by Teri Wilson
Helena seemed to have no trouble maneuvering across the grass in her stilettoes, Elizabeth noted with a stab of envy. She looked as though she were floating.
Donovan slid his gaze toward Elizabeth. There was a challenge in his eyes, one that tickled Elizabeth’s insides. “That won’t be necessary. I’d like Elizabeth to present the trophy to the winning team.”
Super.
She felt totally out of place as it was. The last thing she needed was to draw attention to herself by handing out trophies like she was Kate Middleton or, or...Helena Robson, for heaven’s sake. She made a move to protest, but Donovan’s aunt cut her off.
“I see.” Aunt Constance smiled. It looked a little tense around the edges, but at least it was a smile. “Brilliant. Elizabeth, I do hope you’ll keep me company during the match. My nephew speaks so highly of you. I’d be delighted to get acquainted.”
Elizabeth smiled back. Woodenly. She’d hoped to spend the morning getting to know Zara, but she couldn’t exactly ignore Donovan’s aunt, could she? “I’d love to. That would be nice.”
“Very well, then.” Donovan grinned, his perfect teeth nearly as white as his polo pants. Which, of course, looked even hotter on him than Jenna had predicted. “I’ll see you after the match.”
He cupped a hand around Elizabeth’s elbow and pulled her to the side. He bent low and whispered, his voice sending a hum through her, “And I’ll see you when you hand me that silver trophy.”
“You’re awfully confident.” She looked up at him and gave him her best smirk, although she was beginning to feel less and less like smirking around him lately. Odd phenomenon, that.
“Always,” he said. “If you care to make it interesting, we could always make a wager. If my team wins, then this afternoon I have you all to myself. Just the two of us.”
A rumble of nervousness skittered through Elizabeth. Or was that arousal? “Just the two of us?”
“Just the two of us. You’d be all mine. Or should I say I’d be all yours?” The corner of his lips lifted in a crooked, suggestive grin. “What do you say?”
Visions of him, all wet and intense climbing out of the lap pool, danced in her head. “I say I know better than to bet against you, Donovan Darcy.”
“We’ll see about that.” He leaned forward and gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek.
He winked and strode off toward the stables, leaving her in the company of his aunt, Helena and, thankfully, Jenna. Elizabeth struggled mightily not to stare at his backside clad in those formfitting white pants as he retreated.
She took a steadying breath and turned her attention back to the three women.
“Elizabeth.” Helena, oozing charm, drew her name out to at least ten syllables. “Would you care for a mimosa?”
“Thank you.” She took a crystal goblet from Helena’s finely manicured hand.
“Isn’t this a positively gorgeous morning for polo?” Helena batted her ridiculous eyelashes and lifted her mimosa toward her lips. Her arm suddenly stopped, and she gasped. “Oh, how insensitive of me. You’ve probably never attended a polo match before, have you, Elizabeth and Jenna? I mean, polo isn’t exactly commonplace in New Jersey, is it?”
Was it Elizabeth’s imagination, or did her emphasis on New Jersey seem laced with disdain? Like someone all too familiar with those crazy kids on Jersey Shore?
“New Jersey?” Donovan’s aunt frowned. “I thought Donovan said you were from New York City?”
“I am. I live in Manhattan.” For simplicity’s sake, she decided to use the present tense. “Although I’m originally from New Jersey. My family still lives there.”
“Yes, my mother, sisters and I run a family business there.” A glimmer of pride flickered in Jenna’s eyes.
“I see.” Aunt Constance nodded.
Beside her, Helena smiled sweetly. A little too sweetly. Elizabeth tried to remember when exactly she’d told her she was from New Jersey. For the life of her, she couldn’t remember.
“And what do you do, Elizabeth, in New York? Do you work?” Aunt Constance’s nose wrinkled a bit, as if she’d gotten a whiff of fruit that had recently gone too soft.
