by Teri Wilson
The slate had been wiped clean.
If only it would have been as easy to undo all the emotional destruction Markham had wrought. Perhaps then he and Elizabeth would have stood a chance.
“Mr. Darcy? Are you ready for the next class, sir?” Mr. Deas, the ring steward, cleared his throat.
Who knew how long he’d been trying to get Donovan’s attention? He really needed to get his wits about him.
Donovan nodded and tried to shake off some of the exhaustion as he made his way to the center of the ring.
He turned around and straightened his cuffs as he watched the next group of dogs make their entrances. More Scottish terriers. Good God, this wasn’t Scotland. How many of them could there be? He exhaled a tense breath and let his gaze travel down the row of jet-black dogs, one lined up right after another.
Then he was forced to do a double take as he spotted a familiar pair of legs in the background. Legs that most assuredly did not belong to a dog. Scottish terrier or otherwise.
Donovan’s breath caught in his throat. He would have recognized those legs anywhere, even before the single afternoon he’d spent caressing them, kissing them, entwining them with his own. Still, he let his gaze linger on the sun-kissed skin of Elizabeth’s calves, knees, and what he could see of her thighs beneath the flirty hem of her dress, for a prolonged moment. He was reluctant to let his eyes wander to her face, he realized as his pulse kicked up a notch. He was worried about what he would find there...sadness, anger or, worst of all, indifference?
Finally, he met her gaze.
Amid all the chaos of the show—the barking and howling of the dogs, the constant, steady hum of blow-dryers and clippers, and the fleeing glimpses of paws of all shapes and sizes, trotting alongside sensible shoes zipping from one ring to another—Donovan could sense Elizabeth’s breath catch in her throat. Heard it as if she’d been standing directly in front of him. Saw it in the subtle widening of her beautiful eyes. Felt it as keenly as he felt every beat of his own heart, every breath he took himself, as if she were still a part of him.
Because she was still a part of him. And very likely always would be.
Before he could process her bittersweet expression, he looked away. He still had a job to do, after all, and he was determined to do it properly. He directed his attention back to the Scottish terriers and sent them around together as he strode back to the middle of the ring for a better view...where he stood and looked right through the dogs. They could have been kangaroos for all the attention he paid them.
Donovan was profoundly aware of Elizabeth watching him from outside the ring, together with Sue, Jenna and Henry. What he didn’t know was what Elizabeth was doing there. Or any of them, for that matter. The only one he’d expected he might see today was Sue. Henry’s name didn’t appear anywhere on the judging schedule. Of course, if he’d shared his plans with Henry before he’d gone to America, perhaps Henry would have done the same.
Donovan cast a questioning glance at Henry, who answered with nothing more than a shrug and a slight smirk.
Wonderful.
Donovan directed his attention back to the waiting Scotties.
“I’d like to see the first dog on the table, please.” Donovan waited for the handler to arrange the Scottie in a solid stack, then ran his hands over the dog’s back.
Why is Elizabeth here?
The dog was a bit swaybacked, he noted, and congratulated himself on having his wits about him enough to make a fair assessment.
She should be back in America by now.
“Around please, and I’ll have the next dog on the table,” Donovan said to the Scottie’s handler. His external actions were in no way compatible with what was going on in his head.
He made quick work of evaluating the rest of the Scottish terriers. Once his hands were buried in wiry terrier fur, he found he was grateful for the familiar task of grading coat condition, assessing thickness of bone and discerning skeletal structure. There was a comfort to it—the routine, the knowledge that he was in his element. Because the presence of Elizabeth Scott meant that once he stepped outside the ring, he wouldn’t be anywhere near his comfort zone.
Her appearance at the show had thrown him. He’d been fully prepared to wait weeks, months, to see her next at Henry and Jenna’s wedding. They’d yet to announce the date, but whenever it was, Donovan would have at least had time to ready himself—to prepare for the ache that would hit him like a two-by-four at the sight of her.
Who was he kidding? There was no way to prepare for such an onslaught of feelings. The only way to survive it with his sanity intact was to simply put his nose to the grindstone and get through the day the best he could.
Easier said than done.
He strode over to the judge’s table to mark his pick of the Scotties in the book, wishing he could to go to Elizabeth, to speak to her, even for just a moment. Kennel Club rules forbade any interaction between judges and handlers on the day of the show until ring time. And as if seeing her for the first time since his ill-fated proposal wasn’t already the epitome of awkwardness, he was actually scheduled to judge Border terriers next.
He should have never taken the assignment. What had he been thinking?
I was thinking she’d be halfway to New York by now.
Donovan recorded the name of the winning Scottish terrier in the book with enough force to drill a hole through the paper with his pen.
Liar.
He clenched his jaw. Somewhere beneath the surface, that was not what he’d been thinking at all. Deep down, deeper than he cared to examine, he supposed he’d hoped for this. Yearned for it...not that anything would come of it.
Donovan distributed the awards to the Scottish terriers with as much fanfare as he could muster before returning to the judge’s table. He stood silently, less than twenty meters away from where Elizabeth and Sue stood waiting to show the Border terriers. Elizabeth aimed her dazzling eyes toward him once, and only once, for a split second. Just long enough to make him wonder how the hell he was going to judge her or her dog, as the steward called out, “Border terriers in the ring, please.”
