Unleashing Mr Darcy. Teri Wilson

Чтение книги онлайн.

      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 СКАЧАТЬ