It took a superhuman effort for Elizabeth not to snort with laughter. Did she work? As if she could ever afford to live in Manhattan without gainful employment. She glanced at Helena, with her flawless manicure and Real Housewives eyelashes, and wondered if she’d ever worked a day in her life. Somehow, Elizabeth knew she hadn’t.
“I teach at a private school there.”
Taught. You’re not a teacher anymore, remember?
Would she ever grow accustomed to this new state of affairs?
“Elizabeth is a teacher at the Barclay School,” Helena said with a knowing gleam in her eye. “You know the Barclay School, Constance.”
“Of course.” Aunt Constance nodded absently. “We have friends across the pond who are benefactors there. Excellent school. Excellent indeed.”
Elizabeth squeezed her mimosa with such force she was a bit stunned when it didn’t shatter in her hand. How did Helena know about the Barclay School? Elizabeth was certain she’d never told her the name of the school where she’d taught. She’d never even mentioned it to Donovan, much less a near stranger.
She aimed a questioning look at Jenna, in case she’d somehow mentioned it to Henry, but Jenna didn’t seem to notice. She was staring in Henry’s direction. Yet again.
“Did you attend the Barclay School when you were girls?” Aunt Constance asked, suddenly visibly more interested in the conversation.
Jenna shook her head.
Elizabeth said, “No, ma’am. I attended school in New Jersey.” God, could they talk about something else? Anything else? She would rather have discussed Snooki or The Situation than the Barclay School.
Aunt Constance’s face fell. “Private school?”
“No, public.” Elizabeth was beginning to feel as though she were on a job interview. And by all appearances, Helena Robson had somehow already procured a copy of her résumé.
She couldn’t have been happier when the rumble of horses told her the polo match was at last under way. Elizabeth and Jenna excused themselves and made their way to the edge of the tent, as close as they could get to the polo field. The ground shook beneath Elizabeth’s feet as Donovan and seven other players thundered past her. It was all so elegant—the riders in their polished leather boots and the horses with their glistening coats and colorful leg wraps.
What was it Alan had said when Sue had mentioned Elizabeth would be attending a polo match at Chadwicke?
Ah, the game of kings.
The moniker was certainly fitting. And Donovan had never looked more regal than he did at that precise moment. He looked so natural in the saddle, as if he’d been born on horseback.
He shot Elizabeth a dazzling smile as his horse galloped past her. In spite of everything—his maddening sense of entitlement, her disdain and mistrust of all he stood for—when he looked at her like that she couldn’t help but feel regal, too. Almost like a princess.
* * *
Donovan stood along with his three teammates beside the referee in the center of the field as the announcement was made. His damp hair, fresh from his postgame shower, rippled in the breeze.
“And the winner of the Twelfth Annual Chadwicke Cup Charity Polo Match is our host Donovan Darcy’s team, Royal Salute.”
An enthusiastic round of applause and a few whoops and hollers followed, most notably from Henry, who slapped Donovan on the back with enough force to fell an elephant. Donovan swallowed a cough and stepped forward to shake the referee’s hand.
“Thank you, sir,” he said.
The referee replied. Of what exactly he said, Donovan couldn’t be certain. He was having trouble focusing on anything but Elizabeth. She stood behind th
e referee with that lovely chestnut hair whipping in the wind, holding the great silver trophy that was always awarded to the winning team. She looked as though she were having trouble hanging on to the bulky thing. It was rather heavy, as Donovan recalled.
“And here to make the trophy presentation is Miss Elizabeth Scott.”
At the mention of Elizabeth’s name, Donovan snapped back to attention. The referee stepped aside and made room for her to stand right next to Donovan.
“Congratulations, Mr. Darcy.” She held the trophy aloft. It wobbled slightly.
Donovan took it from her and gave her a kiss on either cheek, as was customary. “Thank you, Miss Scott.”
She smiled, a welcome sight.
At once, everyone around them burst into applause and celebration. Henry produced a bottle of champagne seemingly from nowhere and commenced spraying anyone within ten feet with foam.
