Читать книгу Unleashing Mr Darcy - Teri Wilson - Страница 8

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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.