It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single woman teetering on the verge of thirty must be in want of a husband.

Not true for Manhattanite Elizabeth Scott. Instead of planning a walk down the aisle, she’s crossing the pond with the only companion she needs—her darling dog, Bliss. Caring for a pack of show dogs in England seems the perfect distraction from the scandal that ruined her teaching career, and her reputation, in New York. What she doesn’t count on is an unstoppable attraction to billionaire dog breeder Donovan Darcy. The London tycoon’s a little bit arrogant, a whole lot sexy…and the chemistry between them is disarming. When passion is finally unleashed, might Elizabeth hope to take home more than a blue ribbon?

Unleashing Mr. Darcy

Teri Wilson

www.mirabooks.co.uk

For Mr Darcy lovers everywhere

With special thanks to my family,

Elizabeth Winick Rubinstein, super-agent,

Rachel Burkot, Tara Parsons and Susan Swinwood

at Harlequin,

fellow writers Beckie Ugolini, Meg Benjamin,

and Rachel Brimble,

Sue Baxter and the Baxter Borders,

the very real Bliss and Finn,

and the illustrious Jane Austen, to whom

I owe a debt of gratitude.

TERI WILSON grew up as an only child and could often be found with her head in a book, lost in a world of romance and exotic places. As an adult, her love of books has led her to her dream career—writing. Now an award-winning romance author, when Teri isn’t travelling or writing, she enjoys ballet, knitting and having fun with friends, family and her dogs, Bliss and Finn, both cavalier King Charles spaniels. Teri lives in San Antonio, Texas and loves to hear from readers! Visit her website www.teriwilson.net.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

1

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single woman teetering on the verge of thirty is in want of a husband. Miss Elizabeth Scott, age twenty-nine years and three hundred sixty-four days, was a notable exception to this rule. Pressure from her mother notwithstanding, Elizabeth was quite content with her single status. More so in recent weeks, perhaps, than ever before. There was something about capturing the unwanted attention of a very powerful, very married man who couldn’t take no for an answer that made her appreciate the unconditional love of her dog in an entirely new way.

Dogs were loyal.

Dogs didn’t get people fired.

Dogs understood the word no.

Which was why spending her birthday weekend at a dog show off the Jersey Turnpike seemed like a little slice of heaven. Was there a better way to forget that her life was virtually falling apart at the seams than to spend two pleasurable days grooming her Cavalier King Charles spaniel to perfection and winning a handful of shiny satin ribbons?

No.

Elizabeth would consider it the perfect weekend, even without the ribbons. She smiled at Bliss, who blinked up at her with wide, melting eyes from her position on the grooming table. Bliss stood on her hind legs, craned her neck and swiped Elizabeth’s cheek with a puppy kiss. She loved the dog, almost too much. Definitely too much, according to her sister Jenna.

“Do you know what this reminds me of?” Jenna nodded toward Bliss and smirked. “That big Barbie head you got for Christmas when you were nine. Remember? She had the hair that you could set in rollers and that gaudy blue eye shadow.”

“Of course I remember.” Elizabeth spritzed Bliss’s ears with volumizing spray. “LuLu.”

“Oh, good grief. I forgot you named it that.” Jenna took a giant swig of her Starbucks and shook her head. “Who renames Barbie?”

“I do.” Elizabeth eyed the latte with envy. Starbucks was exactly the type of guilty pleasure unemployed teachers—even temporarily unemployed ones like herself—couldn’t afford. So were dog-show entry fees, for that matter. She planned on making this one count.

“Seriously. It’s basically the same thing. The brushing, the blow-drying.” Jenna picked up a pair of thinning shears and examined them until Elizabeth plucked them from her fingers. Those thinning shears had cost her two full days’ pay.

Back when she was employed.

You’re still employed. It’s only a one-week suspension. Think of it as a vacation, albeit a forced vacation that you can in no way afford.

Elizabeth took a deep breath, wielded the shears over the top of Bliss’s head and snipped away a few wisps of downy puppy fuzz. She drew back to take a final look. “Perfect.”

Bliss yipped in agreement, and Jenna rolled her eyes. “You should have been a hairdresser, sis, instead of a teacher. I’m afraid you chose the wrong profession.”

No sooner had the words left her mouth than she bit her lip to silence herself. “I’m so sorry. Poor choice of words.”

Elizabeth pasted on a smile. “Forget it.”

A look of chagrin crossed Jenna’s features. At least Elizabeth hoped it was chagrin and not pity. “I’m an idiot. Don’t pay any attention to me. You’re a great teacher. The best. This whole ‘administrative leave’ thing is temporary. You’ll have your job back before you know it. I’m an idiot, and that Grant Markham is a dog.”

“Don’t say that.” Elizabeth pulled the grooming smock over her head and smoothed down the front of her dress. “It’s an insult to dogs.”

“Right.” Jenna winced. “I want to make it up to you. How about a latte? My treat, birthday girl.”

Elizabeth slid Bliss’s show lead around her neck. If Jenna left now for Starbucks, she’d miss seeing Bliss in the ring. Not that Jenna would really mind. She didn’t much care for dog shows. Elizabeth knew she’d only come because she was worried about her sister spending her birthday weekend alone. Trying to explain that she wasn’t alone—she had Bliss, after all—had only made her more determined.

Sweet Jenna. Always the protective older sister.

“That would be great.” Elizabeth tucked Bliss under her arm. “Pumpkin Spice. Skinny.”

“I’m ordering it with whip. It’s your birthday. Live a little.” Jenna slung her purse over her shoulder and grinned as she disappeared through the maze of camping chairs and portable tables in the crowded grooming area of the dog show.

Elizabeth gave Bliss a little squeeze. “Just you and me, girl. Are you ready? It’s showtime.”

The area ringside was abuzz with nervous energy, even more so than usual. Bliss was Elizabeth’s first show dog and, at nine months old, very much a puppy. They were perfectly matched in their inexperience, so butterflies were still an unquestionable fact of life. Ordinarily, the other handlers seemed to take everything in stride. Today, however, everyone was wide-eyed with concern and clustered in groups of two or three.

An eerie silence had fallen over the area around ring 5. Even the dogs had stopped barking.

Elizabeth tightened her grip on Bliss and sidled up next to one of the small groups of exhibitors who were busy whispering and furrowing their brows. “What’s going on?”

“There’s been a judging change.” A round-faced woman with a mass of blond curls wound the length of her tricolor Cavalier’s show lead around her fingers until her fingertips turned white.

“A judging change?” Elizabeth’s gaze darted to the ring, but it was empty.

“Yes. Some visiting judge we’ve never heard of before.”

Another of the exhibitors nodded and murmured behind her hand. “Rumor has it he’s from England.”

Elizabeth couldn’t help but smile. Why were they whispering? The judge, whoever he was, wasn’t even there yet. For once she was relieved to be the new kid on the block. She wasn’t familiar enough with the judges to care one way or another if there was a judging change.

Simple curiosity propelled her to the giant white clipboard posted at the steward’s table beside the entrance to the ring. She glanced at the top of the board, where the scheduled judge’s name had been marked through with a bold, black line. Directly beneath it, simple block letters spelled out the name of the replacement.

Mr. Donovan Darcy.

Elizabeth lifted a brow.

Donovan Darcy. What kind of name is that?

A rich one, by the sound of it.

Plumbers and auto mechanics didn’t name their kids Donovan. Elizabeth had worked at one of the most prestigious private schools in Manhattan long enough to learn a thing or two about blue bloods. Thus she knew good and well that a man named Donovan Darcy wouldn’t have dirt under his fingernails.

She scrunched her face in disgust. Grant Markham had finely manicured hands, but that didn’t make him any less dirty.

“Donovan Darcy” came a clipped British whisper over her shoulder. “Aren’t we lucky?”

Elizabeth turned around to find the voice belonged to an older woman decked out in a matching tweed skirt and jacket. Rather than leading a dog around on a leash, she pushed a stack of four crates on wheels. Scruffy terrier faces peered out from the wire doors. The kind smile that reached all the way to the woman’s eyes told Elizabeth her comment was sincere.

She smiled back. “Lucky? How so?”

“He’s a breeder judge. His dogs are legendary. Haven’t you heard of Chadwicke Kennels? The big country estate out in Derbyshire?” She didn’t wait for an answer, just shook her head and made a few clucking noises before continuing. “What am I thinking? Of course you haven’t. This is America. I keep forgetting.”

Elizabeth could only laugh. “You keep forgetting?”

“Yes.” She waved a hand toward a red-faced man organizing a stack of armbands at a grooming table. “My husband’s company expanded last year. For fourteen months now we’ve been flitting back and forth between home and America. I’m afraid it’s beginning to wear me down. Sometimes I forget where I am entirely.”

“I hate to break it to you, but you’re in New Jersey.” Elizabeth offered her hand. “I’m Elizabeth.”

“Sue. Sue Barrow.” She nodded toward her husband, still at the grooming table, huffing and puffing while struggling with a wad of rubber bands. “And that’s my dear Alan. Poor thing. He’s not terribly fond of dog shows.”

Elizabeth nodded her understanding. Alan looked about as thrilled to be there as Jenna had before she’d made her escape to Starbucks.

She swiveled her gaze back to the posted judging schedule. “So, what were you saying about this mysterious Mr. Darcy?”

“Oh, yes.” A faint flush rose to Sue’s cheeks. “He’s wonderful. His kennel has excellent bloodlines.”

For some reason, Elizabeth doubted that rosy glow had much to do with his kennel’s bloodlines. “What kind of dogs does he breed? Terriers?”

Sue’s flush intensified. She fanned herself with a copy of the show catalog. “He’s here.”

A tall gentleman with a ramrod-straight spine strode past them and into the ring. His presence brought with it a flutter to Elizabeth’s heart. She tightened her grip on Bliss’s leash and tried to tell herself it was a simple case of preshow jitters. Bliss looked up at her with a crease in her furry brow. Even the dog seemed to know Elizabeth was kidding herself.

Mr. Darcy was handsome. Sweaty-palms, forget-how-to-breathe handsome. Apparently, his dogs weren’t the only genetic-lottery winners.

Elizabeth made an attempt to take a deep, calming breath and willed herself not to look at his intense, dark eyes or his broad shoulders, shown off to perfection with the tailored cut of his suit jacket. It wasn’t easy. Everything about the man was captivating. Noble, even. Which, when she thought about it, really should have disgusted her. She’d been right, after all. Mr. Darcy was clearly wealthy. What kind of person jetted all over the globe to judge dog shows?

