Unleashing Mr Darcy

The exhibitor beside Elizabeth groaned under her breath. “Thanks a lot.”

Elizabeth glanced at her, more out of curiosity than anything else. She was taken aback to find the woman glaring at her with hostility. “Excuse me?”

“I said thanks a lot,” she hissed without moving her lips, “for putting the judge in such a foul mood. I don’t know why he didn’t excuse you or why he’s even talking to you, for that matter.”

“For your information, I’m not responsible for his mood.” Elizabeth cast a fleeting look at Bliss in search of support. A nod would have been nice. A low growl perhaps?

Nothing.

The woman rolled her eyes. “We all saw the way you acted,” she muttered, once again without the slightest movement of her lips.

Elizabeth was beginning to wonder if she was a ventriloquist. Probably not, she decided. How could someone who worked with puppets be so bitchy?

Elizabeth started to explain that Mr. Darcy was undoubtedly born in a bad mood, but thankfully, she caught him watching her before she opened her mouth. She turned her back on the woman and made every effort to focus solely on Bliss.

I will not screw this up. I will not make a scene. I will not flash the judge, and I most definitely will not cry.

She inhaled a deep breath. All she had to do was go through the motions and wait for the winners to be awarded their ribbons. Bliss didn’t have a chance. So getting out of the ring without losing it again would be her only victory.

Mr. Darcy made a circular motion with his right hand, and everyone obediently led their dogs in a loop around the ring. The exhibitor at the front of the line paused once the lap was complete, obviously expecting Mr. Darcy to request to see each dog trot across the diagonal of the ring individually, as was customary.

Instead, he pointed at the second dog in line, a very nice little black-and-tan girl. “This is our Winner.”

His announcement was met with squeals of delight from the winning exhibitor and several people standing outside the ring. Despite herself, Elizabeth felt a stab of envy. To see a judge point to Bliss like that, even once, would go a long way in helping her forget all about everything that had happened back home. It might even make nasty Grant Markham nothing but a distant memory.

Before she could give herself any kind of mental pep talk, or even quell her disappointment the slightest bit, Mr. Darcy pointed his elegant finger once more. And this time, he aimed it directly at Bliss. “And this is our Reserve Winner.”

Elizabeth looked at Bliss, expecting to see a different dog on the end of her lead, as if Bliss had traded places with another Cavalier when she wasn’t looking. A Cavalier with a creamy-white, freckle-less muzzle. But to her complete and utter astonishment, she found her own dog still there.

Bliss reared up and pawed at the air with her tiny fringed feet, reveling in the joy of her victory as runner-up. Her happiness caused a knot to wedge in Elizabeth’s throat, and it quickly became clear that she would soon break her pledge not to cry.

She gathered Bliss into her arms and headed toward Mr. Darcy to collect her Reserve Winner’s ribbon. Somewhere behind him, Elizabeth could see Sue Barrow jumping up and down and clapping like mad, but Sue was little more than a fuzzy, dreamlike vision. She was focused on one thing and one thing only—Mr. Darcy’s magnetic gaze, drawing her to him. No longer stormy, his molten amber eyes pulled her in, held her spellbound, until all else disappeared.

“Miss Scott.” His gaze turned questioning when she reached him. “Those are happy tears this time, are they not?”

“Yes. Very much so.” She nodded and swallowed around the lump in her throat.

She had the very sudden desire for him to say it again...her name, in that debonair accent of his. Miss Scott. How could she have tired of hearing him say it before? It was like poetry.

He presented her with a satin ribbon. The left half was white and the right half purple, and it was printed with shiny gold letters that spelled out Reserve Winner.

She ran her thumb over the words. Seasoned dog-show exhibitors might have accepted such an honor with a tinge of disappointment. Reserve Winner was, after all, simply a fancy term for runner-up. The reserve dog didn’t earn any Championship points.

