Unleashing Mr. Darcy

by Teri Wilson

  “Very well, then,” Mr. Darcy said evenly. “Miss Scott, please take your dog around and then place her on the table.”

  Elizabeth gathered the end of Bliss’s show lead in her left hand. Her palm was damp with perspiration, as was the back of her neck and the area between her breasts. She could only hope no one else noticed.

  “Come on, Bliss. Let’s go.” She tried to infuse her tone with as much enthusiasm as possible.

  It wasn’t the loveliest lap Bliss had ever made, but Elizabeth could hardly blame the poor dog. She cooed and cajoled and, in general, made a fool of herself in an effort to get the Cavalier to perk up a bit. It felt like the longest trot around the ring in dog-show history.

  When it was finally over and they reached the table, Bliss’s little doggy eyebrows looked as though they were scrunched in concern. Elizabeth couldn’t resist planting a tiny kiss on her head as she scooped her up and placed her on the grooming table.

  In Elizabeth’s experience—limited as it was—most judges gave the handler time to get the dog stacked, or posed, on the table in order to show off its beauty to its best advantage. Then there were the judges who loomed impatiently over the table, reducing the more timid dogs to quivering masses of fur with their tails stuck between their legs. For obvious reasons, Elizabeth fully expected Donovan Darcy to fall into the second category. So she was more than a little surprised when he stood back and watched from a safe distance of about five feet.

  Elizabeth’s hands shook as she gently picked up each of Bliss’s feet and placed them an equal distance apart. Then she smoothed down the fur on Bliss’s back in order to draw attention to her perfect topline. All the while, she felt Mr. Darcy’s gaze on her. It burned with the force of a white-hot poker.

  Despite her desperate prayers to the contrary, her fingers refused to still themselves as he approached. Elizabeth fixed her gaze on her dog. She didn’t want to see the self-satisfied smirk that was sure to appear on Mr. Darcy’s face when he realized he’d succeeded in rattling her nerves.

  He offered his hand, palm up, to Bliss for a sniff. The Cavalier wagged her entire back end with delight. Elizabeth wished she could tell the dog to show a little self-respect.

  “Miss Scott?”

  She looked up at him, finally. “Yes?”

  “Could you show me your dog’s bite, please?” He gave her a cool smile, showcasing a charming set of dimples next to his well-formed lips.

  Shame coursed through Elizabeth when she realized that if she had a tail, it would indeed be wagging. “Of course.”

  She peeled back Bliss’s lips to display her teeth. Mr. Darcy inspected them and gave a cursory nod, and she returned her hands to Bliss’s leash. Once again, she was taken aback by his gentleness as he stroked Bliss’s coat and inspected her withers, rib spring and the set of her hips.

  Then he stood back and crossed his arms. The smile, and accompanying dimples, vanished. “Miss Scott?”

  “Yes?” Elizabeth gulped. She really wished he would stop saying her name like that. It was beginning to unnerve her. Then again, she’d asked for it.

  “Take your dog down and back, please.”

  She scooped Bliss off the table and set her back down on the carpeted floor. As she righted herself, Elizabeth realized—a tad too late—that the V-neck of her raspberry silk wrap dress gaped open when she bent over. Horrified at the thought of flashing the very proper, and equally irritable, Mr. Darcy, her hand flew to her neckline. She sneaked a sideways glance at the judge and wished the ground would open up and swallow her whole when she noticed the amused gleam in his auburn eyes.

  Oh, good God. Will this ever end?

  She made a mess of the down-and-back, rushing through it to such an extent that Bliss could hardly keep up. Elizabeth no longer cared what color ribbon they took home. She just wanted to get the whole ordeal over with.

  This weekend was supposed to be carefree, a time to finally escape the doubts and worries that kept her awake at night while Bliss snored peacefully in the crook of her elbow. It was her birthday, for goodness’ sake. Her thirtieth. How had her troubles followed her to New Jersey?

  As she crossed the ring back toward Mr. Darcy, a lump formed in her throat. Rebellious tears stung the backs of her eyes, threatening to spill over and make her humiliation complete.

