Mr. D is not Mr. Darcy. Mr. Darcy would not call Mrs. Darcy from his golf trip in Arizona and say, "It was 78 degrees today and last night we had steaks and drinks on a patio outside," when Mrs. Darcy is up to her armpits in children and snow and -30 degree wind chill.
Which is precisely why last night was special for me.
Under normal circumstances, a man with mutton chops and tight white breeches doesn't send my heart racing. Quite honestly, if a man wearing mutton chops and tight white breeches were to approach me, I'd reach for my pepper spray. But Mr. Colin Firth? I salivate at the sight of his mutton chops and his thick curly hair. I get all drooly when I look at his soulful, brooding dark eyes. My knees turn to orange marmalade.
No finer Valentine could be had than Mr. Darcy--strolling the grounds of his Pemberley estate, saying things like, "You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you."
I believe the charm of Mr. Darcy (dashing good looks aside for the moment) is that he loves a woman for more than just her charms and beauty. He is one of few literary heroes who loses his heart to a woman for her intelligence, wit, spirit and independence. Mr. Darcy is the thinking woman's hero.
Mr. D can stay in Arizona, basking in the sun, hitting golf balls for another week for all I care. Cups of tea from Whittard of Chelsea and Mr. Darcy will keep my homefires burning sufficiently warm.
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