by Teri Wilson
Donovan was beginning to feel the danger of paying Elizabeth Scott too much attention. She attracted him more than he liked. He’d spent a great deal of effort trying to convince himself it was merely physical. That being the case, he had no idea why he’d brought her here, to the Orangery. She ought to have seen it, being a Cavalier fancier like himself. It seemed a shame for her to miss it. That was all. Someone needed to bring her here, and it may as well have been him.
She opened her eyes. They were the softest brown with hints of amber, like fine, aged brandy. “This is delicious.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
Donovan looked down at his own plate and noticed it was empty, save for a crumb here and there. That was odd. He didn’t remember eating a thing. Then again, he’d been so caught up in watching Elizabeth’s fork sliding between her lush, pillowy lips, he’d just about taken leave of his senses.
“I can see why this is one of your favorite places in London.” She smiled and licked a bit of frosting from the corner of her mouth.
Donovan had to look away. He averted his gaze to the Cavaliers stretched out in the sun, their little rib cages rising and falling in a lazy rhythm. Her ridiculous no-touching rule was driving him mad. He couldn’t fathom why. He’d spent the better part of thirty-five years not touching Elizabeth Scott, and suddenly it was all he could think about.
Touching her.
Tasting her.
He cleared his throat. Those things would come soon enough. At Chadwicke.
He smiled, thinking of how smug she’d looked when she’d turned down his invitation. And now...issuing the no-touching mandate. If she only knew.
“You look almost happy. I hardly recognize you. Perhaps it’s the atmosphere.” Elizabeth waved toward the palace rising from its garden, sumptuous and green. “It really is lovely.”
If Donovan wasn’t mistaken, Elizabeth Scott was enjoying herself. In his company, no less. This pleased him far more than it should have. “Just one of the surprises I have up my sleeve. Perhaps I’ll surprise you next when you’re least expecting it.”
Like when you turn up at my country estate.
Elizabeth angled her head toward him. “You’ve already turned out to be a bit of a surprise.”
“I have, have I? You mean since you found out I’m not sleeping with my sister, nor am I engaged to Helena Robson?” He lifted a brow and resituated the napkin in his lap. “You seem to have a keen interest in my romantic affairs.”
A frown tipped those tempting lips of hers. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
He smoothed down his tie. “I’m merely pointing out that you’re running out of things to find objectionable concerning me.”
A look of incredulity crossed her delicate features. “Hardly.”
Donovan raised a curious eyebrow.
Elizabeth clearly took the gesture as an invitation to share her thoughts on the matter. “For starters, there’s the media’s inexplicable fascination with you.”
“As I told you earlier, the media is of no consequence. I’ll not allow a bloke with a camera to run my life.”
Elizabeth dropped her glance to her lap. “We can’t all afford that luxury.”
“And?”
“And what?” Her gaze flitted back to him, making his head reel. Donovan marveled once again at the power those eyes of hers seemed to have over him.
“You cited the media, for starters. Surely there’s more.” He leaned toward her and caught a whiff of fresh soap and oranges, a combination he’d never found particularly alluring. Until now. “Elizabeth, why don’t you tell me the truth? You’ve certainly never minced words before.”
“It’s your money. You really are obscenely wealthy, aren’t you?” She turned up her nose in disgust.
“My money?” An incredulous laugh escaped him. It didn’t take a maths wiz to add up the number of women he’d encountered who were repelled by his wealth. Zero.
“Yes.” She watched him coolly, waiting.
He supposed he should have seen this coming, given all her talk at Harrods about him not having to work for a living. He’d chalked it up as a reaction to her being sacked, not an aversion to wealth itself.
He lifted a brow. “I see. You’re a snob, then.”
Her mouth dropped open, giving Donovan an unobstructed view of her pink tongue. When they got to Chadwicke, he aimed to make her use that tongue for good rather than evil.