Good grief. He was rich, imposing and handsome enough to cause heart palpitations. Next to Elizabeth, Sue’s fanning arm had gone into overdrive.

Life just wasn’t fair.

Of course, Elizabeth had learned that lesson long ago. And, just in case it slipped her mind, the recent Markham incident had served as a painful reminder.

“You’re up,” Sue whispered.

The comment barely registered in Elizabeth’s consciousness. She blinked. Somehow she was once again staring at Mr. Darcy. She must have also been hallucinating because he seemed to be staring back at her. All the breath whooshed out of her lungs. His intensity was almost crippling when it was aimed directly toward her, even though it was only in her imagination.

“Elizabeth,” Sue hissed. “You’re up.”

The older woman gave her a shove, and she stumbled forward. Bliss let out a little yip as Elizabeth tripped over her and slammed into Mr. Darcy’s impressive chest. It seemed he’d not only actually been staring at her, but he’d also taken several steps in her direction.

Horrified, Elizabeth backed up. “I’m so sorry, Your Honor. I mean, sir...um, Mr. Darcy.” Too mortified to look him in the eye, she aimed the words at his tie. It was royal-blue, by all appearances silk, and likely cost more than Elizabeth’s entire ensemble. Shoes included.

The tie rose and fell with his irritated sigh. “Cavalier King Charles spaniel puppy number eight?”

“Yes, that’s us.”

“The steward has been calling you for two full minutes. Is something preventing you from entering the ring?”

Your exquisite bone structure? “No. I’m sorry. I was a bit...distracted.”

“Would you care to enter the ring now, or do you require an engraved invitation?” His smooth voice and the beauty of his British accent did little to soften the blow of his sarcasm.

Once she got over the initial shock, Elizabeth was almost grateful for his rudeness. At least he was no longer perfect. He was a man, just like any other.

She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. Even then she almost had to crane her neck to look him in the eye. A wasted effort, since he appeared to look right through her.

“That won’t be necessary,” she whispered.

“Then by all means...” He waved her through the white lattice ring gates with a flourish.

Elizabeth’s cheeks burned. The other judges she’d encountered since she’d begun showing Bliss had all been friendly. Or civil, at the very least. With only three strides of his long legs, Mr. Darcy was halfway across the ring. Even at that distance, Elizabeth could still feel the frosty chill emanating from his every pore.

What is his problem?

All she could reason was that, unlike Sue, Mr. Darcy was fully cognizant that he was in New Jersey rather than his posh country estate in England. And he appeared none too pleased with this realization.

“Number eight?” From his place in the center of the ring, Mr. Darcy tapped his foot. Bliss watched it with rapt attention. “If it’s not a bother...that is, if you aren’t too distracted, could you take your dog around the ring?”

Elizabeth wasn’t sure what happened in the next instant, other than that she’d finally reached her breaking point. After all she’d been through, she couldn’t tolerate breathing the same air as another arrogant, wealthy man. Even one who looked more like a god than a mere mortal.

The words flew out of her mouth, as if of their own volition. “I have a name, you know.”

A hush fell on the crowd of onlookers standing ringside.

Mr. Darcy crossed his arms, revealing the tips of his French cuffs and a discreet pair of gold cuff links. “I beg your pardon?”

“I have a name.” Elizabeth’s voice was shakier than she would have liked. She cleared her throat. “And it’s not number eight.”

Mr. Darcy’s eyebrows rose. “Do enlighten me.”

“It’s Elizabeth. Elizabeth Scott.”

Electric sparks of tension ricocheted around the ring, bouncing off the white lattice separating the two of them from everyone else. The only one who appeared oblivious to what was going on was Bliss. She inhaled a wide, squeaky dog yawn and curled into a ball at Elizabeth’s feet.

Elizabeth poked the dog with the toe of her ballerina flat. “Bliss, get up, baby.”

The Cavalier rose to her feet and glanced back and forth with her wide, round eyes from her mistress to the judge.

“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 of 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.

She swallowed and said a little prayer of thanks that he couldn’t read her thoughts.

She fully expected him to walk away, for his long legs to carry him to the other side of the ring so he could view the dogs as a group.

He didn’t. He stayed right where he was, unnervingly close. “It’s nice to see you again.”

His voice took her by surprise in both its mere presence and its sincerity. Judges rarely spoke to individual exhibitors in a crowded ring, and certainly not about anything unrelated to the show. Part of her wondered if he was simply mocking her. Her earlier appearance in the ring could hardly be described as nice. But the haughty air about him had somehow seemed to dissipate, leaving her in a fog of confusion.

Will the real Mr. Darcy please stand up?

“Um, thank you.” She kept her response brief. To the point.

What was she supposed to say? Lovely to see you again, Mr. Darcy. The last time was such a pleasure. Let’s see...I can’t seem to recall which moment I enjoyed the most. Could it have been when I accidentally flashed you, and you looked down my dress? Or perhaps when you insulted my dog? Or maybe when I started to cry? Yes, that’s it! A moment to cherish, for certain.

He paused, as if waiting for her to continue. When she didn’t, thunderclouds gathered in his eyes before he finally turned away.

The exhibitor beside Elizabeth groaned under her breath. “Thanks a lot.”

Elizabeth glanced at her, more out of curiosity than anything else. She was taken aback to find the woman glaring at her with hostility. “Excuse me?”

“I said thanks a lot,” she hissed without moving her lips, “for putting the judge in such a foul mood. I don’t know why he didn’t excuse you or why he’s even talking to you, for that matter.”

“For your information, I’m not responsible for his mood.” Elizabeth cast a fleeting look at Bliss in search of support. A nod would have been nice. A low growl perhaps?

Nothing.

The woman rolled her eyes. “We all saw the way you acted,” she muttered, once again without the slightest movement of her lips.

Elizabeth was beginning to wonder if she was a ventriloquist. Probably not, she decided. How could someone who worked with puppets be so bitchy?

Elizabeth started to explain that Mr. Darcy was undoubtedly born in a bad mood, but thankfully, she caught him watching her before she opened her mouth. She turned her back on the woman and made every effort to focus solely on Bliss.

I will not screw this up. I will not make a scene. I will not flash the judge, and I most definitely will not cry.

She inhaled a deep breath. All she had to do was go through the motions and wait for the winners to be awarded their ribbons. Bliss didn’t have a chance. So getting out of the ring without losing it again would be her only victory.

Mr. Darcy made a circular motion with his right hand, and everyone obediently led their dogs in a loop around the ring. The exhibitor at the front of the line paused once the lap was complete, obviously expecting Mr. Darcy to request to see each dog trot across the diagonal of the ring individually, as was customary.

Instead, he pointed at the second dog in line, a very nice little black-and-tan girl. “This is our Winner.”

His announcement was met with squeals of delight from the winning exhibitor and several people standing outside the ring. Despite herself, Elizabeth felt a stab of envy. To see a judge point to Bliss like that, even once, would go a long way in helping her forget all about everything that had happened back home. It might even make nasty Grant Markham nothing but a distant memory.

Before she could give herself any kind of mental pep talk, or even quell her disappointment the slightest bit, Mr. Darcy pointed his elegant finger once more. And this time, he aimed it directly at Bliss. “And this is our Reserve Winner.”

Elizabeth looked at Bliss, expecting to see a different dog on the end of her lead, as if Bliss had traded places with another Cavalier when she wasn’t looking. A Cavalier with a creamy-white, freckle-less muzzle. But to her complete and utter astonishment, she found her own dog still there.

Bliss reared up and pawed at the air with her tiny fringed feet, reveling in the joy of her victory as runner-up. Her happiness caused a knot to wedge in Elizabeth’s throat, and it quickly became clear that she would soon break her pledge not to cry.

She gathered Bliss into her arms and headed toward Mr. Darcy to collect her Reserve Winner’s ribbon. Somewhere behind him, Elizabeth could see Sue Barrow jumping up and down and clapping like mad, but Sue was little more than a fuzzy, dreamlike vision. She was focused on one thing and one thing only—Mr. Darcy’s magnetic gaze, drawing her to him. No longer stormy, his molten amber eyes pulled her in, held her spellbound, until all else disappeared.

“Miss Scott.” His gaze turned questioning when she reached him. “Those are happy tears this time, are they not?”

“Yes. Very much so.” She nodded and swallowed around the lump in her throat.

She had the very sudden desire for him to say it again...her name, in that debonair accent of his. Miss Scott. How could she have tired of hearing him say it before? It was like poetry.

He presented her with a satin ribbon. The left half was white and the right half purple, and it was printed with shiny gold letters that spelled out Reserve Winner.

She ran her thumb over the words. Seasoned dog-show exhibitors might have accepted such an honor with a tinge of disappointment. Reserve Winner was, after all, simply a fancy term for runner-up. The reserve dog didn’t earn any Championship points.

But it was the highest honor ever bestowed on Bliss. Elizabeth couldn’t have been happier, even if it did come from Mr. Darcy. Or perhaps because it came from him.

“Thank you,” she breathed and tugged on the ribbon, ever so gently.

He held on to it, playfully refusing to let it go, until he gave her a liquid-gold wink. “You’re welcome, Miss Scott.”

As Elizabeth gripped her ribbon and floated out of the ring toward the grinning faces of Sue and Alan Barrow and Jenna, fresh from her Starbucks run, toting a venti-size paper cup in each hand, she was left with the distinct impression that Mr. Darcy, of all people, was flirting with her.

3

Elizabeth watched Jenna pick a piece of confetti out of her wineglass. Black confetti, to match the black streamers and oh-so-charming balloons tied to Elizabeth’s chair that screamed to the world she was now Over-the-Hill.

“One more time...” Jenna buried the confetti in her napkin. “What does Reserve Winner mean again?”

Sue and Elizabeth exchanged an exasperated look. Hadn’t they already explained this several times since arriving at the restaurant next to the show site for Elizabeth’s intimate birthday gathering? Intimate meaning it consisted only of Elizabeth, Jenna and the Barrows.

Alan chimed in. “First runner-up.”

At least he paid attention. Elizabeth doubted if any of her family members would ever know what Reserve meant, no matter how many times it was explained to them.

“Like in the Miss America pageant. I get it now.” Jenna sipped her wine, likely ingesting a tiny paper coffin or two. She’d been a little heavy-handed with the decorations. “So if the winner ends up being a former stripper or if there are naked photos of her somewhere on the internet, then Bliss takes her place?”

