Unleashing Mr Darcy

He hadn’t made an outright pass at her, but the implication had been clear. He could buy her silence. And he could buy her. The only thing standing in his way was the matter of compensation.

In retrospect, she probably shouldn’t have slapped him. Perhaps if she’d just walked away right there and then, she wouldn’t be in this mess. Maybe Grant Markham wouldn’t have gone to the headmaster. Maybe he wouldn’t have disputed his son’s grade and insisted Elizabeth be placed on administrative leave for a week while an independent auditor looked at her grade book.

Or maybe it wouldn’t have made a difference at all. Slap or no slap, he still hadn’t gotten his way.

Yet.

“I suppose things have become rather ugly.” Elizabeth nodded her agreement. “But as I told you before, Grant Markham wouldn’t take no for an answer. His behavior was most inappropriate. I hope...”

The headmaster held up a hand to stop her, just as Mr. Darcy had done in the show ring on Saturday. In this context, it wasn’t quite as infuriating. In fact, it was daunting.

Elizabeth obediently shut her mouth.

“There’s more to this than Joe Markham’s grade. Much more.”

Joe was a nickname. His full name was Grant Markham III. Why did rich people insist on using the same names over and over again?

Elizabeth wondered if Donovan Darcy came from a long line of Donovans. Then she gave her thigh a good, solid pinch. A punishment. Because really, what was she doing thinking about Mr. Darcy at a time like this? It was absurd.

She cleared her throat. “You don’t need to explain. I know Joe is the captain of the rugby team. His failing grade made him ineligible for the play-offs. People were upset. I realize that. But Grant Markham cannot expect me to change his son’s grade in exchange for money.”

Ed clasped his hands together on his desk and shook his head. “I’ve spoken with Mr. Markham. He’s aware of your accusations, and he disputes them. Quite vehemently.”

Of course he does. “I can’t say I’m surprised. I didn’t think he would admit that he tried to bribe me.”

Or that he’d hinted at an affair. She still hoped she’d only imagined that part.

“Actually, he says the money was your idea.” Ed’s voice was low. So low Elizabeth almost didn’t hear it.

“My idea?” It was a slap to the face, every bit as real as the one she’d given Grant Markham.

“Yes. Mr. Markham says you attempted to extort money from him in exchange for giving his son a passing grade.” He leveled his gaze at her. Worry lines creased his forehead, which appeared to be growing redder by the second. “He also mentioned a designer handbag.”

The Prada. Elizabeth was overcome with a sudden numbness. “That was a Christmas gift. You know how the parents around here are. The head of the athletic department was given season tickets to the Yankees for Christmas.”

Elizabeth hated the way her voice shook. She would have rather sounded confident, offended even, in the face of such an accusation.

She was neither of these things. At the moment, she was terrified.

“Elizabeth.” Ed, no, Dr. Thurston—Elizabeth was certain she would never again address this man by his common name—exhaled another sigh and looked back down at his clasped hands. The top of his head glowed redder than ever. As Elizabeth stared at it, she prayed he didn’t keel over while she was sitting in his office, lest she become not only the teacher who’d tried to extort money from parents, but also the one who’d killed the headmaster.

He looked back up, still alive. Thank God. “There will be an investigation, of course.”

“An investigation?” This should have been good news, of course. What could an investigation turn up when she’d done nothing wrong? For some reason, it failed to put Elizabeth at ease.

“The investigation will be handled internally.” Dr. Thurston tugged at his shirt collar, causing the knot in his tie to tilt crookedly.

Elizabeth fought the urge to straighten it, a quirk she’d acquired during all those years she’d spent at Scott Bridal while she was growing up. She could recognize a perfectly crafted Windsor knot from a mile away. Dr. Thurston’s was far from perfect. “Internally? What does that mean, exactly?”

“The board of directors will be looking into the matter.”

The board of directors.

A sinking feeling settled in Elizabeth’s stomach. Grant Markham’s wife was on the board of directors. So were nine other people the Markhams had likely had over to dinner, probably on their yacht or something, throughout the years. Elizabeth’s fate was in the hands of the alleged victim’s wife and her high-society friends.

It was over. She was finished.

Elizabeth sat quietly, trying to absorb it all. “So what happens now? Do I need to get a lawyer?”

“No. A lawyer wouldn’t be able to help you, anyway. As your contract states, your position here can be withdrawn at any time, for any reason. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. In a few weeks, perhaps this will blow over. For now, your suspension stands until the conclusion of the investigation. At that time, the board will determine a permanent outcome.” He released a heavy sigh. “Elizabeth, you’re a wonderful teacher. I’m not saying I don’t believe you. I’m not saying that at all, but the financial stability of this school hinges on how we handle this situation. The Barclay School is a private institution, and it depends on tuition payments to keep the doors open.”

So it all boiled down to money. Didn’t everything? “How long should the investigation take?”

“According to the bylaws, four weeks.”

Four weeks. Approximately three weeks longer than she could afford her Manhattan apartment without the benefit of a regular paycheck.

