Unleashing Mr Darcy. Teri Wilson

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

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