Alan’s face split into a wide grin, and he motioned toward Jenna. “I like this one.”

Elizabeth laughed and took a sip of her own drink, which she’d let Sue order for her—something British called a Pimm’s, which was surprisingly delicious. “Let’s not forget to congratulate Sue here. You won Best of Breed today, didn’t you?”

“Well, my dog did, if you want to be technical about it. And under Mr. Darcy, no less. Quite an honor. He’s positively renowned back home in Britain. And all my other terriers won their classes, as well. I don’t know what I would have done today without your help, Elizabeth. You’re a good handler. I wished you lived in England. I could put you to work in a heartbeat. I can’t very well show four dogs at once.”

“Wait a minute.” Jenna made a time-out motion. “The judge’s name is Darcy? And he’s from England? Is this a joke?”

“No. He’s very much real,” Elizabeth said.

If anything, he was too real.

“Real as can be. The English never joke about men named Darcy.” Sue pushed her empty glass toward Alan. “Alan, dear, I’d love another.”

“Your wish is my command.” He gave Elizabeth and Jenna a questioning glance. “Anyone else need a refill?”

Much to her irritation, Elizabeth’s thoughts wanted to snag on the mention of Mr. Darcy, and she had to fight to keep up with the conversation. “No, thank you.”

“Have another. It’s your birthday.” Sue lifted her gaze to the shiny black balloons, as if Elizabeth could forget she was turning thirty. “I’m off to the loo.”

Once Sue was a safe ten feet away from the table, Alan winked and then whispered to Elizabeth and Jenna, “You would never know that I own my own company and am actually the boss of about fifty people, would you? She says jump, and I ask how high.”

From her spot halfway to the ladies’ room, Sue waved a dismissive hand and shouted, “Whatever he’s telling you, it’s not true. Don’t pay any attention to him.”

Elizabeth laughed. “How did you know?”

Sue scurried back over to them. “Oh, please. We’ve been married for over forty years. I know what he’s thinking even before he does.”

Jenna’s eyes grew misty. She’d always been a hopeless romantic. “Forty years. Wow.”

“We met when we were twelve years old.” Alan winked again. Only this time, he aimed it at his wife. “I’ve loved her ever since.”

Jenna held her glass of wine toward them, as if giving a toast at a wedding. “Cutest. Couple. Ever.”

Elizabeth could only agree. And for a split second, she wondered if she was wrong about marriage, after all. Maybe there were good men out there, as Jenna and her mother so often insisted. Maybe there was a man somewhere who would look at her like Alan looked at Sue, even after forty years together. They couldn’t all be Grant Markhams. Could they?

As Sue and Alan went off on their respective errands and Jenna checked her phone for text messages, Elizabeth sipped her Pimm’s and gave herself permission to think about Donovan Darcy. Only for a minute, she decided. She’d been doing her best to forget him ever since they’d left the show site, but that had been before the black balloons.

And the alcohol.

Like Grant Markham, he was certainly rich. And powerful. Those two qualities alone would have been enough to make most women swoon. Elizabeth was not, however, most women. She knew firsthand how dangerous such a combination could be. And, to top it off, Donovan Darcy had already proved that his words weren’t always as pretty as his face.

The man was a mystery, equal parts beautiful and maddening. Sue had been right. Elizabeth had wanted to slap him, right across his gorgeous face. Then he’d gone and switched gears on her, awarding Bliss Reserve and turning on his British charm. Elizabeth wondered if he had any idea how overpoweringly appealing he could be when he wasn’t scowling.

Oh, yes, he knows, she decided. He can probably turn it on and off on command. They probably teach it over there in some kind of James Bond charm school.

Feeling a little shaken, and more than a little stirred, she aimed her attention back at Jenna. “Thank you, big sis.”

Jenna looked up from her phone. “What for?”

“For coming this weekend.” Elizabeth smiled. “And for this little party. It’s perfect.” Aside from the morbid decorations, but let’s not get picky.

“I’m afraid you might not think so after...” Jenna’s voice drifted off, and her eyes grew wide as she focused on something in the distance. “Who is that?”

Elizabeth knew without even turning around in her chair that her sister was looking at none other than Donovan Darcy. In the flesh. Her cheeks grew hot with embarrassment, as if she’d conjured him simply by indulging in a little harmless daydreaming.

She glanced over her shoulder. Sure enough, there he stood, at the hostess stand. Glowering, as usual.

Elizabeth glowered right back, until he aimed his gaze directly toward her.

Damn.

He’d caught her openly staring at him. She tried to tell herself otherwise, that he hadn’t even noticed. The slow grin that came to his lips told a story all its own, however. He most definitely had noticed. And it appeared to please him.

She looked away, took a deep breath and tried to calm the frantic beating of her heart.

If ever there was a man who embodied the word dangerous, it was him. Elizabeth would sleep better at night when he went back to England and there was a vast, fathomless ocean between them.

Jenna cleared her throat. “I said, who is that?”

“Who?” Elizabeth feigned innocence to buy herself more time to regain her composure.

“You know who.” Jenna lifted a brow in Mr. Darcy’s direction.

Great. Now he knows we’re talking about him. She wished she could shrink small enough to crawl into the tiny plastic coffin that sat atop her birthday cake in the center of the table.

“Oh, him.” Elizabeth doubted she was fooling anyone with her attempt at nonchalance, least of all Jenna. “That’s the judge from this afternoon. Our very own Mr. Darcy.”

Jenna’s gaze grew even more appreciative, if such a thing were possible. “That explains why he looks like he just climbed down from a polo pony.”

“Didn’t you see him earlier today at the show?”

Jenna shook her head. “No. Definitely not. I was actually looking at the dogs.”

That was a first. “Well, don’t let those good looks fool you. He’s an ass.”

“He looks like Daniel Craig’s younger, hotter brother. And besides, he almost crowned Bliss Miss America. How big of an ass can he be?”

Where to start? “You have no idea.”

“Let me guess.” Jenna returned her glass to the table with a little too much force. Wine sloshed to the rim, threatening to spill over onto the crisp white tablecloth. “He’s rich.”

“Of course he is.” Elizabeth plucked a piece of tombstone-shaped confetti from her lap and rolled it between her fingers.

Jenna leaned forward, her gaze probing. “And that automatically makes him an ass?”

“It doesn’t help his case.” Elizabeth squirmed. Jenna looked as though she was on the verge of a full-on lecture. Where was Alan with her refill? She could use a sip of Pimm’s—or wine, or anything with alcohol, really—right about now.

“Not all rich men are like you-know-who. There are a few decent wealthy people in the world.” Jenna crossed her arms and gave her a look somewhere between smug and sympathetic.

“Name one.” Elizabeth sat back and waited, sure she’d found just the words to silence her sister.

She was wrong.

“I’ll name two.” Jenna’s voice softened. “Alan and Sue.”

Elizabeth glanced at the bar, where Alan Barrow stood chatting up the bartender, his face split into an endearing grin. “Alan and Sue?”

“Surely you’ve realized they’re rich. They divide their time between London and New York. She raises Champion dogs and shows them all over the world. Did you think they were poor?”

Elizabeth slumped a little lower in her chair. “I hadn’t given it any thought, actually.”

“Well, maybe you should.” Jenna reached over and gave her hand a squeeze. “And maybe you shouldn’t be so quick to label that hot judge an ass.”

Elizabeth stole another quick glance in his direction.

He appeared to be studying a menu, but everything about his countenance said he was fully aware the two sisters were talking about him. His lingering wry smile, the subtle gleam of satisfaction in his eyes...the casual way he crossed his feet at the ankles and leaned against the doorjamb of the entryway—all a deliberate, and successful, attempt at looking carelessly sexy.

Or maybe he just really was that sexy without even trying.

It was infuriating.

Elizabeth turned back to Jenna, full of fresh indignation. “Jenna, you never see a fault in anybody. But I assure you, Mr. Darcy thinks awfully highly of himself. You weren’t there. You didn’t see how he treated me in the ring today.”

“Well, here’s my chance.” Jenna took a larger-than-usual gulp of her wine. “Don’t look now, but he’s coming over here.”

Elizabeth stiffened. “He is not.”

“Yes, he is.” Jenna muttered a countdown under her breath. “In four, three, two, one.”

She sounded like Mission Control.

Elizabeth’s stomach churned with each passing second. Houston, we have a problem...

“Miss Scott.”

She opened her eyes and found him looking down at her with a gracious smile. Gracious, but somehow still sexy.

She returned his greeting in a neutral tone. “Good evening, Mr. Darcy.”

“Are birthday wishes in order?” He motioned toward the balloons tied to her chair, which she’d conveniently forgotten about, and the cake with its black plastic coffin topper.

The decorations looked even tackier next to him. Elizabeth wanted to die. Since that wasn’t an option, she opened her mouth to affirm that, yes, she was indeed the one who’d become over-the-hill. But before she could utter a word, a very pretty, very young woman joined him at his side.

“Zara.” Mr. Darcy turned and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

As she watched him welcome his lady friend, Elizabeth couldn’t help but notice two things. First, this Zara woman was nowhere near over-the-hill. With her slim hips and luminescent skin, she looked as though she’d never even seen the hill, much less crossed over it. And second, when he looked at her, Mr. Darcy didn’t show an ounce of the coldness he’d had on full display since Elizabeth had first laid eyes on him. In fact, he practically oozed warmth and charm.

Well, looky here. Mr. Darcy is all politeness.

Elizabeth couldn’t stand to watch. For reasons she doubted she would ever understand, her insides twisted into a jealous knot. Such intense feelings only irritated her even more because the entire scene was so ridiculous—so cliché—that any attraction she’d ever felt toward Mr. Darcy should have evaporated on the spot. He was rich, handsome, arrogant and, apparently, some young girl’s sugar daddy.

Elizabeth glared at Jenna, sending her unspoken I-told-you-so’s with her eyes. Jenna didn’t seem to notice. She was too busy studying Zara’s handbag. Louis Vuitton, by all appearances. Elizabeth doubted it came from a van in a fishy-smelling back alley in Chinatown, like the one where Jenna had purchased her Vuitton last year on a trip to the city.

Jenna had a thing for handbags. Elizabeth really should consider giving her the Prada bag she’d recently acquired—a Christmas gift from one of her students. It was only one of a number of ridiculously extravagant gifts that had turned up on her desk during the holidays. The parents at the Barclay School weren’t above trying to buy special attention for their children.

Or other things.

“I’m sorry.” Mr. Darcy swiveled his admiring gaze away from Zara and back toward Elizabeth. “This is...”

