Unleashing Mr Darcy

Great. Now he knows we’re talking about him. She wished she could shrink small enough to crawl into the tiny plastic coffin that sat atop her birthday cake in the center of the table.

“Oh, him.” Elizabeth doubted she was fooling anyone with her attempt at nonchalance, least of all Jenna. “That’s the judge from this afternoon. Our very own Mr. Darcy.”

Jenna’s gaze grew even more appreciative, if such a thing were possible. “That explains why he looks like he just climbed down from a polo pony.”

“Didn’t you see him earlier today at the show?”

Jenna shook her head. “No. Definitely not. I was actually looking at the dogs.”

That was a first. “Well, don’t let those good looks fool you. He’s an ass.”

“He looks like Daniel Craig’s younger, hotter brother. And besides, he almost crowned Bliss Miss America. How big of an ass can he be?”

Where to start? “You have no idea.”

“Let me guess.” Jenna returned her glass to the table with a little too much force. Wine sloshed to the rim, threatening to spill over onto the crisp white tablecloth. “He’s rich.”

“Of course he is.” Elizabeth plucked a piece of tombstone-shaped confetti from her lap and rolled it between her fingers.

Jenna leaned forward, her gaze probing. “And that automatically makes him an ass?”

“It doesn’t help his case.” Elizabeth squirmed. Jenna looked as though she was on the verge of a full-on lecture. Where was Alan with her refill? She could use a sip of Pimm’s—or wine, or anything with alcohol, really—right about now.

“Not all rich men are like you-know-who. There are a few decent wealthy people in the world.” Jenna crossed her arms and gave her a look somewhere between smug and sympathetic.

“Name one.” Elizabeth sat back and waited, sure she’d found just the words to silence her sister.

She was wrong.

“I’ll name two.” Jenna’s voice softened. “Alan and Sue.”

Elizabeth glanced at the bar, where Alan Barrow stood chatting up the bartender, his face split into an endearing grin. “Alan and Sue?”

“Surely you’ve realized they’re rich. They divide their time between London and New York. She raises Champion dogs and shows them all over the world. Did you think they were poor?”

Elizabeth slumped a little lower in her chair. “I hadn’t given it any thought, actually.”

“Well, maybe you should.” Jenna reached over and gave her hand a squeeze. “And maybe you shouldn’t be so quick to label that hot judge an ass.”

Elizabeth stole another quick glance in his direction.

He appeared to be studying a menu, but everything about his countenance said he was fully aware the two sisters were talking about him. His lingering wry smile, the subtle gleam of satisfaction in his eyes...the casual way he crossed his feet at the ankles and leaned against the doorjamb of the entryway—all a deliberate, and successful, attempt at looking carelessly sexy.

Or maybe he just really was that sexy without even trying.

It was infuriating.

Elizabeth turned back to Jenna, full of fresh indignation. “Jenna, you never see a fault in anybody. But I assure you, Mr. Darcy thinks awfully highly of himself. You weren’t there. You didn’t see how he treated me in the ring today.”

“Well, here’s my chance.” Jenna took a larger-than-usual gulp of her wine. “Don’t look now, but he’s coming over here.”

Elizabeth stiffened. “He is not.”

“Yes, he is.” Jenna muttered a countdown under her breath. “In four, three, two, one.”

She sounded like Mission Control.

Elizabeth’s stomach churned with each passing second. Houston, we have a problem...

“Miss Scott.”

She opened her eyes and found him looking down at her with a gracious smile. Gracious, but somehow still sexy.

She returned his greeting in a neutral tone. “Good evening, Mr. Darcy.”

“Are birthday wishes in order?” He motioned toward the balloons tied to her chair, which she’d conveniently forgotten about, and the cake with its black plastic coffin topper.

The decorations looked even tackier next to him. Elizabeth wanted to die. Since that wasn’t an option, she opened her mouth to affirm that, yes, she was indeed the one who’d become over-the-hill. But before she could utter a word, a very pretty, very young woman joined him at his side.

“Zara.” Mr. Darcy turned and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

As she watched him welcome his lady friend, Elizabeth couldn’t help but notice two things. First, this Zara woman was nowhere near over-the-hill. With her slim hips and luminescent skin, she looked as though she’d never even seen the hill, much less crossed over it. And second, when he looked at her, Mr. Darcy didn’t show an ounce of the coldness he’d had on full display since Elizabeth had first laid eyes on him. In fact, he practically oozed warmth and charm.

