Lizzie’s beloved Pink Poodle Slippers will have an adventure of their own! Coming this June: Included in a bundle of one each of my contemporary and Regency books, will be this lighthearted short story written to delight fans of the slippers.
Lizzie’s Pink Poodle Slippers
Almost eight months pregnant, I ached for some private time with my husband Fitzwilliam Darcy, for once baby made three; our lives would be forever changed. Cozy in a large antique armchair, I stroked my baby bump. The chair being near one of the large blown glass windows, I was able to gaze through the bubbles and warps—out over the sprawling lawns of Pemberley. The Darcy family estate was built in the 16th century, and though massive, each room possessed a comfort that could not be found in lesser manors. It was as if the very walls held happiness—at least I like to think they did.
Darcy and I had just come to Pemberley from London to await the birth of our first child. It was a relief to be away from my family—not that I didn’t love them—but they have the ability to drain my energy almost as much as the villains that darken my husband’s world.
I should mention that Darcy is the Almoner for the Knights Templar—yes, those Templars. As Almoner one of Darcy’s responsibilities is to locate and recover antiquities that were taken from the Order over the centuries. Much as I try, I cannot resist helping my husband in his odysseys, despite his wishes to the contrary. It’s a wife’s duty to protect her husband’s bottom, especially one as handsome as Darcy’s.
With our last adventure successfully concluded, and the Grand Master of the Templars seemingly satisfied, we had returned to our “flat” as Darcy modestly prefers to call our penthouse apartment, which includes an indoor park, swimming pool, and a scrambler to thwart eavesdroppers. Darcy’s private office is situated in the center of our flat at One Snyde Park, the most secure building in all of London, and only four zebra crossings away from Harrods.
“These are for you, my darling,” Darcy said, handing me a bouquet of freesia, sweet peas, and peonies.
“Did you pick these yourself?” I asked, accepting the flowers. To think I once thought him a pompous ass. Now that ass and his heart belonged to me.
“With my own two hands,” he said, smiling affectionately. He studied the bouquet. “I should have added some roses but they were a bit weary looking. Too much heat, perhaps.”
In his very considerate way, Darcy had hired an additional chef for Pemberley for the last weeks of my confinement. The cook was from Kentucky and knew the secret recipe for fried chicken. I did not have the heart to tell my husband that my cravings had changed from an intense passion for extra crispy to strawberry ice cream.
We had arrived at the estate that morning amidst a retinue which included all the special touches that came with being The Darcys: One chauffeur, two body guards, a fried chicken specialist, three dogs, and my obstetrician, Dr. Gutman. Darcy had insisted we invite the good doctor to spend the summer with us in the cool green of Derbyshire.
Surprisingly Dr. Gutman had jumped at Darcy’s invitation, following our limo in his own sedan, the renowned obstetrician brought his medical bag, whiskered arms, and soft-boiled eyes to attend the heir to the Darcy legacy. Goodness knows how much my husband paid him to take six weeks from his patients, but once Darcy makes up his mind there is no changing it. I determined to tolerate Dr. Gutman’s protectiveness, which bordered on bossiness.
I glanced down at my feet resting on the ottoman, ensconced in my pink poodle slippers. The doctor had insisted I not walk around in the slippers, as he was sure I would slip on the marble floors. He made such a fuss that I consented to use them merely as foot warmers. He could not know the pink fuzzies were my spokes-slippers; they had become my little foot-puppets that found the words I often lost when being snarky towards my darling husband.
Darcy threw me a broad, gleaming smile and then moved in closer for an exciting ear-whisper. “Shall we adjourn to our bedchamber Mrs. Darcy? I would enjoy a cuddle.”
My left poodle slipper spoke before I could respond. “We are not permitted to pad about the floors as a certain doctor thinks we might cause Lizzie to stumble.”
“We are not pleased with being confined to the ottoman,” said the right slipper teasingly.
Georgiana had gifted the sassy slippers to me, and they almost immediately became my alter ego, a way for me to indulge in playful bantering without being held personably accountable. The poodles said things I might hesitate to say. It tickled me to watch Darcy converse with them, totally losing the fact that I was their voice. I often burst into giggles while watching this international businessman carrying on a conversation with my left or right foot.
About the Pink Poodle Slippers
Occasionally life imitates art. Lizzie’s Pink Poodle Slippers made their first appearance in MISTER DARCY’S CHRISTMAS – Book Two of my Mister Darcy series comedic mysteries. They have been in most of the eight Mister Darcy books and will be back in Book Nine in early September. The feisty shoes sprung from my imagination and were not based on anything I had seen. Somewhere around the time I was writing MISTER DARCY’S TEMPLARS I thought to run a Google search for ‘Poodle Slippers’. Imagine my surprise when I found out these little darlings actually existed!
Lizzie uses the slippers to speak when she wishes to say something particularly cheeky. Darcy has come to accept that poodle-talk as part of the fun of loving Lizzie. I hope you enjoy the slipper story when it comes out in the bundle next month. It takes place immediately after Darcy’s Maltese Falcon.
With love & laugher!