Unleashing Mr Darcy

Mr. Darcy stood right where he was, rooted to the spot. Why wasn’t he leaving? What was he doing here, anyway? Although the collection of shopping bags dangling from Zara’s slender arms hinted at the purpose of their trip. Chanel. Gucci. And especially nauseating, Prada.

Elizabeth averted her gaze before she spotted a bag from Tiffany’s. She didn’t think she’d be able to stomach such a thing.

“Elizabeth, dear, is that you? It’s Sue. Sue Barrow.”

“Oh, Sue. How wonderful to hear from you.”

As she spoke, Elizabeth was aware of Mr. Darcy watching her mouth. She was sure it was because she was talking. What else did he have to look at? Still, it unnerved her in a way she was ashamed to admit wasn’t altogether unpleasant.

“Sue, could you hold on for a second?”

“Certainly.”

With Sue safely on hold, Elizabeth clutched her phone to her chest. Clearly a dismissal was in order. Mr. Darcy didn’t appear to be in a hurry to get anywhere, and Elizabeth was ready for him to go. As pleasant as he was to look at, she had no desire to hang out with him and Zara.

“Well, it was nice seeing you both.” Elizabeth smiled. “But I really need to take this. Enjoy your stay in the city.”

Something flickered in Mr. Darcy’s dark eyes. Frustration? Elizabeth couldn’t be sure.

“Miss Scott.” He bent at the waist slightly.

A bow. He’d bowed at her. Who did that? What was she supposed to do now? Curtsy?

She settled on a wave. “Bye.”

Elizabeth walked away, letting the swarm of people on the sidewalk swallow her up. She picked up her pace as she picked up the phone. “Sue, hi. I’m so sorry.”

“No worries. Alan and I are sitting at the airport, waiting for our flight home. No hurry.” Elizabeth could hear a smile in Sue’s voice at the mention of her husband.

“You’re on your way back to London?”

“Yes. Alan has business meetings this week. Actually, that’s why I’m calling. Alan and I have a proposition for you, Elizabeth. One I hope will sound appealing.”

Elizabeth’s steps slowed. “A proposition?”

“The other night at dinner, we couldn’t help but overhear your mother mention that you were out of work at the moment.”

Overhear. Sue was being polite. Elizabeth’s mother had roared on and on about it, as was her custom.

“Yes, I am.” She struggled for an explanation. The Barrows seemed like nice, accepting people, but admitting she’d been accused of extortion would threaten the limits of anyone’s understanding. “Temporary layoff.”

“I’ll get right to the point, then. We have a job offer for you. You were such a help at the dog show in New Jersey. I could use an extra pair of hands for the shows across the pond. It’s so difficult finding help back home, and my dogs respond so well to you.”

Elizabeth clutched her phone with both hands, desperate to make sure she’d heard Sue correctly. Someone bumped her from behind, and she almost fell to her knees on a manhole cover but she didn’t even care. “You have a job for me?”

“Yes, dear.” Her words had the effect of a welcome breeze, strong enough to lift a wedding veil straight off Elizabeth’s head and send it sailing away into the distance. “In London.”

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.