Elizabeth cut him off. “Zara. Yes, we heard.”

“Elizabeth!” Jenna’s sharp reprimand was accompanied by a swift kick to the shin underneath the table.

Elizabeth, shin throbbing, lifted her chin with as much dignity as someone sitting in front of a death-themed cake could muster. “And yes, it’s my birthday.”

She turned away, not only so she wouldn’t have to look at him with his beautiful, young companion but also so he wouldn’t see the wounded expression that was surely written all over her face. A wounded expression for which she had no reasonable explanation. Jealous? Over Mr. Darcy?

Not only was she over-the-hill, but apparently she’d been hit with early-onset dementia.

“Happy birthday, then.” His words bounced off her back, hollow as they were. Every cutting syllable told her he knew he’d been dismissed. “I’ll let you get back to your celebration.”

And then, right when Elizabeth thought the worst of the evening was over, an unmistakable, shrill “Happy Birthday” pierced the air.

No. This is not happening. This can’t be happening.

Elizabeth prayed that she was mistaken and that perhaps Pimm’s contained some sort of hallucinogen.

But when she heard them burst into song, Elizabeth cringed and turned around. Sure enough, right over Mr. Darcy’s left shoulder, she saw the top of her mother’s favorite outrageous flowered hat.

“I’m sorry,” Jenna whispered. “I started to tell you...”

A frozen smile found its way to Mr. Darcy’s lips. He slipped his arm around Zara and looked as though he wanted to sling her over his shoulder, caveman-style, and run for the nearest exit. If Elizabeth hadn’t been so mortified, she would have found it at least somewhat humorous.

“Mom,” she said. “What a surprise.”

“Oh, it’s not just me. Gracie, Laura and Heather are here. And your father, too, of course.” Her mother waved a hand toward the entrance, where Elizabeth’s younger sisters were bickering over something as they made their way to the table.

Behind them, with his head bent over his BlackBerry, her father pulled up the rear. He smiled at her, almost apologetically. “We’ve all come to surprise you for your birthday. Are you surprised?”

“Very.” Panic had begun to edge its way into Elizabeth’s voice. If she didn’t somehow get rid of Mr. Darcy soon, he would be wedged in on all sides by her family members. “I told you I’d be fine celebrating my birthday at the dog show. Alone. You didn’t need to make the trip out here.”

“Alone.” Her mother shook her head. “It’s a pity none of you girls have found a nice husband to keep you company on such occasions.”

Oh, no. Oh, God, no.

Elizabeth wanted to leap across the wineglasses, the cake, the mortifying decorations and clamp her hand across her mother’s mouth. If she thought for a moment she could actually hurdle the table with its crisp white cloth—the better to show off the glittery black confetti—she would have done it in a heartbeat. But she’d never been terribly athletic. Now that she was over-the-hill, especially, she doubted any move she could make would be fast enough to compete with her mother’s quick tongue.

Sure enough, before Elizabeth could move a muscle, her mother was at it again.

“It’s such a pity about your job, too. I mean, that was the perfect opportunity for you to cross paths with rich men.” Mrs. Scott shook her head, the feathers on her hat waving with her every move. “Don’t you worry about a thing, dear. You’ll just move back home and work for the family business. Scott Bridal needs someone to model the wedding gowns, and you’re the perfect size. We’ll get you in a white veil one way or another.”

Elizabeth’s mother laughed, seemingly oblivious to the awkward glances being exchanged around the table. Elizabeth felt someone reach for her hand and give it a squeeze. Jenna.

“I’m sorry,” Jenna whispered. “When I invited them, I thought it would only be us.”

The frantic urge to leap across the dishware left Elizabeth as quickly as it came. It was too late now. The humiliation train had already left the station. She stared down at her lap and her hand in Jenna’s, oblivious to whatever else was going on around her, save for Mr. Darcy and his beautiful companion making a quiet escape.

* * *

“I would ask who your friend is, but the dirty look she gave you made it clear that you two aren’t exactly close.” Zara looked past Donovan, in the direction of Elizabeth’s table.

Once seated, Donovan had turned his back on the train wreck that was apparently Elizabeth Scott’s birthday dinner. He couldn’t bear to watch another second of it. Although, as with any other gruesome oddity, he felt inexplicably drawn to the scene. Fortunately—or not, depending on how he looked at it—Zara possessed the same penchant for gossip as most other eighteen-year-old girls and insisted on giving him a play-by-play of the goings-on.

“Oh, my God. You should see the mother now. She’s chewing with her mouth so wide open I can see her molars. I think one of them is gold.” The look on Zara’s face teetered between one of horror and fascination.

“Zara, stop staring. It’s rude.” Donovan tapped his index finger on the drinks menu, hoping the waitress would notice and hurry over to take his order. God, he needed a drink. Or three.

“I’m not staring.” She dragged her gaze away from the Scotts’ table, clearly marked for all the world to see with those horrid balloons.

At the memory of the Over-the-Hill balloons bobbing about Elizabeth Scott’s beautiful face, Donovan’s finger tapping went into overdrive. He didn’t know how much longer he’d be able to sit there without the distraction of a martini. Or a Pimm’s. Anything, really. If Donovan were the knight-in-shining-armor type, which he most definitely was not, he would march right over there, snatch Elizabeth Scott from her seat and take her somewhere far, far away. Precisely where, he had no idea. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere intimate. And, most definitely, somewhere without balloons.

Not that Elizabeth Scott would welcome a rescue, at least not by his hand.

“Why are you scowling?”

Donovan was forced to tear his thoughts away from Miss Scott, again, and focus instead on Zara. “I’m not scowling.”

“Yes, you are.” Zara knit her brows and gave him her best grimace. She’d always enjoyed imitating him. “I know you like a brother, remember?”

“I am your brother.” Donovan felt himself relax ever so slightly.

“The best.” She aimed her sweetest grin at him.

“You can stop kissing up. We’re here, aren’t we? America. Just like you wanted.” If Donovan had a soft spot, Zara was it. She’d been not only his responsibility but the entirety of his immediate family since the death of their parents. She was certainly the only person who could tear him away from Figgy and the impending arrival of the puppies. Her burning desire to finally see the Big Apple was the deciding factor in his acceptance of the judging assignment.

Not that suburban New Jersey felt anywhere close to New York City.

But they would remedy that tomorrow. After a day or two of taking Zara sightseeing and shopping, he would be on his way back home. Surely Figgy would hold off until then. And if not...well, that was why he had full-time kennel staff.

Donovan hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Figgy was special. He wanted to be there himself for her first litter.

The waitress finally arrived, and Donovan relaxed even further knowing he was within minutes of a cocktail. Anything to dull the memory of Miss Scott’s family. More specifically, her mother. Even now, he could hear her shrill laugh from across the room. And if he had a penny for every time he heard her bellow something about rich men, he could add a new wing onto his country house.

Once again, Zara’s gaze drifted over his shoulder. “So, what’s the story over there?”

“I’ve no idea.” Donovan shook his napkin and arranged it across his lap. “A birthday celebration, I gather.”

Although it looked more like an exercise in humiliation. He couldn’t help thinking Miss Scott deserved better. Few didn’t.

“No. I mean, what’s with you and the pretty one? What did you say her name was?”

“Elizabeth.” Donovan lowered his voice, not that anyone would hear him over the mother. “Elizabeth Scott.”

“So you do think she’s pretty, then?” Zara grinned, obviously pleased with herself.

“Calm down, Zara. There’s nothing going on between Miss Scott and me.” Donovan wasn’t sure why, but this admission brought a pang to his temple.

“Why? Because of her crazy family?” Zara shook her head. “Poor thing.”

“No.” Donovan accepted his drink from the waitress and took a long sip. Somehow, it didn’t put any distance between him and the spectacle at the Scotts’ table. In fact, the urge to go over there and rescue her grew even stronger.

Maybe it’s the jet lag, he reasoned.

Donovan pushed his drink away. Perhaps lowering his inhibitions wasn’t the best idea.

Zara, in all her trademark tenacity, wasn’t about to abandon her line of questioning. “So, why haven’t you made a move?”

“Because I’m here to judge a dog show. And to take you on a little sightseeing trip.” Donovan massaged his temples.

And because she despises the very sight of me.

Zara leaned forward and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Ask her for a drink or something. I’ll get an in-room movie back at the hotel. Now’s your chance....”

Donovan cut her off, ready to put an end to the conversation. His undeniable attraction to Miss Scott was unsettling enough, given that the feeling was most definitely not mutual. The last thing he needed was to be on the receiving end of this relentless badgering from his sister. “Zara, enough. I find Miss Scott tolerable. Nothing more, nothing less. If you think you can convince me otherwise, you’re wasting your time.”

“Um.” The color drained from Zara’s face.

Donovan sighed. He’d been abrupt, no doubt. But he hadn’t meant to hurt her feelings. He opened his mouth to apologize, but before he could get a word out, Miss Scott slipped past him.

Donovan felt her presence before he actually saw her. It was the same stirring sensation that had come over him in the ring—an odd combination of tranquillity and awareness. Miss Scott was like the final, still moment of dusk that held the promise of a fiery sunset.

He lifted his gaze to hers, hoping for the impossible, that she hadn’t heard his frustrated diatribe meant solely for Zara’s ears.

But the smallest glance was enough to know.

Elizabeth Scott had heard every word.

4

Monday morning, Elizabeth opened her eyes, and for a split second, panic set in. She glanced at the clock on her nightstand, heart pounding, convinced she’d overslept and the students in her first-period class were sitting at their desks pondering the whereabouts of their teacher.

It didn’t take long for reality to set in.

Get real. They’re teenagers. That’s the last thing they’d be pondering, even if I were late.

She wasn’t late.

It wasn’t possible to be late when she wasn’t even expected at school. Elizabeth closed her eyes, imagined the fresh-faced substitute teacher who was sitting at her desk right that very second and opened them again. Reality, as bleak as it was, was better than thinking about what should have been.

On the pillow beside her, Bliss yawned with abandon and stretched into a downward-dog position. Clearly the Cavalier wasn’t experiencing any difficulty adjusting to their new routine. Or nonroutine. Whichever.

At least the sight of her dog brought a smile to Elizabeth’s face. Until she remembered, with excruciating clarity, the events of the weekend. How had the dog-show getaway she’d been anticipating for so long gone so horribly wrong?