  She brought Bliss to a halt about an arm’s distance away from him and waited for some sort of dismissal. He appraised her with one slightly arched brow in a way that made Elizabeth wonder if he was evaluating the dog’s appearance or her own.

  “Miss Scott.”

  Again with the name. The lump in Elizabeth’s throat prevented her from speaking, so this time she simply nodded.

  “Nice expression. Exceptionally fine eyes.” He frowned, and a whole new wave of derision followed the downturn of his mouth. “It’s a shame about the freckles, though.”

  Stunned, Elizabeth’s hand fluttered to her cheek, where a tear dampened her fingertips. She hadn’t even realized she’d begun to cry.

  2

  Donovan Darcy watched in horror as the lovely, yet clearly fragile, exhibitor’s lower lip quivered. He’d seen that kind of quiver before and recognized it as the precursor to something that horrified him even more—womanly tears.

  He hadn’t pegged the enigmatic Miss Scott as a crier. Unpredictable, yes. Wildly attractive, most definitely.

  But a crier?

  Donovan wasn’t a betting man, but if he were, he would have bet against it. The woman had rocked him on his heels with her whole I have a name outburst. And now she was standing in front of him with a tear—yes, an actual tear—making a trail down her cheek.

  Donovan waited for the inevitable disdain to settle in his gut. Or, at the very least, indifference. In his experience, feminine tears served as weapons more often than displays of heartfelt emotion. That had certainly been the case with Helena Robson each of the half-dozen times he’d refused her admittance to his bed. She’d proved as much that first time, when his genuine attempt to console her had ended with a slap to his face and the insinuation that he must be gay. He’d learned his lesson. From then on, when she’d tried to turn one of his country-house parties into some kind of romantic rendezvous, a clipped no had been his only response, followed by the slam of his bedroom door.

  Even his aunt Constance, a self-assured woman if there ever was one, had been known to shed a manipulative tear or two.

  As cold as it sounded, Donovan had become immune. Which was why he was caught completely off guard by the very sudden, very real, desire to wipe away Miss Scott’s tear with a brush of his thumb.

  He clenched his fists in case he lost his head and reached for her. “Miss Scott, are you crying?”

  “No.” She blinked furiously, but not fast enough to prevent a few more tears from spilling over.

  Donovan crossed his arms, even though they itched to wrap themselves around Miss Scott’s slender shoulders. It was as if those arms belonged to another man entirely. “Miss Scott, I recognize tears when I see them. I urge you to get ahold of yourself. There are people everywhere.”

  “I don’t care.” She lifted her chin. It wobbled with emotion.

  Donovan averted his gaze before that wobble became his undoing.

  He heaved a frustrated sigh. What in God’s name had convinced him coming all the way to America to judge this show was a good idea? He had more than enough on his plate back in England. Between acting as his sister’s guardian and running the family foundation with his aunt Constance, he barely had time to think. Not to mention that his favorite dog, his pride and joy, was about to have puppies any day. Poor Figgy was bursting at the seams. He’d been distracted beyond reason worrying about her.

  Donovan inhaled a deep breath and directed his attention back to Miss Scott. Only then did he notice the fine sprinkling o
f freckles the exact color of cinnamon across her pert nose. Realization dawned, a little too late. Miss Scott obviously thought he’d been insulting her complexion, not critiquing her dog.

  He let his gaze linger on her porcelain skin. The freckles only added to her charm, giving her the same sort of inviting quality as a pastry dusted with sugar and spice.

  Get ahold of yourself. She’s a woman, not a dessert.

  Donovan moved as slowly as he could, as if approaching a spooked polo pony, and took a step closer to her. “Miss Scott...”

  The careful approach was useless. She sniffed—rather loudly—and then rolled her eyes. “For God’s sake, would you stop saying Miss Scott?”

  He held up his hands in surrender. “Miss Scott is your name, is it not?”

  Another sniffle. “Yes, but you make it sound so formal. It can be rather intimidating.”

  He lifted his brows. “Perhaps we should go back to number eight, then?”