Perhaps it was a good thing Elizabeth still possessed the skills she would need at Scott Bridal. Because, come next Monday morning, she’d probably be clocking in bright and early. Her head was already itching for a veil.

Dr. Thurston urged her to take advantage of her time off—to go on a vacation, enjoy some downtime. Elizabeth barely heard a word he said. She was too distraught to concentrate. Before she knew what was happening, he was finished with his speech and had steered her by the elbow out of his office, across the marble floor with the fancy school seal, directly to the big carved double doors.

She glanced up at her boss before walking through those doors for what she fully expected was the last time. At some point he’d straightened his tie.

“Goodbye, Dr. Thurston,” she whispered.

And then she was out the door, standing on the busy Manhattan sidewalk, as though the school had purged itself of her.

The sounds of honking horns and sirens wailing in the distance, ordinarily so familiar and comforting to Elizabeth, were a shock to her system after the stillness of the headmaster’s office. She stood motionless, trying to get her bearings as New Yorkers, clothed in standard black, wove around her as if she were a statue. She found it odd that no one stopped to stare at her, the teacher who’d been accused of extortion. Surely such a damning accusation was somehow visible, even to strangers. A scarlet letter of sorts, only shaped like a big fat dollar sign.

Elizabeth turned in the direction of her apartment. It took all her concentration to put one foot in front of the other. She felt faint, as if she were about to disappear. She focused on her shoes—sensible black ballet flats—and each step they took, making sure they made contact with the asphalt.

She narrowly collided with a pair of black, square-toed boots and teetered perilously close to the curb. No sooner had she managed to get back on track than she found herself toe to toe with a pair of men’s loafers—black, of course. Beside the loafers was a pair of ballet flats not unlike her own. Only these were quilted, with interlocking C’s on the toes. Elizabeth had seen those same flats on the girls at the Barclay School. Chanel.

Elizabeth paused and waited for Loafers and Chanel to sidestep so she could pass. They didn’t.

“Excuse me.” Elizabeth looked up and in a heart-stopping moment discovered that her day, which had been far from stellar thus far, had just taken a turn for the worse.

The loafers didn’t belong to some nameless, faceless New Yorker. They belonged to none other than Mr. Donovan Darcy.

He knit his perfect brows and said her name as though it were a question. “Miss Scott?”

Elizabeth panicked for a moment, as if she didn’t know the answer. She looked over at the woman standing beside him, the owner of the Chanel flats, and recognized her as his companion from the restaurant in New Jersey. Zara.

Good grief, she looks even younger than I remember.

“Hi,” Zara said and gave a little wave.

Elizabeth was struck with the nauseating thought that she didn’t look a day older than Joe Markham.

This realization brought with it a fresh wave of annoyance. How was she the one in trouble when Donovan Darcy was dating a girl barely out of high school?

“Mr. Darcy,” she spat. She turned to Zara and pasted on a smile. “Zara.”

“What are you doing here?” To Mr. Darcy’s credit, he didn’t come off as rude when he asked her this. He sounded befuddled, in an oh-so-charming-Hugh-Grant sort of way.

Elizabeth wasn’t fooled. She remembered the Hugh Grant scandal of the nineties with perfect clarity. Not pretty. “I live here.”

“In New York City? Alone?” He looked at the empty space around her own non-Chanel ballerina flats, as if he expected someone to materialize.

Alone? Who did he think he was? Her mother? “Yes, alone. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“I didn’t mean to pry.” He crossed his arms, and Elizabeth caught a glimpse of his cuff links. Silver this time, like the ones that were always on display in the windows at Tiffany’s.

As at the dog show, everything about Mr. Darcy’s appearance was resplendent. From the polished sheen of his loafers to the narrow cut of his suit. And Elizabeth couldn’t help but notice his tie was folded into the most perfect Windsor she’d ever laid eyes on. Of course.

Given the many bridegrooms Elizabeth had seen at Scott Bridal who didn’t know the top end of a cummerbund from the bottom, she’d always found men who dressed well particularly sexy.

Damn.

“Miss Scott, I think you misunderstood me. I was only wondering about your charming little dog, the Blenheim Cavalier. Bliss, right?”

Despite the warning bells going off in her head reminding her that this was Mr. Darcy of all people, she found herself softening toward him. Just a little.

How many dogs did a dog-show judge see in a weekend? Hundreds, at least. Maybe even a thousand.

And he’d remembered Bliss’s name.

She relaxed ever so slightly and gave herself permission to smile at Mr. Darcy. “She’s at home. I had to, um, run an errand.”

He smiled back. “I hope she’s doing well.”

“She is. Thank you.”

Elizabeth wasn’t sure what else to say. Her gaze flitted to Zara, who stood quietly watching their exchange. If it bothered her that Mr. Darcy had stopped dead in his tracks to carry on a conversation with another woman, she gave no indication of it. Then again, why would it bother her? She’d heard him call her tolerable. She knew Elizabeth was no threat.

