to their table. “Oh, LB,” Jane breathed. “He’s so . . . nice.”
“Yeah, I bet,” Elizabeth replied.
“You should dance,” Jane said. “I can take over the table.”
Elizabeth waved around the room. “Dance with who?” she said. “Somebody’s gropey uncle? Besides, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Kitty’s passed out, Lydia’s probably sick in the bathroom, and Mother’s doing her best Vegas act over there.”
On cue, Jade screeched a note too close into the microphone, nearly blowing out the speakers.
Jane slicked Kitty’s damp hair away from her face. “Poor Kitty.”
“Don’t feel bad for her,” Elizabeth said. “She drank too much.”
Kitty answered with a flat snore.
“Okay, I’ll check on Lydia,” she said. “You stay here and make sure they’re okay.”
Elizabeth saluted.
After a close standoff, the DJ managed to reclaim control of his own booth, spinning songs for the handful of couples who had the tolerance to remain standing. Anything to keep more over-fifties from doing karaoke. Elizabeth forced another sip of water down Kitty’s throat and scanned the room for her mother. She caught Brendan’s eye instead, his arms gesturing broad shapes in the air as he shared a story with someone sitting at his table.
When he saw her, he waved.
He would be the type to take care of someone who drank too much, she supposed—until the friend in question turned and stared back in her direction, looking stone-cold sober. This man did not wave. He didn’t smile. He surveyed their table like a substitute teacher bracing for a field trip. He was blessed with good looks—a broad forehead, carved cheekbones, and a narrow nose that tapered down to the angular point of his chin, which he spoiled with a sulky mouth and an expression that looked both frumpy and constipated. If he claimed he’d had a good time at all in the last few hours, she would have asked for proof. Like Brendan, he wore a tailored, expensive-looking black suit set off with plain cuff links and a paisley pocket square. His dark hair had been combed flat, and a hint of shadow lined his jaw. An elegant pair of thin gold-rimmed glasses finished the look. Nothing about him looked out of place. Distinguished, some might have called him. Prissy, Elizabeth thought.
“Darcy,” Brendan howled, clapping him on the shoulder.
So this was Darcy.
She shifted her chair back, the better to hear them with.
“You look like a fucking asshole,” Brendan said, laughing. With a thick British accent, he boomed, “This is supposed to be a happy occasion.”
Elizabeth draped her arm against the back of a neighboring seat and tried not to look like she was listening.
Darcy scoffed. “It’s not my wedding,” he said. He spoke like she expected—voice honeyed with money, if cut with a buzz of mild offense. His accent sounded more genuinely English than Caroline’s. Though condescending, unlike Brendan’s. She supposed he was used to giving orders—and only giving them once. “I sat through the ceremony, we were introduced to their parents, we’ve been here for hours, and now I think I’ve fulfilled my side of the obligation.”
Reaching for a glass from the table, Brendan shoved it into Darcy’s hand. “Obligation! Have a drink, dick.”
Darcy glanced at it with distaste and set it down. “You don’t even know where that’s been.”
“Would you try and have a good time?” he replied. “It’s a party. Have a dance, la.”
He sniffed. “There’s no one to dance with,” came the answer.
“That’s why people make introductions,” Brendan said. “That’s why aunties exist.”
Darcy laughed. “Is that what you are?”
“You know Jade Chen?”
“The woman who’s been announcing our deal details every hour on the hour?” he said. “I think I’ve overheard her once or twice, yes.”
Brendan pushed at his shoulder. “Her family’s here and they’re nice,” he said. “Friendly. Welcoming. Hospitable. Something you might try to be.”
“You sound like one of the aunties you hate.”
“Come on,” he said. Turning towards Elizabeth’s table, Brendan brightened. “Look, Elizabeth’s over there, and I’m sure she’d love to get another dance in or talk about, I don’t know, REITs or something.”
“There’s a woman who wants to talk about REITs at a wedding, and you’re pulling me aside?” he said. This time, when he turned, he scanned her face, her outfit, and her snoring, drooling sisters comatose at the table.
She refused to look away first, but her cheeks warmed as if they had caught her listening.
Maybe they had.
She raised a hand to wave, but he had already turned back to Brendan with a brusque shake of the head. “Is that the one you were telling me about?”
“Yeah, boss,” he said. “Let me introduce you since you’re so hard up.”
Darcy raised a hand. “Absolutely not.”
“Oh, come on!” he protested. “You didn’t even meet the girl.”
“It’s been a long night, and the last thing I want or need right now is some middle-of-the-road elevator pitch from a girl who’s drunk, single, and has nothing better to do at a wedding than to enlighten you with her state-school, intro-poli-sci ideas about how we should do our jobs. No, thank you.”