She would have liked to blame it on her mother. With her garish hat and unfiltered approach to conversation—and life in general—she was hardly innocent. As were the other members of the Scott family. Save for Jenna, of course. For once, though, Elizabeth couldn’t hold her family 100 percent responsible for her mortification. True, she’d been embarrassed beyond belief when they’d shown up at dinner. Her mother had managed to make reference to both Elizabeth’s career crisis and single status in the first three seconds. Impressive, even for her mother.

In all honesty, things had started going south earlier in the day. More precisely, the minute Elizabeth had first laid eyes on Donovan Darcy. Okay, maybe five minutes or so after first laying eyes on him. Those initial moments she’d been too busy ogling him to notice the downward spiral she was about to fall into.

Mr. Darcy.

The thought of his name brought with it a tumble of emotions. First and foremost on the list was humiliation.

Tolerable.

He’d called her tolerable. It was almost worse than being called hideous. Having never been called tolerable, or hideous for that matter, Elizabeth couldn’t be sure.

Forget him. Who calls someone tolerable? A conceited ass, that’s who. The whole thing is ridiculous. He’s ridiculous.

Elizabeth hopped out of bed. She wasn’t about to spend the day lounging around thinking about Mr. Darcy. Not even if those thoughts included slow and painful ways to kill him. There was plenty of time for that later. She needed to stop by the school and pick up her personal effects. And—fingers crossed—have a little chat with the headmaster while she was there.

“Wish me luck, Bliss,” Elizabeth muttered, after she’d showered and changed.

She and Bliss were not moving to New Jersey. Elizabeth would not, could not, do it. She would never survive working at Scott Bridal. She didn’t know how Jenna did it, day in and day out. Then again, Jenna was a saint. Elizabeth had never met anyone nearly as patient as her elder sister. Maybe that was her secret to surviving the family business. Elizabeth, on the other hand, didn’t have the stomach for it. She couldn’t show her face in the state of New Jersey without her mother sticking a veil on her head. Since she’d moved to Manhattan, she and Bliss had settled into a nice, peaceful routine. Entire days passed where no one around her uttered the name Vera Wang. It was like heaven.

She held on to the fragile certainty that everything would work out as she headed uptown to the Barclay School. Situated in the posh Upper West Side, the private school had been responsible for educating the offspring of New York’s elite for over a century. When Elizabeth had first walked through the enormous carved doors into the lobby, which boasted a gilded replica of the school’s seal on the marble tile floor, she’d felt as though she could conquer the world, or at least the part that resided close to Central Park West. Now, as she walked through those same doors, her emotions were decidedly different.

Gone was the happy optimism she’d come to associate with the school. Her school, as she’d taken to calling it. Despite the fact that the students’ average weekly allowance was likely quadruple her monthly take-home pay, she’d always felt at home here.

Until the day she’d dared to give Grant Markham’s son a failing grade.

Since then, all hell had broken loose. And with the ensuing scandal came the unshakable feeling that Elizabeth was somehow less than adequate.

Subpar.

Tolerable.

The word echoed in her subconscious.

Damn you, Donovan Darcy.

“Elizabeth.” Mrs. Whitestone, the school secretary, greeted her with a stiff smile.

“Hi, Mrs. Whitestone. I’m here to pick up my things and perhaps have a word with Dr. Thurston.” Dr. Thurston. Just last week, Elizabeth had called the headmaster by his first name, Ed. “Is he in?”

“Yes, he is. Go on in. I believe he wants to have a word with you, as well.”

The tiniest amount of relief coursed through Elizabeth. The headmaster wanted a word with her. That sounded promising. Maybe, just maybe, her administrative leave would be cut short and she’d be back in the classroom before the day was over.

Ed’s door opened. “Elizabeth,” the headmaster boomed. “Please, come in.”

Any relief she felt vanished when he escorted her inside the office and took his place behind his desk. He looked rather red. And very, very serious. “I’m glad you stopped by. There are some new circumstances surrounding your suspension that we need to discuss.”

Elizabeth’s hands began to shake. She clasped them together so Ed wouldn’t notice. “I’m sorry?”

“I’m afraid this...situation...has grown complicated.”

Nothing like a little bribery to turn something as simple as a failing report card into a situation.

Although it wasn’t technically bribery. More like attempted bribery. She hadn’t for a moment considered accepting the five-figure check that Grant Markham had tossed at her during their parent-teacher conference.

Correction: checks. Plural.

The more she’d refused him, the more insistent he’d become. He’d written one check after another, as if the problem had been the amount of the bribe, rather than its inherent wrongness.

“How much?” he’d finally asked, leaning close, his breath hot against her skin. “Women like you—the ones who come from nothing—always have a price. Why don’t you save us both some time and tell me what it is?”

Those words had reached inside her, touching on her deepest insecurities. It was hard to grow up around the tulle and lace at Scott Bridal without sometimes feeling like an impoverished Cinderella among a whole world of entitled stepsisters. Their clientele were the sort who believed that a fat wallet could buy them anything. Truth be told, it usually did.

Women like you...the ones who come from nothing.

Stunned into silence, she’d been unable to do little more than watch in horror as Grant Markham had casually touched the inside of her wrist. His fingertips had crept upward, and his gaze had flicked ever so briefly to her breasts.

He hadn’t made an outright pass at her, but the implication had been clear. He could buy her silence. And he could buy her. The only thing standing in his way was the matter of compensation.

In retrospect, she probably shouldn’t have slapped him. Perhaps if she’d just walked away right there and then, she wouldn’t be in this mess. Maybe Grant Markham wouldn’t have gone to the headmaster. Maybe he wouldn’t have disputed his son’s grade and insisted Elizabeth be placed on administrative leave for a week while an independent auditor looked at her grade book.

Or maybe it wouldn’t have made a difference at all. Slap or no slap, he still hadn’t gotten his way.

Yet.

“I suppose things have become rather ugly.” Elizabeth nodded her agreement. “But as I told you before, Grant Markham wouldn’t take no for an answer. His behavior was most inappropriate. I hope...”

The headmaster held up a hand to stop her, just as Mr. Darcy had done in the show ring on Saturday. In this context, it wasn’t quite as infuriating. In fact, it was daunting.

Elizabeth obediently shut her mouth.

“There’s more to this than Joe Markham’s grade. Much more.”

Joe was a nickname. His full name was Grant Markham III. Why did rich people insist on using the same names over and over again?

Elizabeth wondered if Donovan Darcy came from a long line of Donovans. Then she gave her thigh a good, solid pinch. A punishment. Because really, what was she doing thinking about Mr. Darcy at a time like this? It was absurd.

She cleared her throat. “You don’t need to explain. I know Joe is the captain of the rugby team. His failing grade made him ineligible for the play-offs. People were upset. I realize that. But Grant Markham cannot expect me to change his son’s grade in exchange for money.”

Ed clasped his hands together on his desk and shook his head. “I’ve spoken with Mr. Markham. He’s aware of your accusations, and he disputes them. Quite vehemently.”

Of course he does. “I can’t say I’m surprised. I didn’t think he would admit that he tried to bribe me.”

Or that he’d hinted at an affair. She still hoped she’d only imagined that part.

“Actually, he says the money was your idea.” Ed’s voice was low. So low Elizabeth almost didn’t hear it.

“My idea?” It was a slap to the face, every bit as real as the one she’d given Grant Markham.

“Yes. Mr. Markham says you attempted to extort money from him in exchange for giving his son a passing grade.” He leveled his gaze at her. Worry lines creased his forehead, which appeared to be growing redder by the second. “He also mentioned a designer handbag.”

The Prada. Elizabeth was overcome with a sudden numbness. “That was a Christmas gift. You know how the parents around here are. The head of the athletic department was given season tickets to the Yankees for Christmas.”

Elizabeth hated the way her voice shook. She would have rather sounded confident, offended even, in the face of such an accusation.

She was neither of these things. At the moment, she was terrified.

“Elizabeth.” Ed, no, Dr. Thurston—Elizabeth was certain she would never again address this man by his common name—exhaled another sigh and looked back down at his clasped hands. The top of his head glowed redder than ever. As Elizabeth stared at it, she prayed he didn’t keel over while she was sitting in his office, lest she become not only the teacher who’d tried to extort money from parents, but also the one who’d killed the headmaster.

He looked back up, still alive. Thank God. “There will be an investigation, of course.”

“An investigation?” This should have been good news, of course. What could an investigation turn up when she’d done nothing wrong? For some reason, it failed to put Elizabeth at ease.

“The investigation will be handled internally.” Dr. Thurston tugged at his shirt collar, causing the knot in his tie to tilt crookedly.

Elizabeth fought the urge to straighten it, a quirk she’d acquired during all those years she’d spent at Scott Bridal while she was growing up. She could recognize a perfectly crafted Windsor knot from a mile away. Dr. Thurston’s was far from perfect. “Internally? What does that mean, exactly?”

“The board of directors will be looking into the matter.”

The board of directors.

A sinking feeling settled in Elizabeth’s stomach. Grant Markham’s wife was on the board of directors. So were nine other people the Markhams had likely had over to dinner, probably on their yacht or something, throughout the years. Elizabeth’s fate was in the hands of the alleged victim’s wife and her high-society friends.

It was over. She was finished.

Elizabeth sat quietly, trying to absorb it all. “So what happens now? Do I need to get a lawyer?”

“No. A lawyer wouldn’t be able to help you, anyway. As your contract states, your position here can be withdrawn at any time, for any reason. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. In a few weeks, perhaps this will blow over. For now, your suspension stands until the conclusion of the investigation. At that time, the board will determine a permanent outcome.” He released a heavy sigh. “Elizabeth, you’re a wonderful teacher. I’m not saying I don’t believe you. I’m not saying that at all, but the financial stability of this school hinges on how we handle this situation. The Barclay School is a private institution, and it depends on tuition payments to keep the doors open.”

So it all boiled down to money. Didn’t everything? “How long should the investigation take?”

“According to the bylaws, four weeks.”

Four weeks. Approximately three weeks longer than she could afford her Manhattan apartment without the benefit of a regular paycheck.

Perhaps it was a good thing Elizabeth still possessed the skills she would need at Scott Bridal. Because, come next Monday morning, she’d probably be clocking in bright and early. Her head was already itching for a veil.

Dr. Thurston urged her to take advantage of her time off—to go on a vacation, enjoy some downtime. Elizabeth barely heard a word he said. She was too distraught to concentrate. Before she knew what was happening, he was finished with his speech and had steered her by the elbow out of his office, across the marble floor with the fancy school seal, directly to the big carved double doors.