  He’d meant it as a joke, but the angry flush crawling up Miss Scott’s lovely face, threatening to all but obscure those delightful freckles, told him his attempt at humor had missed its mark.

  Some sort of action was most definitely in order. He’d somehow managed to lose control of his own ring in less than ten minutes.

  “Miss Scott, when I expressed my disappointment in the freckles, you do know I was referring to your dog?” He waved a hand toward her little Blenheim pup.

  She looked at the dog, and her forehead crumpled in apparent confusion. Then she ran her fingertips over her cheekbones with a featherlight touch. “Oh. Of course. I knew that.”

  Right. Donovan couldn’t resist playing with her a bit. “Did you, now?”

  “Look, can you just give us our ribbon and let us go?” There was nothing remotely playful about her tone.

  Donovan bristled. “Miss Scott,” he began.

  Her eyes flashed, switching from warm brown to fiery copper in an instant.

  “Miss Scott.” He enunciated with exaggerated slowness. She may have grown weary of hearing him say her name, but he wasn’t about to go back to calling her number eight. “You do realize that I’m the judge and you’re the exhibitor.”

  She gave an almost imperceptible nod. “I do.”

  I do.

  She sounds like a bride.

  The nonsensical thought blindsided Donovan. He railed against it, injecting more irritation into his tone than he intended. “And as a judge, I have the power to withhold a ribbon from your dog. Or, if I so choose, I could have you excused altogether.”

  She narrowed her gaze, staring daggers at him. Her slender fingers tightened around her show lead. Donovan was left with the impression of a mother bear defending her cub.

  An unexpected wave of tenderness washed over him. Miss Scott clearly loved her dog. It was a condition with which he readily identified.

  Donovan said nothing. After fixing his gaze on hers for a prolonged moment, he looked back down at her Cavalier. The little dog blinked up at him with wide, expressive eyes. She really was a nice puppy, more so upon second inspection. Freckles notwithstanding.

  Donovan turned and strode back to the judge’s table, making the proper notation in the official book. He could feel Miss Scott’s presence behind him as he surveyed the arrangement of neatly stacked ribbons at his disposal. He selected a smooth royal-blue one and offered it to her.

  A smile tipped her rosy lips.

  At last.

  Donovan had to force himself to look away from her mouth. He cleared his throat. “I’ll see you again for the Winner’s Bitch competition.” He couldn’t resist adding, “Miss Scott.”

  “Thank you.” The warmth returned to her eyes, changing them back to the pleasing shade of warm chocolate. “Mr. Darcy.”

  She smiled again, and Donovan felt his worries slowly slipping away. For the first time since he’d boarded the plane at Heathrow, all the stresses of home seemed every bit as far away as they actually were. A kind look from Miss Scott, coupled with the sound of his name coming from her sweet honey lips, was a startling balm to his troubled soul.

  * * *

  “Pardon me for asking—” Sue greeted Elizabeth with a wry smile as she exited the ring “—but what the hell was that?”

  Elizabeth made an attempt at nonchalance and shrugged. Not an easy task when every pair of eyes ringside was trained on her. The other exhibitors were openly staring at her, slack-jawed. She wanted to crawl under the bright blue carpeting and disappear, like Bliss did under the covers whenever there was a thunderstorm. “What do you mean?”

  “What do I mean? Are you seriously asking me that? After what just happened?” Sue gestured toward Mr. Darcy, waving the next group of dogs into the ring.

  Elizabeth had no idea if he was watching her or not. She couldn’t bear to venture a glance in his direction. She looked at Sue instead. The older woman appraised her with a look that was a peculiar combination of curiosity and sympathy. It hadn’t escaped her notice that the other exhibitors were slinking away as though she had the plague or something. Only Sue Barrow remained at her side.

  At that moment, Elizabeth decided she liked Sue. She liked her very much.

  “Was it that bad?” Her stomach plummeted, indicating that, yes, what had transpired in the ring had indeed been that bad.

  “I’m not sure if I would call it bad, per se.” Sue grimaced. “Although at times it looked as though you were about to slap Mr. Darcy.”

  How would she ever show her face at another dog show? “Oh, my God. What have I done? I can’t believe he didn’t excuse me after the things I said.”