At the very least, Elizabeth figured Zara would be ready to move on and away from the pedestrians who jostled their way around their little threesome. Oddly enough, she didn’t seem to care a whit about any of it.

Elizabeth glanced back at Mr. Darcy. His dark eyes were trained on her, watching her with his trademark intensity. Her first instinct was to look away, but the unexpected earnestness in those brooding eyes made her fix her gaze on his.

He looked at her for a long, silent moment before he finally spoke. “I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood a few things I’ve said.”

Something about his gaze was so tender, Elizabeth could feel it down to her toes. And she couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but somehow she knew he was referring to the tolerable comment. If it were possible for a person to make amends with just a look, Donovan Darcy was giving it a go.

Elizabeth was captivated. She felt as though they were the only two people on the busy sidewalk. Impossible, of course. People swarmed all around them, not to mention the very-present Zara.

Then Elizabeth’s handbag barked, breaking the magic spell.

Zara’s baby-smooth forehead creased in apparent confusion. “Was that a bark?”

Mr. Darcy tilted his head and lifted an amused brow. “Are you sure Bliss is at home? It sounds as though she hitched a ride in your purse.”

“It’s my ringtone.” Elizabeth fished around in her bag for her barking phone. “I should probably answer this. It could be important.”

In fact, the likelihood of the call being important was slim at best. It was just something to say, a way to extricate herself from what was beginning to feel oddly like some sort of love triangle.

Love triangle. As if.

Elizabeth wanted to kick herself.

Instead, she answered the phone. “Hello?”

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.

Donovan averted his gaze. He looked at his desk, then the floor. Anywhere but Helena’s bum. “Helena.”

In his periphery, Donovan saw her right herself. “You don’t sound at all happy to see me. Aren’t you surprised?”

“Oh, I’m surprised.” He strolled past her to get a clear view of the puppies.

“Aren’t they cute?” Zara whispered, not wanting to disturb the little family, Donovan supposed. “I just love puppies.”

Figgy let out a whine of delight. Her tail beat against the blankets in a happy rhythm, but she remained on her side so her four wiggly puppies could continue nursing. They were gorgeous, every bit as lovely as Donovan could have wished. Four fat, healthy little Blenheim bundles. And Figgy was clearly reveling in her role as mummy.

He could have wept with relief. He might have, if Helena hadn’t been there attempting to press herself against his side.

He took a step backward, away from the whelping pen, and leaned against his desk.

Helena’s expression never wavered. She smiled sweetly at him. “How was your trip to America? Was the Big Apple everything Zara hoped it was?”

Zara glared at Helena. The fact that Helena spoke about her as if she wasn’t in the room had always been one of Zara’s chief complaints.

Donovan didn’t care for it much, either. He assumed Helena did it deliberately, so Zara would leave the room in a huff and they would be alone together. The allure of the new puppies proved more potent than Helena’s condescension, however. Zara stayed put.

Thank God.

The last thing Donovan wanted was to be alone with Helena.

“We had a very nice trip.” Donovan gave her a tight smile. He yawned, ready to use exhaustion as an excuse to get rid of her. But before he could say a word about jet lag, Zara slipped between them.

She held one of the puppies close to her chest, and her lips curved into a Cheshire-cat grin. Donovan frowned. His little sister was clearly up to something. It pained him to even guess what it might be.

“Did Donovan tell you that he met someone while we were there?” Zara’s smile grew even wider.

He watched as the blood drained from Helena’s face. “Why, no. No, he didn’t.”

She lifted a perfectly groomed brow at him. “Is this true, Donovan?”

Zara answered for him. “Of course it’s true. He met a woman named Elizabeth Scott. An American. They only had eyes for each other.”

“Zara.” Donovan shot her a warning glance.

He had no intention of letting her use Elizabeth to make Helena jealous. Not only was she stretching the truth considerably—his eyes might have been drawn toward Elizabeth, but her eyes had seemed to have plenty of places to look other than his direction—but he didn’t want Elizabeth’s name batted about so casually.

He preferred to leave the memory of her intact, a sweet place filled with a thousand tender recollections he could visit now and again. Privately.

“I’m all astonishment. An American. How quaint.” Helena attempted a smile, but it came off as more of a sneer. Donovan could see panic gathering behind her eyes. “Well, it’s getting late. I really should be going.”

She slithered past Donovan, leaving him choking on a cloud of her perfume. She paused when she reached the doorway, then added, as an apparent afterthought, “Nice puppies.”

“Thank you,” he answered, but she was already gone.

He turned toward Zara. “That was uncalled for.”

“You should be thanking me. She’s always throwing herself at you.” Zara stepped into the whelping pen in her stocking feet and placed the puppy back beside Figgy’s belly. “Anyway, she deserves it.”

“Helena may deserve it, but Miss Scott most certainly doesn’t deserve to be in Helena Robson’s crosshairs.” The throb in his temples intensified into full-on jackhammering. “For one thing, she’s not quite as besotted with me as you indicated.”