Unleashing Mr. Darcy

by Teri Wilson

  She spun on her heel and stormed out of the tent.

  * * *

  She’d turned him down.

  Donovan couldn’t quite wrap his mind around it. He’d invited Elizabeth to Chadwicke, and she’d actually said no.

  He didn’t know whether to be impressed or livid.

  He settled on livid. It wasn’t so much a decision, though, as a knee-jerk reaction. He strode out of the hospitality tent, frustration and general displeasure propelling his every footstep.

  “Mr. Darcy,” the ring steward said as he approached. “Are you ready for the...”

  “Call the Border terriers into the ring,” Donovan snapped, cutting him off. “Now. We’re already behind schedule.”

  Donovan situated himself in the center of the ring as the steward scrambled around like a nervous Chihuahua, gathering the exhibitors together.

  Elizabeth stood beside the white lattice entrance, poised to enter the ring. Unlike her fellow exhibitors, she appeared completely unruffled. Composed and confident, as though she hadn’t just been with him in the hospitality tent on the verge of doing God knows what.

  Donovan inhaled a ragged breath. He knew what they’d been on the verge of doing. He was still trying to steady his breath from the mere thought of it. And yet she’d refused to consider going away with him for the weekend—as if it was perfectly acceptable to shag him, but not to be seen with him.

  Dear God, I sound like a woman. What is Elizabeth Scott doing to me?

  Donovan’s blood boiled.

  He crossed his arms and stared at the three Border terriers and their handlers now lined up in the ring. “I’d like to see all the dogs go around together, please.”

  Two out of the three handlers flinched, Elizabeth the exception. Perhaps he’d barked out his instructions more harshly than he intended. So be it. Frustration—sexual and otherwise—tended to make a man irritable. And he was only human, after all.

  He watched the dogs strut around the ring. Keeping his gaze fixed on the Borders rather than Elizabeth’s shapely legs was a bit of a struggle, but somehow he managed.

  First up was Sue Barrow, with Violet on the end of her show lead, if Donovan’s memory served correctly. Sue flashed him a nervous smile as he approached, and a stab of guilt pierced his consciousness. On some level, he knew it was wrong to take his frustration out on someone as nice as Sue Barrow. Just the other night he’d enjoyed her tea and biscuits as they’d watched that silly but somehow still enjoyable dance program.

  He forced himself to smile and nod politely when he reached the table, where she’d arranged Violet in a perfect show stack. Border terriers were smart dogs, keen on learning and pleasing their masters. Even so, Donovan was impressed with Sue’s quartet of terriers. She’d clearly spent a great deal of time training her dogs. Violet stood solid as a rock as Donovan examined her. Legs straight, back level, eyes focused forward. A true canine professional.

  Donovan gave the dog a gentle pat on the rump at the end of the examination. “Good girl.” He switched his focus to Sue Barrow and winked. “Down and back, please.”

  “Yes, sir. I mean, Mr. Darcy.” The older woman blushed like a schoolgirl. “Sir.”

  Sue lifted Violet from the table and placed her on the ground. Donovan took the moment of downtime to glance over at Elizabeth, who gazed back at him coolly.

  He frowned, crossed his arms and turned to watch Violet’s down-and-back. The dog strode to the corner and turned with elegantly elongated legs. On the way back, she glanced up at Sue every few paces. Or, more accurately, she glanced at the sizable chunk of cooked liver Sue had clamped between her teeth. Donovan suppressed a shudder. He’d always despised liver, even though it was a staple wherever he went. Being both a Brit and a dog-show judge, he was destined to run in the same circles as liver. It was his livery cross to bear.

  Sue and her dog stopped a meter or so in front of Donovan, and Violet struck a regal pose.

  “Very nice.” Donovan nodded. “All the way around, please, and I’ll have the next exhibitor up on the table.”

  The second Border terrier wasn’t even in the running. It possessed none of the grace and substance of either of the Barrow terriers. And Donovan would have bet a good portion of his fortune that someone had colored the dog’s nose with a black Sharpie marker. It was too black for nature. And the poor soul looked somewhat dazed. High from the marker fumes, probably.