She glanced up at her boss before walking through those doors for what she fully expected was the last time. At some point he’d straightened his tie.

“Goodbye, Dr. Thurston,” she whispered.

And then she was out the door, standing on the busy Manhattan sidewalk, as though the school had purged itself of her.

The sounds of honking horns and sirens wailing in the distance, ordinarily so familiar and comforting to Elizabeth, were a shock to her system after the stillness of the headmaster’s office. She stood motionless, trying to get her bearings as New Yorkers, clothed in standard black, wove around her as if she were a statue. She found it odd that no one stopped to stare at her, the teacher who’d been accused of extortion. Surely such a damning accusation was somehow visible, even to strangers. A scarlet letter of sorts, only shaped like a big fat dollar sign.

Elizabeth turned in the direction of her apartment. It took all her concentration to put one foot in front of the other. She felt faint, as if she were about to disappear. She focused on her shoes—sensible black ballet flats—and each step they took, making sure they made contact with the asphalt.

She narrowly collided with a pair of black, square-toed boots and teetered perilously close to the curb. No sooner had she managed to get back on track than she found herself toe to toe with a pair of men’s loafers—black, of course. Beside the loafers was a pair of ballet flats not unlike her own. Only these were quilted, with interlocking C’s on the toes. Elizabeth had seen those same flats on the girls at the Barclay School. Chanel.

Elizabeth paused and waited for Loafers and Chanel to sidestep so she could pass. They didn’t.

“Excuse me.” Elizabeth looked up and in a heart-stopping moment discovered that her day, which had been far from stellar thus far, had just taken a turn for the worse.

The loafers didn’t belong to some nameless, faceless New Yorker. They belonged to none other than Mr. Donovan Darcy.

He knit his perfect brows and said her name as though it were a question. “Miss Scott?”

Elizabeth panicked for a moment, as if she didn’t know the answer. She looked over at the woman standing beside him, the owner of the Chanel flats, and recognized her as his companion from the restaurant in New Jersey. Zara.

Good grief, she looks even younger than I remember.

“Hi,” Zara said and gave a little wave.

Elizabeth was struck with the nauseating thought that she didn’t look a day older than Joe Markham.

This realization brought with it a fresh wave of annoyance. How was she the one in trouble when Donovan Darcy was dating a girl barely out of high school?

“Mr. Darcy,” she spat. She turned to Zara and pasted on a smile. “Zara.”

“What are you doing here?” To Mr. Darcy’s credit, he didn’t come off as rude when he asked her this. He sounded befuddled, in an oh-so-charming-Hugh-Grant sort of way.

Elizabeth wasn’t fooled. She remembered the Hugh Grant scandal of the nineties with perfect clarity. Not pretty. “I live here.”

“In New York City? Alone?” He looked at the empty space around her own non-Chanel ballerina flats, as if he expected someone to materialize.

Alone? Who did he think he was? Her mother? “Yes, alone. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“I didn’t mean to pry.” He crossed his arms, and Elizabeth caught a glimpse of his cuff links. Silver this time, like the ones that were always on display in the windows at Tiffany’s.

As at the dog show, everything about Mr. Darcy’s appearance was resplendent. From the polished sheen of his loafers to the narrow cut of his suit. And Elizabeth couldn’t help but notice his tie was folded into the most perfect Windsor she’d ever laid eyes on. Of course.

Given the many bridegrooms Elizabeth had seen at Scott Bridal who didn’t know the top end of a cummerbund from the bottom, she’d always found men who dressed well particularly sexy.

Damn.

“Miss Scott, I think you misunderstood me. I was only wondering about your charming little dog, the Blenheim Cavalier. Bliss, right?”

Despite the warning bells going off in her head reminding her that this was Mr. Darcy of all people, she found herself softening toward him. Just a little.

How many dogs did a dog-show judge see in a weekend? Hundreds, at least. Maybe even a thousand.

And he’d remembered Bliss’s name.

She relaxed ever so slightly and gave herself permission to smile at Mr. Darcy. “She’s at home. I had to, um, run an errand.”

He smiled back. “I hope she’s doing well.”

“She is. Thank you.”

Elizabeth wasn’t sure what else to say. Her gaze flitted to Zara, who stood quietly watching their exchange. If it bothered her that Mr. Darcy had stopped dead in his tracks to carry on a conversation with another woman, she gave no indication of it. Then again, why would it bother her? She’d heard him call her tolerable. She knew Elizabeth was no threat.

At the very least, Elizabeth figured Zara would be ready to move on and away from the pedestrians who jostled their way around their little threesome. Oddly enough, she didn’t seem to care a whit about any of it.

Elizabeth glanced back at Mr. Darcy. His dark eyes were trained on her, watching her with his trademark intensity. Her first instinct was to look away, but the unexpected earnestness in those brooding eyes made her fix her gaze on his.

He looked at her for a long, silent moment before he finally spoke. “I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood a few things I’ve said.”

Something about his gaze was so tender, Elizabeth could feel it down to her toes. And she couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but somehow she knew he was referring to the tolerable comment. If it were possible for a person to make amends with just a look, Donovan Darcy was giving it a go.

Elizabeth was captivated. She felt as though they were the only two people on the busy sidewalk. Impossible, of course. People swarmed all around them, not to mention the very-present Zara.

Then Elizabeth’s handbag barked, breaking the magic spell.

Zara’s baby-smooth forehead creased in apparent confusion. “Was that a bark?”

Mr. Darcy tilted his head and lifted an amused brow. “Are you sure Bliss is at home? It sounds as though she hitched a ride in your purse.”

“It’s my ringtone.” Elizabeth fished around in her bag for her barking phone. “I should probably answer this. It could be important.”

In fact, the likelihood of the call being important was slim at best. It was just something to say, a way to extricate herself from what was beginning to feel oddly like some sort of love triangle.

Love triangle. As if.

Elizabeth wanted to kick herself.

Instead, she answered the phone. “Hello?”

Mr. Darcy stood right where he was, rooted to the spot. Why wasn’t he leaving? What was he doing here, anyway? Although the collection of shopping bags dangling from Zara’s slender arms hinted at the purpose of their trip. Chanel. Gucci. And especially nauseating, Prada.

Elizabeth averted her gaze before she spotted a bag from Tiffany’s. She didn’t think she’d be able to stomach such a thing.

“Elizabeth, dear, is that you? It’s Sue. Sue Barrow.”

“Oh, Sue. How wonderful to hear from you.”

As she spoke, Elizabeth was aware of Mr. Darcy watching her mouth. She was sure it was because she was talking. What else did he have to look at? Still, it unnerved her in a way she was ashamed to admit wasn’t altogether unpleasant.

“Sue, could you hold on for a second?”

“Certainly.”

With Sue safely on hold, Elizabeth clutched her phone to her chest. Clearly a dismissal was in order. Mr. Darcy didn’t appear to be in a hurry to get anywhere, and Elizabeth was ready for him to go. As pleasant as he was to look at, she had no desire to hang out with him and Zara.

“Well, it was nice seeing you both.” Elizabeth smiled. “But I really need to take this. Enjoy your stay in the city.”

Something flickered in Mr. Darcy’s dark eyes. Frustration? Elizabeth couldn’t be sure.

“Miss Scott.” He bent at the waist slightly.

A bow. He’d bowed at her. Who did that? What was she supposed to do now? Curtsy?

She settled on a wave. “Bye.”

Elizabeth walked away, letting the swarm of people on the sidewalk swallow her up. She picked up her pace as she picked up the phone. “Sue, hi. I’m so sorry.”

“No worries. Alan and I are sitting at the airport, waiting for our flight home. No hurry.” Elizabeth could hear a smile in Sue’s voice at the mention of her husband.

“You’re on your way back to London?”

“Yes. Alan has business meetings this week. Actually, that’s why I’m calling. Alan and I have a proposition for you, Elizabeth. One I hope will sound appealing.”

Elizabeth’s steps slowed. “A proposition?”

“The other night at dinner, we couldn’t help but overhear your mother mention that you were out of work at the moment.”

Overhear. Sue was being polite. Elizabeth’s mother had roared on and on about it, as was her custom.

“Yes, I am.” She struggled for an explanation. The Barrows seemed like nice, accepting people, but admitting she’d been accused of extortion would threaten the limits of anyone’s understanding. “Temporary layoff.”

“I’ll get right to the point, then. We have a job offer for you. You were such a help at the dog show in New Jersey. I could use an extra pair of hands for the shows across the pond. It’s so difficult finding help back home, and my dogs respond so well to you.”

Elizabeth clutched her phone with both hands, desperate to make sure she’d heard Sue correctly. Someone bumped her from behind, and she almost fell to her knees on a manhole cover but she didn’t even care. “You have a job for me?”

“Yes, dear.” Her words had the effect of a welcome breeze, strong enough to lift a wedding veil straight off Elizabeth’s head and send it sailing away into the distance. “In London.”

5

Donovan was exhausted. He hadn’t slept a wink on the flight to Heathrow, a fact he chalked up to his preoccupation with Elizabeth Scott. She’d tormented his thoughts all the way across the Atlantic.

Donovan wasn’t accustomed to chasing women. In fact, the opposite was a far more regular occurrence. Case in point: Helena Robson, who’d called him at least once a day during his trip, leaving syrupy voice mails and several times even sending him texts that bordered on sexting.

It was pathetic.

And now here he was, among the infatuated. He was mortified at himself. He was, in short, a mess.

To make matters worse, the puppies had come. Donovan knew it as soon as his butler opened the front door. His anxious expression said it all.

“Sir,” Lawrence started.

“Don’t tell me.” Donovan held up his hand to stop him from saying the words aloud. He didn’t think he could bear it. “I’m late, aren’t I? Figgy had the puppies.”

“I’m afraid so, sir. Yes.” Lawrence’s shoulders sagged. “But everything went smoothly. Figgy is doing marvelously, as are the puppies. Four in all.”

Four puppies. And he’d missed the entire event.

“Puppies!” Zara dropped her carry-on bag on the threshold. It landed with the heavy thud of three shoe boxes from the Chanel store. “Oh, let’s go see.”

She maneuvered past Lawrence, just as Finneus, the sire of Figgy’s litter, danced and wiggled his way toward Donovan.

“Come along, little man. Time for you to pass out cigars and such.” Donovan scooted Finneus inside with a nudge of his foot and shut the door behind him.