With his free arm, Donovan grabbed Elizabeth around the waist and scooped her off her feet.
“Donovan! What are you doing?” She squealed and clutched at his shirt, holding on for dear life.
As if he would drop her. She seemed to weigh less than the trophy.
“Saving you. Whenever Henry is on the winning team, things tend to get rather messy.” He whisked her away from the center of the celebration, handing the trophy off to one of his teammates as he passed, a hulking chap by the name of Alfie who always served as Position Number One. Elizabeth squirmed against him, so he tightened his grip on her waist. “Hold still.”
“I will not hold still.” She swatted ineffectually at his shoulder. “Donovan, put me down. Put me down right now.”
During the match—somewhere among the whack of mallets and his stolen glimpses of Elizabeth standing on the fringes of it all, looking stunningly tragic—a revelation had hit Donovan. Simply put, he’d had enough.
Enough of the witty repartees, the flirtations, the near misses. Enough of this carnal need he had for her that, despite all his efforts to eradicate, refused to go away. Enough of the waiting, the endless waiting.
He wanted her.
Now, while she was his. Before they went back to London and she continued hiding herself away at the Barrows’ townhome—just across the street, not more than a stone’s throw away, but what felt to Donovan like a world apart.
“I’ll do no such thing. We had a deal. If my team was victorious, I’d have you all to myself until the ball tonight. I’m claiming my prize.” He carried her toward the main house, eager to slip away before his teammates noticed his absence and tried to drag him back for a victory celebration. The echo of his footsteps on the tile floor was the only sound Donovan heard when he reached the foyer, with Elizabeth still wiggling in his arms. Wiggling aside, he could feel every inch of her frame pressed against his. He wasn’t about to let that go without a struggle.
Having her now—right now—hadn’t been his original intention when he’d suggested the wager. He’d thought they might go on a picnic or saddle up a pair of the gentler horses and take a ride through the forest. He’d had a mind to show her the trees he’d climbed as a boy and the trail where he’d first learned to ride a bicycle.
Such innocent aspirations would have to wait, he’d decided. This restlessness that had taken over him since he’d first set eyes on her could not. Not another bloody minute.
He clenched his teeth in determination as he rounded the corner to the hallway leading to his wing.
Ah, blessed silence.
They were truly alone.
“Put me down, Donovan,” she huffed. “I’m not a prize. I’m a human being.”
“A woman.” He slowed to a stop outside his suite of rooms and slid his hand up her torso, the gray silk of her dress slipping through his fingers like water, and paused just before they reached her breasts. “I’m painfully aware.”
Her gaze fixed with his, and he saw fire there. Her brown eyes had gone molten. From anger? Or from something else? Donovan wasn’t altogether sure, but he most definitely had a preference.
He’d never forced himself on a woman before, and he wasn’t about to do so now. As much as he wanted her, he needed to know she wanted him just as badly.
“Anyway, as I recall, I refused to take that bet.” She righteously lifted her chin, but there was a tremor in her voice.
“But I won. Doesn’t that count for something?” He set her down gently. Just as he removed his hands from her, he sensed a tremble course through her.
But once free, she stayed right where she was. Only inches away. Close enough for Donovan to become lost in the scent of her. He paused for a long inhale. Her skin was delectable. It carried the fragrance of ripe berries nourished by the summer sun.
Elizabeth’s beautiful face filled with color—a soft, rosebud pink. Her sudden bashfulness made Donovan’s heart beat with a swift ferocity.
He was aware of little else but that scent, the flow of his blood and the rush of mounting desire sweeping through his body. He was nearly crippled by it. He wanted to touch her...anywhere. Everywhere.
He reached up and stroked the side of her cheek with a tender touch of his fingertips. “You’re a difficult woman to sweep off her feet, Elizabeth Scott.”
21
You’re a difficult woman to sweep off her feet.