“You’re calling me a snob?” she snapped. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous? Really? You object to me and my job and make assumptions about my character based solely on my wealth.” He shrugged, rather enjoying the way her creamy complexion was growing rosier by the second. “Yes. You, Elizabeth Scott, are a snob. You just admitted as much yourself.”
“I admitted no such thing.” She tossed her napkin, wadded into a tight, frustrated ball, on the table. “I merely said I had a problem with your pile of money, which is preposterously huge by all accounts.”
“Snobbery in its purest form. I was born rich, through no fault of my own. Your attitude is no different than if I had a problem with you simply because you were born...” He paused, choosing his next words carefully. He wanted to make a point, not provoke her to such an extent that she stabbed him with her fork. “...beautiful.”
She blinked, speechless.
“Were you expecting me to say something else?” Donovan smiled.
“In all honestly, I’ve no idea what’s going to come out of your mouth from one moment to the next.” She aimed a pointed look at him, but Donovan could see the trace of a smile on her lips. “I’ll have you know I’ve never been accused of snobbery before.”
“As I’ve never before been accused of romancing my little sister. You, my dear Elizabeth, are even worse than our friends at the Daily Mail.”
Her smile grew a bit wider. “They’re not my friends. And I’m not yours.”
In the midst of her protestation, all Donovan could think about was that photo from the paper. And the way Elizabeth had looked, lips parted, head thrown back, clearly in the throes of passion.
He leaned forward, loving the way her cheeks grew pinker the closer he got. “Keep telling yourself that. We both know better.”
She narrowed her lovely eyes at him.
Donovan ignored her glare and stared purposely at her mouth. “As I told you, I’m a man of my word. Which is the only thing keeping me from reaching across the table right now and kissing you within an inch of your life.”
He watched her struggle to catch her breath.
Satisfied—for the time being—Donovan leaned back in his chair.
The waiter returned with more hot water for Elizabeth’s tea. As he poured, Elizabeth fixed her gaze on Donovan’s and licked her lips. Slowly. Provocatively. Until Donovan began to squirm in his seat.
“Enjoying yourself?” Donovan asked, struggling to keep his ever-present composure.
“I think I am,” she said as the waiter disappeared. Finally.
Rules be damned, Donovan was struck with the sudden urge to reach across the table and graze the tips of her fingers with his own. The way her fingertips drummed on the white tablecloth seemed to beckon his touch.
Wary of an annoyed woman armed with a fork, and not altogether ready to admit either to himself or to Elizabeth that he was incapable of keeping his hands off her, Donovan fastened them firmly in his lap. “Shall I give it all away, then?”
She tilted her head. “Give what away?”
“My money, of course.” How had she put it, exactly? “The whole ‘preposterously huge’ pile of it? Since you find it so objectionable.”
“That won’t be necessary.” She laughed. The sound of it—unexpected, charming—hit him like a punch in the gut.
Donovan’
s self-control wavered. He slid his hand across the tablecloth and met her fingers with the barest of touches.
As always, her skin was warm, soft. She kept her hand perfectly still and tilted her head, as though studying him. In her eyes, Donovan saw a hint of something more than just physical attraction.
He’d known it was there all along. He’d felt it himself. More than once...with that first touch, first kiss. If he was honest with himself, it had been there the instant he’d laid eyes on Elizabeth Scott. From that very day, the sight of her had become almost painful for him. Her presence carved out an ache deep inside him. An ache he’d never felt before—the ache of possibility.
What are you doing, Donovan? This is a bad idea. The worst. She despises everything you represent. And she drives you to the brink of insanity.
The mood spoiled by a heaping dose of reality, he withdrew his hand.
And as they waited for the check, they sat with their fingertips little more than a whisper apart, the air swirling with the fresh scent of ripe oranges and unwanted affection.
17
“So, who exactly is Guy Fawkes?” Jenna frowned into her teacup, obviously not adjusting well to the change from coffee. “Some historical Englishman with a penchant for burning things?”