Well, looky here. Mr. Darcy is all politeness.

Elizabeth couldn’t stand to watch. For reasons she doubted she would ever understand, her insides twisted into a jealous knot. Such intense feelings only irritated her even more because the entire scene was so ridiculous—so cliché—that any attraction she’d ever felt toward Mr. Darcy should have evaporated on the spot. He was rich, handsome, arrogant and, apparently, some young girl’s sugar daddy.

Elizabeth glared at Jenna, sending her unspoken I-told-you-so’s with her eyes. Jenna didn’t seem to notice. She was too busy studying Zara’s handbag. Louis Vuitton, by all appearances. Elizabeth doubted it came from a van in a fishy-smelling back alley in Chinatown, like the one where Jenna had purchased her Vuitton last year on a trip to the city.

Jenna had a thing for handbags. Elizabeth really should consider giving her the Prada bag she’d recently acquired—a Christmas gift from one of her students. It was only one of a number of ridiculously extravagant gifts that had turned up on her desk during the holidays. The parents at the Barclay School weren’t above trying to buy special attention for their children.

Or other things.

“I’m sorry.” Mr. Darcy swiveled his admiring gaze away from Zara and back toward Elizabeth. “This is...”

Elizabeth cut him off. “Zara. Yes, we heard.”

“Elizabeth!” Jenna’s sharp reprimand was accompanied by a swift kick to the shin underneath the table.

Elizabeth, shin throbbing, lifted her chin with as much dignity as someone sitting in front of a death-themed cake could muster. “And yes, it’s my birthday.”

She turned away, not only so she wouldn’t have to look at him with his beautiful, young companion but also so he wouldn’t see the wounded expression that was surely written all over her face. A wounded expression for which she had no reasonable explanation. Jealous? Over Mr. Darcy?

Not only was she over-the-hill, but apparently she’d been hit with early-onset dementia.

“Happy birthday, then.” His words bounced off her back, hollow as they were. Every cutting syllable told her he knew he’d been dismissed. “I’ll let you get back to your celebration.”

And then, right when Elizabeth thought the worst of the evening was over, an unmistakable, shrill “Happy Birthday” pierced the air.

No. This is not happening. This can’t be happening.

Elizabeth prayed that she was mistaken and that perhaps Pimm’s contained some sort of hallucinogen.

But when she heard them burst into song, Elizabeth cringed and turned around. Sure enough, right over Mr. Darcy’s left shoulder, she saw the top of her mother’s favorite outrageous flowered hat.

“I’m sorry,” Jenna whispered. “I started to tell you...”

A frozen smile found its way to Mr. Darcy’s lips. He slipped his arm around Zara and looked as though he wanted to sling her over his shoulder, caveman-style, and run for the nearest exit. If Elizabeth hadn’t been so mortified, she would have found it at least somewhat humorous.

“Mom,” she said. “What a surprise.”

“Oh, it’s not just me. Gracie, Laura and Heather are here. And your father, too, of course.” Her mother waved a hand toward the entrance, where Elizabeth’s younger sisters were bickering over something as they made their way to the table.

Behind them, with his head bent over his BlackBerry, her father pulled up the rear. He smiled at her, almost apologetically. “We’ve all come to surprise you for your birthday. Are you surprised?”

“Very.” Panic had begun to edge its way into Elizabeth’s voice. If she didn’t somehow get rid of Mr. Darcy soon, he would be wedged in on all sides by her family members. “I told you I’d be fine celebrating my birthday at the dog show. Alone. You didn’t need to make the trip out here.”

“Alone.” Her mother shook her head. “It’s a pity none of you girls have found a nice husband to keep you company on such occasions.”

Oh, no. Oh, God, no.

Elizabeth wanted to leap across the wineglasses, the cake, the mortifying decorations and clamp her hand across her mother’s mouth. If she thought for a moment she could actually hurdle the table with its crisp white cloth—the better to show off the glittery black confetti—she would have done it in a heartbeat. But she’d never been terribly athletic. Now that she was over-the-hill, especially, she doubted any move she could make would be fast enough to compete with her mother’s quick tongue.

Sure enough, before Elizabeth could move a muscle, her mother was at it again.

