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      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 СКАЧАТЬ