“Why the sudden interest in Guy Fawkes?” Elizabeth held Rose in place on the grooming table and peered intently at the dog’s face. She’d been trying for a good hour to get Rose’s wiry moustache perfectly even. Jenna’s presence wasn’t exactly helping matters. “And you know there’s a Starbucks only two blocks away, right across from the tube station. Make two sharp rights out the front door and you can’t miss it.”
Jenna sank cross-legged onto one of the garden chairs, obviously choosing to ignore the siren call of her beloved lattes. “I know. I just thought I’d stick around here for a while so we can chat.”
Elizabeth slid a pair of grooming scissors out of her pocket and took the tiniest snip possible from the left side of Rose’s fuzzy beard. “There. Finally. I think her face is even now. How does she look?”
“Exactly the same as she looked when you started.” Jenna took a sip of her tea, scrunched her face and abandoned the teacup on the garden café table.
“Gee, thanks.”
Jenna shrugged. “Come on, you know I can never tell what in the world goes on at those shows. The dogs all look beautiful. But I swear, last weekend I saw someone putting an honest-to-God wig on a poodle.”
“Really?” Elizabeth slid the scissors back into the pocket of her grooming smock. “That’s cheating. Hairpieces are against the rules.”
“You’re beginning to scare me a little.” Jenna frowned. “I tell you I saw a dog wearing a wig, and you’re worried about cheating. It was a dog with a wig. Seriously. This dog-show stuff is not normal.”
Elizabeth let out a little laugh, but also decided right then and there not to tell Jenna about Sue’s friend who had a toy fox terrier with a new set of braces on its teeth.
“So, back to Guy Fawkes. Who is this guy? And why does London go up in flames every year because of him?” Jenna eyed her teacup and pushed it a fraction farther away with a nudge of her pointer finger.
“It doesn’t go up in flames, exactly.” Finally satisfied with the state of Rose’s goatee, she switched her attention to the dog’s eyebrows. “I think it’s more of a fireworks kind of thing.”
“But didn’t you say they sometimes burn this Guy guy in effigy?” Jenna yawned.
“Guy guy?” Elizabeth quirked a brow. “Cute.”
“Thank you.”
“From what I understand, he was part of something called the Gunpowder Plot, back in 1605. He was caught red-handed with a load of gunpowder trying to blow up the House of Lords. Now the day he was caught is a big national holiday. And that holiday is this coming weekend. They call it Bonfire Weekend.” Elizabeth hoped she didn’t ask for more details. She was having enough trouble keeping it straight herself. Sue had given her a brief rundown, but she’d still felt compelled to consult Wikipedia. “But really, why the sudden interest?”
“Well, since we’re going to Chadwicke to celebrate this dubious holiday, I sort of wanted to know what it was all about.”
The silver metal comb Elizabeth had been using to tackle Rose’s eyebrows clattered to the floor. It made such a racket when it landed on the garden’s interlocking brick that Rose hopped off the grooming table and darted behind a nearby rosebush.
If Elizabeth didn’t wrestle her back onto the table soon, Rose was liable to get dirty. Not that Elizabeth could give much thought to a show coat caked with garden peat moss at the moment. She was far too busy marveling at Jenna’s casual mention of Donovan’s country estate.
How did Jenna know about Donovan’s big holiday weekend at Chadwicke? And what had she meant when she’d said “we’re going to Chadwicke”?
Who was this we?
Elizabeth stomach churned. No. Please, no. “What are you talking about?”
“Donovan’s party this weekend.” She shrugged, as if going away to a big mansion and doing something ridiculous like playing lawn tennis was an ordinary weekend occurrence. “Henry is going. He invited me and practically ordered me to bring you along.”
Rose was rolling on her back now. Getting really down and dirty in the rich, dark soil. Elizabeth hardly noticed. “And what did you say?”
“I said yes, of course. I like Henry. What else would I do?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Elizabeth’s voice grew shrill. She sounded like one of the Bridezillas at Scott Bridal who threw a fit if she broke a fingernail. “Ask me if I wanted to go, for one thing.”