“It’s such a pity about your job, too. I mean, that was the perfect opportunity for you to cross paths with rich men.” Mrs. Scott shook her head, the feathers on her hat waving with her every move. “Don’t you worry about a thing, dear. You’ll just move back home and work for the family business. Scott Bridal needs someone to model the wedding gowns, and you’re the perfect size. We’ll get you in a white veil one way or another.”

Elizabeth’s mother laughed, seemingly oblivious to the awkward glances being exchanged around the table. Elizabeth felt someone reach for her hand and give it a squeeze. Jenna.

“I’m sorry,” Jenna whispered. “When I invited them, I thought it would only be us.”

The frantic urge to leap across the dishware left Elizabeth as quickly as it came. It was too late now. The humiliation train had already left the station. She stared down at her lap and her hand in Jenna’s, oblivious to whatever else was going on around her, save for Mr. Darcy and his beautiful companion making a quiet escape.

* * *

“I would ask who your friend is, but the dirty look she gave you made it clear that you two aren’t exactly close.” Zara looked past Donovan, in the direction of Elizabeth’s table.

Once seated, Donovan had turned his back on the train wreck that was apparently Elizabeth Scott’s birthday dinner. He couldn’t bear to watch another second of it. Although, as with any other gruesome oddity, he felt inexplicably drawn to the scene. Fortunately—or not, depending on how he looked at it—Zara possessed the same penchant for gossip as most other eighteen-year-old girls and insisted on giving him a play-by-play of the goings-on.

“Oh, my God. You should see the mother now. She’s chewing with her mouth so wide open I can see her molars. I think one of them is gold.” The look on Zara’s face teetered between one of horror and fascination.

“Zara, stop staring. It’s rude.” Donovan tapped his index finger on the drinks menu, hoping the waitress would notice and hurry over to take his order. God, he needed a drink. Or three.

“I’m not staring.” She dragged her gaze away from the Scotts’ table, clearly marked for all the world to see with those horrid balloons.

At the memory of the Over-the-Hill balloons bobbing about Elizabeth Scott’s beautiful face, Donovan’s finger tapping went into overdrive. He didn’t know how much longer he’d be able to sit there without the distraction of a martini. Or a Pimm’s. Anything, really. If Donovan were the knight-in-shining-armor type, which he most definitely was not, he would march right over there, snatch Elizabeth Scott from her seat and take her somewhere far, far away. Precisely where, he had no idea. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere intimate. And, most definitely, somewhere without balloons.

Not that Elizabeth Scott would welcome a rescue, at least not by his hand.

“Why are you scowling?”

Donovan was forced to tear his thoughts away from Miss Scott, again, and focus instead on Zara. “I’m not scowling.”

“Yes, you are.” Zara knit her brows and gave him her best grimace. She’d always enjoyed imitating him. “I know you like a brother, remember?”

“I am your brother.” Donovan felt himself relax ever so slightly.

“The best.” She aimed her sweetest grin at him.

“You can stop kissing up. We’re here, aren’t we? America. Just like you wanted.” If Donovan had a soft spot, Zara was it. She’d been not only his responsibility but the entirety of his immediate family since the death of their parents. She was certainly the only person who could tear him away from Figgy and the impending arrival of the puppies. Her burning desire to finally see the Big Apple was the deciding factor in his acceptance of the judging assignment.

Not that suburban New Jersey felt anywhere close to New York City.

But they would remedy that tomorrow. After a day or two of taking Zara sightseeing and shopping, he would be on his way back home. Surely Figgy would hold off until then. And if not...well, that was why he had full-time kennel staff.

Donovan hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Figgy was special. He wanted to be there himself for her first litter.

The waitress finally arrived, and Donovan relaxed even further knowing he was within minutes of a cocktail. Anything to dull the memory of Miss Scott’s family. More specifically, her mother. Even now, he could hear her shrill laugh from across the room. And if he had a penny for every time he heard her bellow something about rich men, he could add a new wing onto his country house.

Once again, Zara’s gaze drifted over his shoulder. “So, what’s the story over there?”

“I’ve no idea.” Donovan shook his napkin and arranged it across his lap. “A birthday celebration, I gather.”

Although it looked more like an exercise in humiliation. He couldn’t help thinking Miss Scott deserved better. Few didn’t.