  Donovan gave the unfortunate dog a cursory once-over. He glowered at the handler. “Down and back.”

  She scooped the dog off the table, nearly smothering it with her giant bosom in the process, and plopped it on the ground. The Border terrier froze for half a second, and his eyes darted toward the ring gates. Donovan almost expected the dog to make a break for it. But the handler, oblivious to what was happening on the other end of the leash, trotted toward the corner, jerking the dog along with her.

  Disgusted, Donovan shook his head. He had half a mind to withhold another ribbon, just to punish the inept handler. But the dog didn’t possess any disqualifying faults other than the human running alongside it.

  Fine. I’ll place them last.

  Donovan released a resigned sigh.

  He ignored the dog’s weak stack at the end of the down-and-back and stalked toward the table where Elizabeth waited alongside one of the Barrow terriers.

  Rose.

  Or maybe it was Daisy.

  No, Rose. He was certain.

  “Good day, Miss Scott,” he said tersely as he examined the set of Rose’s teeth.

  “Mr. Darcy,” she replied, dripping venom with every syllable.

  He smirked. “Nice bite.”

  He released the dog’s mouth and checked the set of her shoulders.

  “I get it. You’re angry. But you really shouldn’t take it out on the steward and the other exhibitors.” Elizabeth’s words were scarcely audible, but they left their mark all the same.

  Not that Donovan cared. The Sharpie-wielding second exhibitor didn’t deserve anything beyond professional courtesy, and he’d been nice to Sue Barrow. Hadn’t he?

  “I was civil, especially to Sue.”

  “Yes, I noticed the wink. Flirt.” Elizabeth rolled her eyes.

  “Jealous? Again?” he asked as he stepped away from the table.

  Elizabeth laughed. Actually laughed right there in the ring.

  Donovan’s jaw clenched as she breezed past him toward the corner of the ring before he even had a chance to instruct her on the down-and-back. The dog did well, he supposed. In truth, he’d forgotten to watch.

  “All the dogs together, please. One lap around,” he called as he considered how to rank the terriers.

  The black-nosed dog was last. Obviously. But it was a toss-up between the two Barrow dogs. Both of them deserved the win. He couldn’t really go wrong placing either of them first. He should award the victory to Sue. They were both her dogs, after all. And it wouldn’t hurt to give Elizabeth a little dose of humility, he supposed.

  But when the moment came, Donovan pointed directly to Elizabeth. It was as if she were a magnet, drawing him toward her. Again and again.

  “Our Winner,” he called out, and she beamed. Something inside Donovan thawed.

  He awarded the ribbons and sashes in opposite order this time—the third-place dog first, followed by a gracious Sue Barrow thanking him as he handed her a second-place rosette.

  Then it was Elizabeth’s turn.

  Donovan offered her the silky first-place ribbon and slipped the sash over her head, pausing to inhale the citrusy scent of her shampoo. “Congratulations, Miss Scott.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Darcy.” Elizabeth curtsied ever so slightly, but enough for him to get a brief glimpse down the front of her dress. Donovan doubted the move was intentional, but he took advanta
ge of the view nonetheless.

  “My pleasure.” He lifted an amused brow and kept a firm hold on the ribbon as she tugged on it, just as he had at that first dog show in New Jersey all those weeks ago.

  “You realize this doesn’t change anything,” she muttered under her breath, her winning smile remaining firmly fixed in place. “I’m still not going to Chadwicke with you next weekend.”

  “Are you challenging my integrity as a judge, Miss Scott?” Donovan angled his head toward her and released his grip on the ribbon. As Elizabeth pulled it free, he let his fingertips skim the soft skin on the back of her hand. “I’m shocked. Horrified, really,” he deadpanned as a telltale cluster of goose bumps broke out on Elizabeth’s arm.

  She jerked her hand away and a lovely scarlet flush rose to her cheeks. “I’m serious, Donovan. My answer is no.”

  “So I heard,” Donovan said with a smile.

  His pleased expression clearly caught her off guard. She narrowed her gaze at him, her fine eyes searching his for an explanation.