“Um, sir, there’s something else I should tell you.” Lawrence shot a nervous glance toward the drawing room, where Donovan had set up Figgy’s whelping box before he’d left for the States.

Donovan exhaled a weary sigh. “Honestly, so long as the little mother and the puppies are happy and healthy, nothing else matters. Is everyone okay?”

“Absolutely.” The butler nodded. “But...”

Donovan shook his head. “No buts. I’m going to go take a peek for myself.”

He was doing his best to look on the bright side. It wasn’t as if he could turn back time and get home to watch over the birth. He only wanted to check on the litter and sit quietly with Figgy for a bit before dealing with the multitude of other things on his plate. He’d be willing to bet whatever Lawrence needed to tell him had something to do with Aunt Constance. Or the family foundation. Or any number of other ulcer-causing things that could wait until later.

He turned and headed toward the drawing room. Situated on the ground level of the row house, it was at the end of the hallway to the right of the foyer. Donovan spent the majority of his time there when he was at his London home—his desk was there, and it was his favorite spot for taking tea. So he’d chosen the room, with its peaceful, willowy hues, as the place for Figgy’s whelping box.

But as Donovan strolled into the room, the aforementioned weight crashed back down on him with full force. There, leaning over the whelping pen with her designer denim-clad bottom pointed directly at him, stood Helena Robson.

Oh, good God. Why now?

A little warning would have been nice. Then Donovan remembered Lawrence’s worried glances toward the drawing room. Why hadn’t he listened to the butler? Butlers were all-knowing, all-seeing. When would Donovan ever learn?

Zara glanced up at him. She looked at Helena beside her and shot him an exaggerated eye roll. She’d never been a fan of his friend Henry Robson’s sister.

Helena glanced over her shoulder, still pointing her back end at him as if he had a target painted on his forehead, and cooed, “Welcome home.”

Subtlety had never been the woman’s strong suit.

“We have company. Super,” Zara deadpanned.

Donovan averted his gaze. He looked at his desk, then the floor. Anywhere but Helena’s bum. “Helena.”

In his periphery, Donovan saw her right herself. “You don’t sound at all happy to see me. Aren’t you surprised?”

“Oh, I’m surprised.” He strolled past her to get a clear view of the puppies.

“Aren’t they cute?” Zara whispered, not wanting to disturb the little family, Donovan supposed. “I just love puppies.”

Figgy let out a whine of delight. Her tail beat against the blankets in a happy rhythm, but she remained on her side so her four wiggly puppies could continue nursing. They were gorgeous, every bit as lovely as Donovan could have wished. Four fat, healthy little Blenheim bundles. And Figgy was clearly reveling in her role as mummy.

He could have wept with relief. He might have, if Helena hadn’t been there attempting to press herself against his side.

He took a step backward, away from the whelping pen, and leaned against his desk.

Helena’s expression never wavered. She smiled sweetly at him. “How was your trip to America? Was the Big Apple everything Zara hoped it was?”

Zara glared at Helena. The fact that Helena spoke about her as if she wasn’t in the room had always been one of Zara’s chief complaints.

Donovan didn’t care for it much, either. He assumed Helena did it deliberately, so Zara would leave the room in a huff and they would be alone together. The allure of the new puppies proved more potent than Helena’s condescension, however. Zara stayed put.

Thank God.

The last thing Donovan wanted was to be alone with Helena.

“We had a very nice trip.” Donovan gave her a tight smile. He yawned, ready to use exhaustion as an excuse to get rid of her. But before he could say a word about jet lag, Zara slipped between them.

She held one of the puppies close to her chest, and her lips curved into a Cheshire-cat grin. Donovan frowned. His little sister was clearly up to something. It pained him to even guess what it might be.

“Did Donovan tell you that he met someone while we were there?” Zara’s smile grew even wider.

He watched as the blood drained from Helena’s face. “Why, no. No, he didn’t.”

She lifted a perfectly groomed brow at him. “Is this true, Donovan?”

Zara answered for him. “Of course it’s true. He met a woman named Elizabeth Scott. An American. They only had eyes for each other.”

“Zara.” Donovan shot her a warning glance.

He had no intention of letting her use Elizabeth to make Helena jealous. Not only was she stretching the truth considerably—his eyes might have been drawn toward Elizabeth, but her eyes had seemed to have plenty of places to look other than his direction—but he didn’t want Elizabeth’s name batted about so casually.

He preferred to leave the memory of her intact, a sweet place filled with a thousand tender recollections he could visit now and again. Privately.

“I’m all astonishment. An American. How quaint.” Helena attempted a smile, but it came off as more of a sneer. Donovan could see panic gathering behind her eyes. “Well, it’s getting late. I really should be going.”

She slithered past Donovan, leaving him choking on a cloud of her perfume. She paused when she reached the doorway, then added, as an apparent afterthought, “Nice puppies.”

“Thank you,” he answered, but she was already gone.

He turned toward Zara. “That was uncalled for.”

“You should be thanking me. She’s always throwing herself at you.” Zara stepped into the whelping pen in her stocking feet and placed the puppy back beside Figgy’s belly. “Anyway, she deserves it.”

“Helena may deserve it, but Miss Scott most certainly doesn’t deserve to be in Helena Robson’s crosshairs.” The throb in his temples intensified into full-on jackhammering. “For one thing, she’s not quite as besotted with me as you indicated.”

“Oh, relax,” Zara groaned. “What difference does it make? It’s not as if Helena will ever actually meet her. You’ll probably never see her again yourself.”

Her words, although true, were an arrow straight to his heart. He felt himself caving in beneath their weight.

He straightened. Why should he care if he ever saw Miss Scott again? There were plenty of beautiful women right here in England, none of whom made a habit of looking at him with obvious disdain in their eyes. Still, it was a struggle to clear his throat and speak with any sort of composure. “True.”

Zara laughed. “And it’s a good thing. Can you imagine if she were here? Helena would eat her alive.”

Donovan shuddered.

Eat her alive indeed.

* * *

Elizabeth’s first impression of London was that it was rather like looking at New York through rose-colored glasses. The people were far more fashionable. There wasn’t a pair of white athletic shoes in sight, and you couldn’t swing a stick without hitting someone with a fashionable Burberry scarf wound around their neck. Everything seemed cleaner, too, as if the city had recently had a good scrubbing. Then again, she was gathering her first impression of London from behind the privacy windows of a fancy black Jaguar.

The driver and his luxurious car had been the Barrows’ doing. A kind gesture, but one that made Elizabeth a tad nervous nonetheless. As she’d slid into the supple leather backseat with Bliss curled in her lap, she couldn’t help but wonder what exactly she’d gotten herself into. Jenna had insisted the Barrows were rich. Elizabeth had no argument there. They’d just hired a dog nanny, for crying out loud.

Oh, God, had she lost her mind? She’d just moved halfway across the world to become a dog nanny.

Calm down. It’s only temporary. Four weeks. The duration of the investigation.

Even if things didn’t get straightened out at the Barclay School, it wasn’t as if she could move to England forever.

Could she?

Her mother had reacted with predictable horror to the news. “Elizabeth, you can’t be serious. You’re a teacher, not a babysitter. These people you’ve only just met want you to be their nanny, for goodness’ sake. And not even for children. For dogs. What are they thinking? What are you thinking? You have a perfectly good job waiting for you at Scott Bridal.”

Elizabeth had refrained from pointing out that working at the bridal shop hardly constituted a teaching position, either. There was little point in rocking the boat any more than necessary. She’d made up her mind. “I won’t just be their nanny. I’m going to show the dogs for the Barrows at the autumn shows. I helped them out at the show in New Jersey and did quite well. Better than I’ve ever done with my own dog, actually. This is my chance to see England, all expenses paid. And the timing is perfect, since I’m on hiatus from school.”

It had been almost frightening the way the words on hiatus had fallen right off her tongue. Elizabeth wasn’t about to tell her family about the accusations Grant Markham had leveled against her. With the exception of Jenna, she hadn’t breathed a word about it to another soul. In the meantime, words like hiatus and temporary layoff had a much better ring than extortion and investigation. Her mother had pressed for more information, naturally. But Elizabeth had managed to satisfy her maternal curiosity by blaming the bad economy and skyrocketing unemployment.

At least Jenna had been supportive.

“Of course you’re going,” she’d said. “This is perfect for you.”

Elizabeth had wished, not for the first time, that Jenna was accompanying her. She’d felt awful leaving her behind at Scott Bridal. “You promised to visit. Remember?”

“Of course. As soon as you get settled, I’ll be on the first plane across the pond. Don’t tell me you’re worried about being lonely? Bliss is going with you. And the Barrows seem like sweethearts.” Then Jenna’s eyes had sparkled with mischief. “Hey, I just thought of something. You know someone else over there. Besides the Barrows, I mean.”

“What are you talking about?” Elizabeth had asked, but she’d had the uneasy feeling she knew precisely who Jenna meant.

“That hot judge from the dog show. What was his name again? Daniel?”

“Darcy,” Elizabeth had corrected, hating the way her stomach had flipped when she’d said his name.

“Are you sure it wasn’t Daniel?” Jenna had sounded wistful.

“You seriously need to get over your Daniel Craig fixation. I’m sure. It’s Darcy. Donovan Darcy.”

“Well, there you go. Donovan Darcy. Someone to keep you company in jolly old England.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Elizabeth had protested, but her cheeks had grown warm all the same.

“Why is it ridiculous? I think it sounds marvelous. He’s gorgeous. And remember his accent? Oh, my God.”

Elizabeth had remembered his accent. All too well.

“Have you forgotten the woman he was with? The one who looked half my age?” Zara of the smooth forehead and designer shoes. “Besides, I’ll never run into him over there. He doesn’t even live in London. He lives in the country somewhere on a giant estate. At least that’s what Sue told me. It even has a name. Can you imagine?”

“A house with a name? Donovan Darcy is sounding better by the minute,” Jenna had teased.

Elizabeth had laughed along, but not once had she mentioned her chance meeting with Mr. Darcy on the street in Manhattan. She’d told herself it was because Jenna didn’t need any more ammunition, but she wasn’t altogether sure that was the whole truth.

In the backseat of the fancy Jaguar, guilt pricked her conscience. She rarely kept secrets from Jenna.

Quit overthinking things. It’s not a secret. It was nothing. Just a coincidence. It didn’t mean anything.

It meant nothing.

Nothing at all.

She fixed her gaze on the scenery out the window and wondered how soon she’d arrive at the Barrows’ townhome in South Kensington. She couldn’t help but notice the neighborhoods had grown exponentially more exclusive the farther the car carried her away from Heathrow.