“No. I mean, what’s with you and the pretty one? What did you say her name was?”

“Elizabeth.” Donovan lowered his voice, not that anyone would hear him over the mother. “Elizabeth Scott.”

“So you do think she’s pretty, then?” Zara grinned, obviously pleased with herself.

“Calm down, Zara. There’s nothing going on between Miss Scott and me.” Donovan wasn’t sure why, but this admission brought a pang to his temple.

“Why? Because of her crazy family?” Zara shook her head. “Poor thing.”

“No.” Donovan accepted his drink from the waitress and took a long sip. Somehow, it didn’t put any distance between him and the spectacle at the Scotts’ table. In fact, the urge to go over there and rescue her grew even stronger.

Maybe it’s the jet lag, he reasoned.

Donovan pushed his drink away. Perhaps lowering his inhibitions wasn’t the best idea.

Zara, in all her trademark tenacity, wasn’t about to abandon her line of questioning. “So, why haven’t you made a move?”

“Because I’m here to judge a dog show. And to take you on a little sightseeing trip.” Donovan massaged his temples.

And because she despises the very sight of me.

Zara leaned forward and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Ask her for a drink or something. I’ll get an in-room movie back at the hotel. Now’s your chance....”

Donovan cut her off, ready to put an end to the conversation. His undeniable attraction to Miss Scott was unsettling enough, given that the feeling was most definitely not mutual. The last thing he needed was to be on the receiving end of this relentless badgering from his sister. “Zara, enough. I find Miss Scott tolerable. Nothing more, nothing less. If you think you can convince me otherwise, you’re wasting your time.”

“Um.” The color drained from Zara’s face.

Donovan sighed. He’d been abrupt, no doubt. But he hadn’t meant to hurt her feelings. He opened his mouth to apologize, but before he could get a word out, Miss Scott slipped past him.

Donovan felt her presence before he actually saw her. It was the same stirring sensation that had come over him in the ring—an odd combination of tranquillity and awareness. Miss Scott was like the final, still moment of dusk that held the promise of a fiery sunset.

He lifted his gaze to hers, hoping for the impossible, that she hadn’t heard his frustrated diatribe meant solely for Zara’s ears.

But the smallest glance was enough to know.

Elizabeth Scott had heard every word.

4

Monday morning, Elizabeth opened her eyes, and for a split second, panic set in. She glanced at the clock on her nightstand, heart pounding, convinced she’d overslept and the students in her first-period class were sitting at their desks pondering the whereabouts of their teacher.

It didn’t take long for reality to set in.

Get real. They’re teenagers. That’s the last thing they’d be pondering, even if I were late.

She wasn’t late.

It wasn’t possible to be late when she wasn’t even expected at school. Elizabeth closed her eyes, imagined the fresh-faced substitute teacher who was sitting at her desk right that very second and opened them again. Reality, as bleak as it was, was better than thinking about what should have been.

On the pillow beside her, Bliss yawned with abandon and stretched into a downward-dog position. Clearly the Cavalier wasn’t experiencing any difficulty adjusting to their new routine. Or nonroutine. Whichever.

At least the sight of her dog brought a smile to Elizabeth’s face. Until she remembered, with excruciating clarity, the events of the weekend. How had the dog-show getaway she’d been anticipating for so long gone so horribly wrong?

She would have liked to blame it on her mother. With her garish hat and unfiltered approach to conversation—and life in general—she was hardly innocent. As were the other members of the Scott family. Save for Jenna, of course. For once, though, Elizabeth couldn’t hold her family 100 percent responsible for her mortification. True, she’d been embarrassed beyond belief when they’d shown up at dinner. Her mother had managed to make reference to both Elizabeth’s career crisis and single status in the first three seconds. Impressive, even for her mother.

In all honesty, things had started going south earlier in the day. More precisely, the minute Elizabeth had first laid eyes on Donovan Darcy. Okay, maybe five minutes or so after first laying eyes on him. Those initial moments she’d been too busy ogling him to notice the downward spiral she was about to fall into.

Mr. Darcy.

The thought of his name brought with it a tumble of emotions. First and foremost on the list was humiliation.

Tolerable.

He’d called her tolerable. It was almost worse than being called hideous. Having never been called tolerable, or hideous for that matter, Elizabeth couldn’t be sure.