  And finally Donovan felt the remaining edges of his irritation soften. His smile grew wider, but he didn’t explain himself to Elizabeth. Let her wonder, he decided.

  She would be at Chadwicke.

  Donovan knew exactly how to get her there.

  That’s right, Miss Scott. There’s more than one way to skin a cat.

  15

  Henry climbed into the passenger seat of Donovan’s Aston Martin the next morning wearing the smile of a man with a secret.

  “Morning, mate,” he said as he folded himself into the leather bucket seat.

  “Good morning.” Donovan frowned as he pulled the car away from the curb and into London’s morning traffic.

  He and Henry were headed to the home of Collin Montgomery, undoubtedly one of the most annoying human beings in England, if not the world. Donovan ordinarily made it a practice to avoid the man at all costs, lest he become the target of one of Mr. Montgomery’s rambling monologues, the subjects of which ran the gamut from freezing canine semen to his preferred technique for expressing his dogs’ anal glands. Donovan had blanched at that last one. In his opinion, there was only one single method for accomplishing such an objectionable chore—paying someone else to do it.

  His eccentricities aside, Collin Montgomery was England’s foremost breeder of that bastion of the Toy Group, the Pekingese. At first glance, the Pekingese was all coat. Many a dog-show novice had mistaken the breed for a mop rather than a dog. But underneath all that fuzz, a proper Pekingese possessed a broad chest, heavy bone and good rib spring. The only way to discern such qualities amid masses of coat was a pair of skillful, experienced hands. Henry needed to get his hands on as many Pekingese as he could before he would know what he was doing. Thus, this morning’s trip to the dark side, as Donovan had come to think of it.

  “What are you glowering about this fine morning?” Henry asked in a manner so cheerful it bordered on maddening.

  “You’ll find out soon enough.” Donovan sped away from Henry’s flat in posh Knightsbridge and headed toward Belgravia. “This Montgomery fellow is a piece of work.”

  Henry laughed. “He can’t be that bad.”

  Donovan lifted a brow. “You may change your tune after an hour or so, but at least you’ll know a thing or two about the Pekingese.”

  “Thank you for the help. As you know, I can use it. Those mop dogs never fail to confound me. I’m sure Montgomery is more bearable than you make him out to be. You can be a harsh judge of character. You’ve said so yourself.”

  Donovan had no response to this. He simply grinned instead.

  “Ah, a smile at last,” Henry said. “And here I thought you were upset about that business in the paper.”

  Donovan’s smile faded instantaneously. “And what business would that be?”

  Henry fell silent at once.

  “Henry?” Donovan prompted.

  “It’s the Daily Mail.” Henry sighed. “Again. You mean you haven’t seen it?”

  “I don’t make it a practice to read that rubbish. You know that. The only reason I saw the photo from the champagne bar at Harrods was because of Zara.” He wished she didn’t love gossip so much. Perhaps it was the sort of thing teenage girls grew out of. He hoped so. Then again, if that was the case, how did the Daily Mail stay in business?

  “You might want to take a look at this morning’s edition. That’s all I’m saying.” Henry kept his gaze focused out the window, but Donovan could see the pleasure in his eyes, plain as day.

  “Might I say you’re even more good-humored today than usual. Anything I should know about?”

  “It’s Jenna.” When he said her name, Henry sounded like a lovesick schoolboy. “Jenna Scott.”

  Donovan had seen his friend this way more than once over the years. When Henry fell in love, he fell quick and hard. On this particular occasion, Donovan welcomed Henry’s unrestrained infatuation. He intended to take full advantage of it. “You still fancy her, then.”

  “Oh, yes. I’ve seen her every night this week. She’s the most beautiful creature I ever beheld.”

  Donovan cleared his throat. It was time to make his move. “I suppose you’d like to invite her to my little soiree at Chadwicke?” he asked as casually as possible.

  “That would be outstanding.” Henry grinned from ear to ear. “Upon my honor, I believe I might in be love.”

  Upon my honor indeed. Donovan fought an eye roll.

  “Seriously, Darcy. I think she might be the one.”