But it was the highest honor ever bestowed on Bliss. Elizabeth couldn’t have been happier, even if it did come from Mr. Darcy. Or perhaps because it came from him.

“Thank you,” she breathed and tugged on the ribbon, ever so gently.

He held on to it, playfully refusing to let it go, until he gave her a liquid-gold wink. “You’re welcome, Miss Scott.”

As Elizabeth gripped her ribbon and floated out of the ring toward the grinning faces of Sue and Alan Barrow and Jenna, fresh from her Starbucks run, toting a venti-size paper cup in each hand, she was left with the distinct impression that Mr. Darcy, of all people, was flirting with her.

3

Elizabeth watched Jenna pick a piece of confetti out of her wineglass. Black confetti, to match the black streamers and oh-so-charming balloons tied to Elizabeth’s chair that screamed to the world she was now Over-the-Hill.

“One more time...” Jenna buried the confetti in her napkin. “What does Reserve Winner mean again?”

Sue and Elizabeth exchanged an exasperated look. Hadn’t they already explained this several times since arriving at the restaurant next to the show site for Elizabeth’s intimate birthday gathering? Intimate meaning it consisted only of Elizabeth, Jenna and the Barrows.

Alan chimed in. “First runner-up.”

At least he paid attention. Elizabeth doubted if any of her family members would ever know what Reserve meant, no matter how many times it was explained to them.

“Like in the Miss America pageant. I get it now.” Jenna sipped her wine, likely ingesting a tiny paper coffin or two. She’d been a little heavy-handed with the decorations. “So if the winner ends up being a former stripper or if there are naked photos of her somewhere on the internet, then Bliss takes her place?”

Alan’s face split into a wide grin, and he motioned toward Jenna. “I like this one.”

Elizabeth laughed and took a sip of her own drink, which she’d let Sue order for her—something British called a Pimm’s, which was surprisingly delicious. “Let’s not forget to congratulate Sue here. You won Best of Breed today, didn’t you?”

“Well, my dog did, if you want to be technical about it. And under Mr. Darcy, no less. Quite an honor. He’s positively renowned back home in Britain. And all my other terriers won their classes, as well. I don’t know what I would have done today without your help, Elizabeth. You’re a good handler. I wished you lived in England. I could put you to work in a heartbeat. I can’t very well show four dogs at once.”

“Wait a minute.” Jenna made a time-out motion. “The judge’s name is Darcy? And he’s from England? Is this a joke?”

“No. He’s very much real,” Elizabeth said.

If anything, he was too real.

“Real as can be. The English never joke about men named Darcy.” Sue pushed her empty glass toward Alan. “Alan, dear, I’d love another.”

“Your wish is my command.” He gave Elizabeth and Jenna a questioning glance. “Anyone else need a refill?”

Much to her irritation, Elizabeth’s thoughts wanted to snag on the mention of Mr. Darcy, and she had to fight to keep up with the conversation. “No, thank you.”

“Have another. It’s your birthday.” Sue lifted her gaze to the shiny black balloons, as if Elizabeth could forget she was turning thirty. “I’m off to the loo.”

Once Sue was a safe ten feet away from the table, Alan winked and then whispered to Elizabeth and Jenna, “You would never know that I own my own company and am actually the boss of about fifty people, would you? She says jump, and I ask how high.”

From her spot halfway to the ladies’ room, Sue waved a dismissive hand and shouted, “Whatever he’s telling you, it’s not true. Don’t pay any attention to him.”

Elizabeth laughed. “How did you know?”

Sue scurried back over to them. “Oh, please. We’ve been married for over forty years. I know what he’s thinking even before he does.”

Jenna’s eyes grew misty. She’d always been a hopeless romantic. “Forty years. Wow.”

“We met when we were twelve years old.” Alan winked again. Only this time, he aimed it at his wife. “I’ve loved her ever since.”

Jenna held her glass of wine toward them, as if giving a toast at a wedding. “Cutest. Couple. Ever.”