Donovan cleared his throat as Elizabeth and Sue lined up, knelt and went to work posing their dogs. He’d seen the schedule and knew there were only two Border terriers entered. Two was a small entry, yet more evidence that had led him to assume Elizabeth wouldn’t be making an appearance. So much for assumptions.
Donovan stood with his arms crossed, watching, waiting.
At last Elizabeth looked up. Donovan saw a multitude of emotions in those familiar, fine eyes, along with a dash of determination. She lifted her chin a fraction, and Donovan took the gesture as an unspoken but most definite challenge.
He fixed his jaw and approached her, stopping a few feet in front of the dog at the end of her leash. He glanced at the armband wrapped around Elizabeth’s slender biceps. Number eight. The same armband number she’d worn at that first show, back in New Jersey.
Fortuitous, perhaps? Of course not. Since when did Donovan Darcy believe in fate?
“Exhibitor number eight?” He lifted an eyebrow.
“Yes?” Elizabeth’s lips quirked into a sly grin, drawing Donovan’s attention immediately.
Damn it, he’d missed those lips.
Very much so.
How dare she walk into his ring after all that had transpired, tormenting him so?
“I’d like to see your dog on the table, please.” Donovan fumed, extending his arm toward the grooming table in the center of the ring.
This is happening, he surmised.
Whether I like it or not.
* * *
Elizabeth fought to steady herself as she walked Rose to the table. She imagined she felt Donovan’s gaze from behind, roaming over her hips, her waist, the curve at the nape of her neck
...all the places he’d once kissed. Surely she was imagining things. He hadn’t looked at all pleased to see her. Surprised maybe, but not pleased.
Elizabeth was beginning to wonder if she’d misinterpreted Donovan’s generous donation to the Barclay School. Perhaps he didn’t still love her, after all. Maybe he was simply trying to get her out of the country, as far away as possible.
No, that can’t be, she told herself, although it was more of a plea than any kind of assurance.
She swallowed around the lump in her throat and steeled herself for Donovan’s approach. And suddenly he was right there beside her, and Elizabeth’s heart felt as though it would beat right out of her chest. She gripped the edge of the table in an attempt to ground herself, to keep from being swept up in his familiar, delicious scent, the dangerous air he always had about him, his Donovan-ness, as she’d come to think of it.
“Good morning, Miss Scott,” he said, his gaze glued to Rose’s muzzle.
Elizabeth tried to ignore the disappointment that sliced through her. She’d hoped he would continue calling her number eight, that they could have a repeat of their exchange at the show in New Jersey. A fresh start, of sorts.
“Good morning, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said, all business, as he checked the texture of Rose’s coat. “Welcome home.”
No response. Not even a nod.
A chill of panic ran through Elizabeth. Donovan was already making his way to the far end of the table, examining Rose’s tail set and the angulation of the stifle. Where was the banter they’d always shared at the table, even before they’d gotten to know one another? What Elizabeth would have given for a saucy recitation of the breed standard right then...
“Do you find her build to your liking?” she asked, heart thundering in anticipation, and peered up at Donovan through her lashes.
The corner of Donovan’s mouth twitched. At last, a crack in his composure. Still, he said nothing.
“What about her hips?” Elizabeth added, looking at him full-on this time. “Too slender, too wide?”
He angled his head, his gaze searching. Elizabeth bit her lip in an effort to keep it from trembling. She felt as if Donovan’s penetrating eyes could see straight into her soul, wished they could, so he would know the profound regret she felt about that night at Chadwicke. The night that had begun so perfectly and should have ended so, as well.
If only...
A glimmer of a smile flashed on Donovan’s perfect face. “I find her hips to be the perfect size. In fact, I’ve never before had my hands on such a lovely specimen. Not a single fault, disqualifying or otherwise.” He paused, and his jaw clenched. “On the contrary, she seems to be the one who’s found fault with me.”
He spun on his heel and walked away.
Elizabeth somehow found the wherewithal to lift Rose off the table and execute a suitable down-and-back. She was barely cognizant of what she was doing, had no idea if Rose even bothered to follow along or not. At the end of the down-and-back, she found Donovan was no longer watching. Elizabeth didn’t even have a chance to arrange Rose in a final stack. He’d already moved on and was examining Violet on the table, speaking politely to Sue.
Everything was going so horribly wrong.
“Can I have the dogs go round together one more time, please?” Donovan’s voice boomed from the center of the ring.
Elizabeth couldn’t bring herself to take a step. What now? Where do I go from here?
Sue nudged her from behind. “Elizabeth, move. Take a step.”
Move. Take a step.
Elizabeth moved out, clicked her tongue and prompted Rose to strut. She moved that dog around the ring like she’d never moved before. A scattering of applause even broke out ringside, right before Donovan pointed at her. “You’ll be my Best of Breed today.”
Elizabeth slowed Rose to a walk and headed toward the judge’s table, dreading this—receiving her ribbon and sash, knowing it meant her time in the ring was coming to an end.