  “Very well, then. Invite her to Chadwicke. Perhaps the weekend will culminate in a marriage proposal.” Donovan smirked at the idea.

  “Don’t laugh,” Henry admonished as Donovan pulled up in front of Collin Montgomery’s home. “You never know about these things.”

  Donovan killed the ignition. “Do me a favor, mate.”

  “Anything,” Henry said as he unfastened his seat belt. “Name it.”

  “Make sure Jenna brings Elizabeth with her to Chadwicke.”

  Henry’s brow furrowed. “I would have thought you’d invited her yourself by now.”

  Invited her? Yes.

  And subsequently been shot down in flames.

  The turn of events still rubbed him entirely the wrong way. And to add insult to injury, Henry was romancing Elizabeth’s sister all over the city. “I’d prefer Jenna to see to it that she comes. Can we just leave it at that?”

  “Of course.” Henry shook his head, clearly baffled. Then again, it didn’t take much to baffle Henry. “Although, from what I saw in the Daily Mail, you should have no trouble getting her there yourself,” he muttered as he climbed out of the car.

  “Excuse me?” Donovan asked over the top of the Aston Martin.

  Henry simply buttoned his coat and shook his head. “Oh, no. I’m not telling you. You’re not interested in that sort of rubbish, remember?”

  Before Donovan could pound on the roof of the car and demand an explanation, Collin Montgomery paraded his way down the walk, with a trail of puffball Pekingese dogs bobbing along behind him. “Gentlemen! You’ve arrived. Splendid.”

  Henry shot Donovan a glance.

  Donovan had to stifle a laugh. “Montgomery. Good day—may I introduce my longtime friend Henry Robson? As I mentioned when I phoned last week, Henry is a provisional judge and would like a lesson in Pekingese conformation.”

  “Fabulous!” Montgomery clapped his hands. Several enormous rings, all sporting clusters of diamonds—or, more likely, stones resembling diamonds—glittered in the morning sunshine. “Follow me, boys. Pekingese Palace awaits.”

  “Pekingese Palace?” Henry muttered as they followed Montgomery up the steps toward a Victorian-era row house painted fire-engine red. “Is this guy for real, or are you pulling my le
g?”

  “Oh, he’s real all right. But he knows his stuff.”

  Once inside the foyer, Montgomery closed the door behind them. Donovan gazed at the surroundings and squinted. Every available surface was littered with some sort of figurine or sculpture paying homage to Montgomery’s breed, such as little Pekingese faces crafted from marble, crystal and cut glass. Donovan was struck with a memory of someone once telling him that Montgomery even owned bedroom slippers that resembled a pair of show-groomed Pekingese dogs. He hoped to God it wasn’t true. Or if it was, that he would never bear witness to the rumor’s authenticity.

  “And how are you, Mr. Darcy?” Montgomery gushed. “And your lovely aunt Constance? What a wonderful woman, your aunt.”

  He may have said more, most likely did. But on the ornate round table in the center of the foyer, among the dog figurines and half buried beneath the latest copy of Show Dog Quarterly, was today’s edition of the Daily Mail.

  Donovan eyed the newspaper and nodded absently at whatever Montgomery was saying. He’d made up his mind he wasn’t going to look at it. He didn’t give a damn what the Society page had to say about him, even though Henry had clearly found it amusing.

  But faced with the black-and-white evidence, his resistance wavered. Perhaps it was another tantalizing photo of Miss Scott and himself. He decided that maybe he should give it a gander, if for no other reason than to enjoy a most pleasant memory.

  He dragged his gaze from the newsprint and focused once again on the present company.

  It appeared he hadn’t missed much. Montgomery was droning on and on. And on.

  “...my wife will be dreadfully sorry she missed your visit. She would be so thrilled to meet you. Mr. Donovan Darcy and his handsome friend, here in our humble home.”

  Donovan glanced at a gilt-framed mirror that would have been more at home in Cleopatra’s bedroom than in a London townhome. The home was hardly humble. But the real revelation was that Montgomery was married.

  Henry lifted his brows and blinked a few times.

  Donovan tilted his head. “Pardon?”