  “Probably because it also looked like you wanted him to kiss you.”

  “You must have been hallucinating.”

  Sue wagged a finger at her. “You can’t fool me. I’ve been around the block a few times, dear. You don’t know whether to slap that man or kiss him silly.”

  “Ha. As if. Never in a million years.” A phrase from college English Lit ran through Elizabeth’s consciousness. “The lady doth protest too much.” Shakespeare. What a smarty-pants.

  “Okay, then. Slapping it is.” Sue nodded resolutely, but behind her glasses her eyes twinkled with humor. “Personally, I would have gone with the kiss, but to each her own.”

  “Just who are you planning on kissing?” Alan, Sue’s husband, sidled up next to them. He’d obviously given up on his war with the rubber bands. At least a half dozen of them, knotted together in a spaghetti-like mess, held his armband in place.

  “Only you, dear.” Sue gave his cheek a fond pat. “Only you.”

  Elizabeth couldn’t help but smile at their easy affection. It was a welcome diversion from the great slapping-versus-kissing debate. She extended her hand and introduced herself to Alan. “Hi, I’m Elizabeth.”

  “Cheers, Elizabeth.” Like Sue, he spoke with a British accent.

  For a fleeting moment, Elizabeth let her mind wander back to Mr. Darcy’s similar manner of speaking. When he’d first said her name, she’d loved the way it had sounded. Miss Scott. So poetic. Lyrical. Alluring, even.

  Then he’d gone and ruined it by insisting on saying it over and over again, until she’d wanted to strangle him with Bliss’s show lead.

  “Elizabeth!” Sue waved a hand in front of Elizabeth’s face. “Helloooo?”

  She snapped back to attention. “Yes?”

  “Distracted again, are we?” Sue exchanged a knowing glance with Alan. “Thinking about Mr. Darcy, no doubt? Which was it this time? Kissing or slapping?”

  “Strangulation,” Elizabeth deadpanned.

  Alan snorted with laughter.

  “Well, here’s your chance. You’re up again.” Sue wrapped an arm around Elizabeth’s shoulders and steered her once more to the gap in the white lattice fencing that
indicated the entrance to the ring.

  Somehow Elizabeth resisted the urge to turn tail and run all the way back to Manhattan. Perhaps it was the thought of all the cardboard boxes that awaited her there, ready to be filled with her personal belongings, that gave her the resilience to walk back into Mr. Darcy’s ring. She had barely been able to afford her rent back when she’d had a paycheck. As much as it grieved her to admit it, her days in the fourth-floor walk-up were numbered.

  Facing Mr. Darcy again didn’t seem so painful when compared to the prospect of moving back home with her parents. The mere thought of it made her shudder with dread. Literally.

  So she relaxed her shoulders under the pressure of Sue’s grip, gave Bliss’s leash a gentle tug and crossed the threshold back into Mr. Darcy’s territory.

  She lined up behind the winners of the other classes of the Winner’s Bitch competition. Since Bliss was only a puppy, her chances of winning against the more mature dogs would have been slim under any judge. Given Mr. Darcy’s apparent prejudice against freckles, Elizabeth knew they didn’t have a prayer. Bliss had a few chestnut spots, which Elizabeth had always found adorable, right next to her little black nose. Of course, hers wasn’t exactly an unbiased opinion. She had her own smattering of freckles across her cheekbones.

  She scrunched her face and tried to pretend they weren’t there. She knew Mr. Darcy was judging Bliss’s appearance, not her own. He’d cleared up that humiliating misunderstanding.

  But something about the way he looked at her just did her in. Every time he turned his penetrating gaze in her direction, it was all she could do to remember her own name.

  “Miss Scott.”

  Oh, God. Here we go again.

  Well, one thing was certain. She’d never forget her name so long as Mr. Darcy kept repeating it like that.

  She steeled herself and looked away from Bliss, straight into his eyes. “Mr. Darcy.”

  He smiled when she said his name. As infuriating as she’d found him before, she still wouldn’t have believed he could become more handsome. But the smile took his breathtaking good looks to a whole new level.