“That’s it! You’ve done it, dear,” Sue whispered. “Rose is a Champion now.”
“Yes, she is.” Elizabeth found it difficult to swallow all of a sudden. Rose was a Champion. She’d accomplished all she’d set out to do in London. Why did the victory feel so hollow?
“Miss Scott, I present you with your Best of Breed rosette and sash.” Donovan lifted his hands. The sash was spread over his open palms, and he offered it to her.
Just as Elizabeth reached for it, Donovan gave her a wistful smile, lifted the sash and slipped it over her head.
His every gesture felt like a goodbye. Still, Elizabeth’s breath caught in her throat at his sudden nearness. When his fingertips grazed her shoulder, she went weak in the knees. And Sue’s words reverberated through her....
Move. Take a step.
She swallowed.
Tell him...just say it...you know about the Barclay School. You know it was him. You know what he did and you love him. You always have.
She licked her lips, drawing his gaze to her mouth. “Donovan, I have to tell you something. I...”
Donovan leaned toward her, and she imagined she could see hope burning in his eyes. “Yes, Miss Scott?”
“I...”
“Excuse me. Mr. Darcy? Miss Scott?” Mr. Deas stepped beside them. The ring steward shuffled from one foot to the other, and his Adam’s apple rose and fell, struggling against the collar of his shirt. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but the show secretary would like a word with you both at once.”
Elizabeth blinked. “Now?”
“Yes, he indicated it was rather urgent.” Mr. Deas shot Donovan a nervous glance. “Sir.”
“Well, then. We shall see what he wants.” Donovan took a step backward. And all the hope and possibility Elizabeth had felt only moments before withered away.
She passed Rose’s leash to Sue and fell in step behind Mr. Deas. They exited the ring in single-file order—Mr. Deas, Elizabeth, then Donovan. Jenna and Henry sent them worried glances as they passed, and a hum rose up from the crowd.
For a moment, she was back in Manhattan, about to follow Mrs. Whitestone into the school principal’s office. She didn’t know what the show secretary could possibly want with her and Donovan, but she had a definite feeling this was not good. Not good at all.
“I know the way. We certainly don’t need an escort,” Donovan snapped as he stepped up beside her.
Mr. Deas trembled like a frightened puppy. “Simply following orders, sir.”
“I’m not about to be led around like a dog on a leash. Come along, Elizabeth.” Donovan planted his hand in the small of her back and hastened their steps until the ring steward was left in their wake.
“What do you suppose this is about?” Elizabeth asked.
“I’ve a feeling. Don’t worry. As out of character as it will be for you, try not to say anything. Just let me do all the talking, okay?” Donovan looked down at her, and for an instant, things felt like they had before.
Elizabeth nodded. She wished she could stop time, keep things exactly as they were. “I still need to tell you...”
“Here we are.” Donovan gave her a tight smile as they approached the show secretary’s table. He bent down and whispered, “Remember. No talking.”
“Ah, Mr. Darcy. Miss Scott.” The show secretary—a Mr. Akins, according to the Kennel Club name tag attached to his lapel—sat with his hands folded in front of him. A classic headmaster pose, if Elizabeth had ever seen one.
Clearly, she and Donovan were in big trouble.
Donovan smoothed down the front of his jacket and adjusted his cuff links. Cool and composed, as always. Elizabeth couldn’t fathom how he did it. “You’ve got three seconds to explain what this is about. I’m supposed to be judging Jack Russell terriers at the moment.”
“Mr. Darcy.”
Mr. Akins flinched. Evidently he hadn’t expected Donovan to go on the offensive. “Sir, it has come to our attention that you and Miss Scott here are involved in an intimate relationship. As I’m sure you’re aware, such a conflict of interest is a violation of the ethics rules of the Kennel Club.”
Oh, no.
“Actually, that’s not necessarily true....” Elizabeth stammered.
Donovan turned razor-sharp eyes on her.
She closed her mouth. For once.
Donovan dragged his attention back to Akins. “First off, the nature of my relationship with Elizabeth Scott is none of your concern.”
“I’m afraid the Daily Mail has made it their concern. And that makes it hard for me to ignore.” Mr. Akins slid his gaze to Elizabeth and back to Donovan.
Elizabeth’s cheeks burned with heat. She knew all those ridiculous pictures of her and Donovan would come back to haunt her. She just knew it.
Akins adjusted his green blazer that sported the Kennel Club logo stitched neatly beside the left lapel, a move no doubt designed to remind Donovan that as show secretary, he had the backing of the entire club behind him. “Since the nature of your relationship with Miss Scott is—”
“Enough.” Donovan’s voiced echoed off the walls of the show arena. “Mr. Akins, since you seem to possess intimate knowledge of the Kennel Club’s regulations surrounding judging and ethics at Championship shows, I can only assume you are familiar with the rules outlined in Section F.1., number 30 of the current guide to show regulations.”
Elizabeth furrowed her brow as Akins’s face went blank.
“Perhaps you need a reminder?” Donovan raised his brows and waited.
“Perhaps, sir.”
“F.1., number 30 is the section of regulations that pertains to emergency judging situations. Do you have any idea what they might say?”