Elizabeth forced out a laugh. She heard herself say “I guess you’ll just have to try a little harder, then.”
But everything inside her seemed to scream something entirely different. Consider me swept.
Donovan leaned in to kiss her, his intentions more than apparent in the sultry, determined look in his eyes. In the serious set of his jaw. He hadn’t been joking when he’d said he was ready to claim his prize. He’d been dead serious.
She hadn’t been teasing, either. She was no man’s trophy.
Her hands lifted, poised to push him away. But as his mouth came down on hers, she heard Donovan growl. She’d never heard such a sound pass his lips before. It was so atypical of him—it bespoke of such a lack of self-control—that Elizabeth heard herself groan in response.
Her hands, moments ago ready to shove him backward, splayed over his solid chest and worked themselves down...down...until she was tugging frantically at his shirt, pulling it loose from the waist of his pants.
He tore his mouth from hers long enough to pull his shirt over his head, and Elizabeth had to remind herself to breathe. She tried not to outright stare, but it was oh-so-difficult. His body was beautiful. He was beautiful. Every perfect inch of him.
The muscles that his snug-fitting polo uniform had only hinted at were on full display. Up close and personal, this time. He was sun-kissed, lean and powerfully built—surprisingly so, even after the glimpse she’d caught of him through Jenna’s window. Elizabeth’s first thought was that she’d had no idea just what kind of flawlessness had been hiding under those suits and ties he always wore.
Her second thought was that the sight of him half-undressed had clearly caused her to go mad. Because her fingers were now tugging on Donovan’s belt, unbuckling it and pulling it loose.
Donovan leaned into her, planted his elbows on the wall on either side of her head and watched her unbutton his pants, his expression one somewhere between fascination and pure, unadulterated satisfaction. “Are you trying to drive me mad? Because it’s working brilliantly.”
She was dimly aware of him reaching for the doorknob as she unzipped his fly. What had come over her? She’d never acted this way in her life.
“Elizabeth.” His voice was rough. Once again, the thought of him losing his ever-present control sent a tingle up Elizabeth’s spine. “Either you come inside this bedroom right now or I’m going to lift you up and carry you in myself.”
She laughed and his jaw hardened. True to his word, he wrapped his hands around her waist and sc
ooped her up, moving his hands up her dress and along the backs of her thighs in the process.
His fingers slipped inside her panties, and a riot of sensations skittered through Elizabeth’s body, most of them concentrated in the area between her legs and all of them pleasant.
Donovan kicked the door closed behind them, and she wrapped her legs around his waist before he could put her down. His fingers were teasing her, tormenting her, but she somehow managed to speak. “Look at you, sweeping me off my feet again. This is becoming a habit.”
“Mmm.” It wasn’t so much a word as a low groan of gratification.
He carried her to the nearest surface. Elizabeth wasn’t even sure what it was. A dresser, maybe? Her gaze was locked with his, and everything in the periphery was becoming hazier with each passing moment. The only thing she was fully aware of was the darkening of his eyes—warm, rich brown with hints of gold. His eyes were strong, almost hypnotic. And they seemed to see inside her, to her core.
She blinked, suddenly dizzy, and tightened her grip on the edge of the dresser or whatever it was.
“Elizabeth.” Her name was barely more than a sigh on his lips.
“Donovan.” She swallowed, unable to articulate more than that single word.
He cradled her face in his hands and ran the pad of his thumb along her bottom lip. Slowly, gently, until she thought she’d go mad with wanting.
“Kiss me,” she whispered, stunned she’d somehow found the ability to string two words together. “Please.”
She tilted her face toward his, and he responded with an identical tilt toward hers. Deliberate, slow, as if to prolong her desire. She felt his hardness pressing against her as he leaned into her, felt his breath coming quick in the rise and fall of his chest. And his fingers, once again slipping inside her, making her limp with pleasure.
“Please,” she all but whimpered. But the word barely left her mouth before it was swallowed up in his.