Forget him. Who calls someone tolerable? A conceited ass, that’s who. The whole thing is ridiculous. He’s ridiculous.

Elizabeth hopped out of bed. She wasn’t about to spend the day lounging around thinking about Mr. Darcy. Not even if those thoughts included slow and painful ways to kill him. There was plenty of time for that later. She needed to stop by the school and pick up her personal effects. And—fingers crossed—have a little chat with the headmaster while she was there.

“Wish me luck, Bliss,” Elizabeth muttered, after she’d showered and changed.

She and Bliss were not moving to New Jersey. Elizabeth would not, could not, do it. She would never survive working at Scott Bridal. She didn’t know how Jenna did it, day in and day out. Then again, Jenna was a saint. Elizabeth had never met anyone nearly as patient as her elder sister. Maybe that was her secret to surviving the family business. Elizabeth, on the other hand, didn’t have the stomach for it. She couldn’t show her face in the state of New Jersey without her mother sticking a veil on her head. Since she’d moved to Manhattan, she and Bliss had settled into a nice, peaceful routine. Entire days passed where no one around her uttered the name Vera Wang. It was like heaven.

She held on to the fragile certainty that everything would work out as she headed uptown to the Barclay School. Situated in the posh Upper West Side, the private school had been responsible for educating the offspring of New York’s elite for over a century. When Elizabeth had first walked through the enormous carved doors into the lobby, which boasted a gilded replica of the school’s seal on the marble tile floor, she’d felt as though she could conquer the world, or at least the part that resided close to Central Park West. Now, as she walked through those same doors, her emotions were decidedly different.

Gone was the happy optimism she’d come to associate with the school. Her school, as she’d taken to calling it. Despite the fact that the students’ average weekly allowance was likely quadruple her monthly take-home pay, she’d always felt at home here.

Until the day she’d dared to give Grant Markham’s son a failing grade.

Since then, all hell had broken loose. And with the ensuing scandal came the unshakable feeling that Elizabeth was somehow less than adequate.

Subpar.

Tolerable.

The word echoed in her subconscious.

Damn you, Donovan Darcy.

“Elizabeth.” Mrs. Whitestone, the school secretary, greeted her with a stiff smile.

“Hi, Mrs. Whitestone. I’m here to pick up my things and perhaps have a word with Dr. Thurston.” Dr. Thurston. Just last week, Elizabeth had called the headmaster by his first name, Ed. “Is he in?”

“Yes, he is. Go on in. I believe he wants to have a word with you, as well.”

The tiniest amount of relief coursed through Elizabeth. The headmaster wanted a word with her. That sounded promising. Maybe, just maybe, her administrative leave would be cut short and she’d be back in the classroom before the day was over.

Ed’s door opened. “Elizabeth,” the headmaster boomed. “Please, come in.”

Any relief she felt vanished when he escorted her inside the office and took his place behind his desk. He looked rather red. And very, very serious. “I’m glad you stopped by. There are some new circumstances surrounding your suspension that we need to discuss.”

Elizabeth’s hands began to shake. She clasped them together so Ed wouldn’t notice. “I’m sorry?”

“I’m afraid this...situation...has grown complicated.”

Nothing like a little bribery to turn something as simple as a failing report card into a situation.

Although it wasn’t technically bribery. More like attempted bribery. She hadn’t for a moment considered accepting the five-figure check that Grant Markham had tossed at her during their parent-teacher conference.

Correction: checks. Plural.

The more she’d refused him, the more insistent he’d become. He’d written one check after another, as if the problem had been the amount of the bribe, rather than its inherent wrongness.

“How much?” he’d finally asked, leaning close, his breath hot against her skin. “Women like you—the ones who come from nothing—always have a price. Why don’t you save us both some time and tell me what it is?”

Those words had reached inside her, touching on her deepest insecurities. It was hard to grow up around the tulle and lace at Scott Bridal without sometimes feeling like an impoverished Cinderella among a whole world of entitled stepsisters. Their clientele were the sort who believed that a fat wallet could buy them anything. Truth be told, it usually did.

Women like you...the ones who come from nothing.

Stunned into silence, she’d been unable to do little more than watch in horror as Grant Markham had casually touched the inside of her wrist. His fingertips had crept upward, and his gaze had flicked ever so briefly to her breasts.