Sue and Alan had seemed so down-to-earth and genuine at the show in New Jersey. Nothing at all like the proper, stuffy Mr. Darcy. Bowing to her and all. He might be attractive enough to make her weak in the knees, but he was more than a little intimidating.

“Here we are,” the driver called out as he maneuvered the elegant car onto a charming street called Sumner Place.

Elizabeth experienced a moment of relief at the sight of the graceful white row houses, with their low black wrought-iron fencing and meticulously shaped topiaries. Somehow the neighborhood managed to look both affluent and welcoming at the same time. At one end of the street was a quaint stone church with a steeple rising high up to the sky, and at the other, a cupcake bakery with lace curtains fluttering in the windows.

Elizabeth gave Bliss a squeeze. “We’re going to love it here. I can tell already.”

The driver pulled alongside the curb—the one on the left-hand side of the street, Elizabeth noted—and opened the door for her.

“Elizabeth, you made it, dear.” Sue appeared on the porch and held her arms open wide, putting to rest any stereotypes about the British being reserved.

Elizabeth grinned and led Bliss up the three small steps to the porch. She stepped into Sue’s embrace and was somewhat surprised when a lump lodged in her throat. She supposed it wasn’t until she was standing on British soil, wrapped in a pair of maternal arms, that the full impact of what the Barrows had done for her really hit her full force. In their eyes it might have been a job, but to Elizabeth it felt more like a lifeline.

“Let’s get you inside. Alan’s at work, of course. I’ll show you and Bliss to your room, and then I’ll get you reacquainted with the girls.” Sue’s eyes sparkled as she spoke about her “girls,” the pack of Border terriers that would be Elizabeth’s charges.

“That sounds wonderful.” She turned, prepared to go back to the car for her luggage, but the driver had already carried both her big bags in. They sat at the foot of the very narrow staircase, just inside the door.

Sue pressed a few colorful bills into his hand, and he was off. The Jaguar barely made a sound as it pulled away from the curb.

“Thank you for sending the car, by the way. You’re spoiling me. I could have taken a cab.” Elizabeth gathered Bliss into her arms and followed Sue across the threshold. The foyer of the row house was painted with bold black and white stripes. An umbrella stand filled with cherry-red umbrellas stood next to a shiny full-length mirror. Bliss caught a glimpse of her reflection and growled.

Elizabeth could tell at once that the house suited the Barrows. It was casually elegant and welcoming, just like Sue and Alan. She was ashamed of herself for worrying that she would feel uncomfortable here.

“Just leave the bags there. We’ll get to those later. I’m anxious for you to see your room. We’ve just had it redone. I’m afraid it’s on the second floor. That’s the downside.” Sue began climbing the slender staircase.

Elizabeth followed. Bliss planted her head on Elizabeth’s shoulder and kept her eyes trained on her reflection until it was out of view. “We’re accustomed to stairs. My apartment in New York is on the fourth floor.”

Was on the fourth floor. She had to keep reminding herself that she was no longer a New Yorker. All of her things were currently stashed away in a storage unit in Queens. Even with a temporary job, she couldn’t afford to pay rent on a Manhattan apartment when she wasn’t even there.

Perhaps she could call herself a Londoner for the time being. That had an awfully nice ring to it.

The climb was longer than she expected, but still not as strenuous as the trek up to her New York apartment. Sue explained that in Europe, what Americans referred to as the first floor was called the ground floor. What Elizabeth knew as the second floor was subsequently the first floor in England, and so on. So her bedroom was situated on the top floor of the home, up three flights of stairs.

Sue led her through a set of white double doors at the top of the staircase.

“What do you think?” Sue waved her hand with a little flourish. “I do hope you like blue.”

Elizabeth was at a loss for words. It was the most beautiful bedroom she’d ever laid eyes on. The walls were covered in pale blue toile wallpaper that featured scenes of French women in ball gowns and large powdered wigs. Tiny dogs danced around their feet. The duvet cover on the four-poster bed was fashioned from matching fabric, as were a pile of overstuffed throw pillows.

Elizabeth ran her fingertips along the smooth white wood of one of the posts at the foot of the bed. “Oh, Sue. This can’t possibly be your guest room. It’s gorgeous.”

“It is most definitely the guest room. I could never convince Alan to sleep anywhere so girlie. Or froufrou, as he calls it.” She shrugged.

Elizabeth shook her head, struggling to take it all in. “This room is fit for a princess. Not a dog nanny.”

“Oh, don’t be silly. What’s the use of having such a pretty room if no one’s enjoying it?” Sue grinned. “So, you like it, then?”

“Are you kidding? I love it.” Elizabeth gave Bliss a squeeze and released her to explore their new home. Much to Sue’s delight, she shuffled straight to a sweet little dog bed with a toile cushion that matched the duvet cover. “Correction—we love it.”

Elizabeth gave Bliss a little pat and noticed the large window on the far wall, framed with a generously proportioned window seat. More throw pillows, toile and pale blue crushed velvet, made the bench a cozy-looking refuge. She felt drawn to the area at once, captivated by the view of Sue’s charming neighborhood.

“This is fantastic. Look, I can see everything from up here.”

“Yes, it’s an excellent spot for spying on the neighbors.” Sue clapped her hands. “Success, then. I want you to feel at home here. There’s a tiny kitchenette at the end of the hall, right next to the water closet.”

“Water closet?” Elizabeth turned away from the window and searched Sue’s face for a clue. All she saw was a hint of amusement.

“The powder room, dear.” She laughed. “Don’t worry. We’ll make a Brit of you before you know it.”

Elizabeth had known she coddled Bliss, but she hadn’t realized to what extent until she’d been introduced once again to Sue’s Border terriers. They were the most perfectly trained dogs she’d ever seen. It was remarkable. They moved in flawless unison. If Elizabeth told one of them to sit, they all planted their rumps on the ground at the same exact moment. A down command elicited a similar uniform response. After only an hour of looking after them, Elizabeth had begun thinking of them not as a pack of dogs but rather a military unit. A scruffy, wirehaired infantry.

The jet lag hit Elizabeth full force, and by nine o’clock she could barely keep her eyes open. She slipped into her nightgown and situated herself on the window seat. As she gazed out at the darkened London street and reflected on her first day in the Barrows’ household, Elizabeth wondered why they’d hired her. Other than to help out at the shows, of course.

Those dogs—Violet, Hyacinth, Daisy and Rose—could run the house themselves. They hardly needed a nanny. Although she supposed they were smart enough to get in serious trouble if left to their own devices. They had a television in their room. Or the telly, as Sue had called it. When the house was empty, Sue left it on to keep them company. Elizabeth wouldn’t have been surprised if the Border terriers tuned in to the home-shopping channel, dialed the phone with their little paws and ran up thousands of dollars in credit-card bills for crazy things like the ShamWow or a blanket with sleeves. That was the kind of intelligence they possessed. These were not normal dogs she was dealing with.

Bliss danced around on her hind legs, peeking over the edge of the seat until Elizabeth scooped her up. Not that the Cavalier wasn’t fully capable of jumping up there on her own. She was spoiled, plain and simple.

“Yep, you’re spoiled,” Elizabeth murmured as she surrendered and ran her fingers over the Cavalier’s silky chestnut ears. “But I love you just the way you are.”

Bliss let out a little snuffling sound and wedged her way between one of Elizabeth’s legs and the neat row of velvet pillows. Behind her, the window glowed with the soft yellow light of the streetlamps that lined the sidewalk below. Elizabeth smiled at the bright red telephone booth she could make out, even in the dark, right next to the cupcake bakery on the corner.

London was charming.

Elizabeth had been in the country for all of fifteen hours, and she was smitten with the place. The street was quiet now. The cupcake bakery’s windows were darkened. Some of the quaint row houses had lights on, but only in one or two windows. Even the church down the street had stopped ringing its bells every hour, on the hour. South Kensington was packing it in for the night.

But as Elizabeth scooped all sixteen pounds of Bliss’s dead weight into her arms, ready to head for bed, she spotted something out the window that gave her pause.

Another Cavalier!

She planted Bliss back among the pillows and leaned toward the windowpane for a closer look.

Her bedroom was three floors up, but she could spot a fluffy, wagging Cavalier tail from any distance. The dog prancing around on the threshold of the house across the street was most definitely a Cavalier King Charles spaniel. She squinted and tried to make out the dog’s owner.

It was a man. But from so high up, and in the dark, she couldn’t tell much else. He appeared to be wearing jeans and a sweater, but there was something about the way he moved that carried an air of formality.

They meandered down the street and, once they’d reached the church, turned back toward home. The man kept a watchful eye on his Cavalier until they’d made it about halfway down the block. Then he suddenly turned his face toward her window.

Elizabeth couldn’t make out his expression in the darkness, or his features, for that matter. But her face flushed with heat as she watched him watching her. He stood on the sidewalk with moonlight caressing his broad shoulders for a long while. Longer than seemed appropriate. Not that anything about spying on the neighbors was necessarily appropriate.

Elizabeth knew she should back away from the window and head for bed. She couldn’t seem to make herself do it. For some inexplicable reason, she felt drawn toward the pair outside. She told herself it was because of the dog, of course. Another Cavalier. Why wouldn’t she be curious? But the way her heart pounded told her there was a bit more to it than that.

He waved. It was just a slight movement of his free hand, but the stir it caused inside Elizabeth was sizable. She returned the gesture.

The man tilted his head, as though studying her. She was struck with the sudden worry that he could see her face. Could he tell who she was?

Surely not.

What did it matter, anyway? She didn’t know a soul here, besides the Barrows. She was anonymous. Invisible.

She swallowed, but a flutter rose up from her belly and settled in her chest. Sitting there, in silent communion with this stranger on a London street, she didn’t feel invisible at all. In fact, she felt anything but. She felt alive.

Disappointment tugged at her consciousness when he looked back down at his dog. They headed toward home. Elizabeth kept watching as he opened the door and the pair slipped inside.

“Come on, sweetheart,” she murmured to Bliss. “Time for bed.”

She crawled under the covers of the impressive four-poster bed, with Bliss curled by her side. Even though she’d traveled clear across the Atlantic Ocean that day and was exhausted beyond comprehension, Elizabeth lay awake for quite a while before she fell asleep. She tingled all over, from head to toe.

At last her eyes fluttered shut. And for the first time in a week, she wasn’t awakened by nightmares of Grant Markham.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.