“Calm down. I don’t understand why you’re upset. I assumed Donovan had already invited you. I mean, you were all over the newspaper last week with your tongues down each other’s throats.”
Jenna snickered.
Elizabeth glared.
Jenna snickered with greater enthusiasm.
“He did invite me,” Elizabeth said.
“Then what’s the problem?”
“I told him no.”
“What?” Jenna heaved out a sigh. “Good grief, why? You know, this cat-and-mouse game you two have going on is getting old.”
“Donovan Darcy isn’t exactly the sort to play games, in case you haven’t noticed.” Although what he was doing pursuing her was a mystery. He couldn’t possibly be seriously interested in her. She swallowed and allowed herself to consider the possibility just long enough for a shiver to run up her spine. Then she pushed the idea away.
“Then what’s going on with you two?”
“I honestly don’t know.” It was baffling, to say the least. Every time she made up her mind about Donovan, he did something that surprised her—something sweet. Visiting the Pet Spa at Harrods and sharing orange cake on the grounds of Kensington Palace were probably the best memories she’d have of London when she left.
And then there was the matter of the kissing. God, he was good at it. Too good, really. A man didn’t become an expert kisser like that without a lot of practice. She had trouble remembering this important fact, however, when his mouth was on hers.
“He makes me nervous,” Elizabeth said, realizing this admission was the only thing she was 100 percent sure of when it came to Donovan.
“Don’t be nervous. You’re going. I already said you were.” Jenna gave her the look...the older-sister do as I say look she used rarely but with great authority when she chose to wield it. “You’ll go away with Mr. Darcy. The two of you will set someone on fire. What’s there to be nervous about?”
Nothing...
Everything.
Elizabeth huffed out a sigh. “First off, we won’t be setting anyone on fire. In some places on Bonfire Night, Guy Fawkes is burned in effigy—straw dolls, that sort of thin
g. The actual man has been dead since the early 1600s. Setting him on fire now might be overkill.”
“I see your point. Why don’t we ever burn anyone in effigy in America?” Jenna scrunched her brow. “We don’t, do we?”
“Not that I know of. Who would we burn?” Elizabeth remembered a bonfire way back when she was in high school where they’d burned a stuffed version of the opposing team’s mascot. It never completely caught fire. In the end it was just a smoldering mess. A bit anticlimactic.
“Good question.” Jenna’s eyes lit up. “I could think of a few ex-boyfriends I wouldn’t mind burning in effigy. Couldn’t you?”
For a moment, Elizabeth was distracted by the image of a straw doll with Grant Markham’s face engulfed in flames. She had to admit the idea wasn’t without appeal. Like a cleansing of sorts.
She shook her head and reminded herself she had more important things to think about. Such as how Donovan had somehow managed to get her to Chadwicke, even after she’d point-blank refused his invitation.
He’d surprised her again, damn it.
“There’s only one man I’d like to burn in effigy at the moment,” she said absently.
Things with Donovan were about to heat up, and not in the way she was sure he had in mind.
* * *
Donovan felt the indignation rolling off Elizabeth in waves as she sat in the front seat of his Range Rover. And to be honest, he was perplexed by it. Her annoyance seemed rather extreme, even for Elizabeth.
As he pulled the vehicle onto the M40 and headed toward Derbyshire, he couldn’t help but wonder if the silent treatment she seemed to be giving him would last the duration of the ride to the country. As many times as he’d pondered the fantasy of a noiseless Elizabeth Scott, one who didn’t blurt out every thought that crossed her obstinate mind—like telling him how much she despised him even while his hands were on her breasts, for instance—the reality wasn’t quite what he’d hoped for.
It was unnerving, really.
And Donovan had a mind to end it.
“You look as though I’m escorting you to the gallows rather than a weekend in the country,” he said, still looking straight ahead.