Unleashing Mr Darcy. Teri Wilson

took home. She just wanted to get the whole ordeal over with.

      This weekend was supposed to be carefree, a time to finally escape the doubts and worries that kept her awake at night while Bliss snored peacefully in the crook of her elbow. It was her birthday, for goodness’ sake. Her thirtieth. How had her troubles followed her to New Jersey?

      As she crossed the ring back toward Mr. Darcy, a lump formed in her throat. Rebellious tears stung the backs of her eyes, threatening to spill over and make her humiliation complete.

      She brought Bliss to a halt about an arm’s distance away from him and waited for some sort of dismissal. He appraised her with one slightly arched brow in a way that made Elizabeth wonder if he was evaluating the dog’s appearance or her own.

      “Miss Scott.”

      Again with the name. The lump in Elizabeth’s throat prevented her from speaking, so this time she simply nodded.

      “Nice expression. Exceptionally fine eyes.” He frowned, and a whole new wave of derision followed the downturn of his mouth. “It’s a shame about the freckles, though.”

      Stunned, Elizabeth’s hand fluttered to her cheek, where a tear dampened her fingertips. She hadn’t even realized she’d begun to cry.

      2

      Donovan Darcy watched in horror as the lovely, yet clearly fragile, exhibitor’s lower lip quivered. He’d seen that kind of quiver before and recognized it as the precursor to something that horrified him even more—womanly tears.

      He hadn’t pegged the enigmatic Miss Scott as a crier. Unpredictable, yes. Wildly attractive, most definitely.

      But a crier?

      Donovan wasn’t a betting man, but if he were, he would have bet against it. The woman had rocked him on his heels with her whole I have a name outburst. And now she was standing in front of him with a tear—yes, an actual tear—making a trail down her cheek.

      Donovan waited for the inevitable disdain to settle in his gut. Or, at the very least, indifference. In his experience, feminine tears served as weapons more often than displays of heartfelt emotion. That had certainly been the case with Helena Robson each of the half-dozen times he’d refused her admittance to his bed. She’d proved as much that first time, when his genuine attempt to console her had ended with a slap to his face and the insinuation that he must be gay. He’d learned his lesson. From then on, when she’d tried to turn one of his country-house parties into some kind of romantic rendezvous, a clipped no had been his only response, followed by the slam of his bedroom door.

      Even his aunt Constance, a self-assured woman if there ever was one, had been known to shed a manipulative tear or two.

      As cold as it sounded, Donovan had become immune. Which was why he was caught completely off guard by the very sudden, very real, desire to wipe away Miss Scott’s tear with a brush of his thumb.

      He clenched his fists in case he lost his head and reached for her. “Miss Scott, are you crying?”

      “No.” She blinked furiously, but not fast enough to prevent a few more tears from spilling over.

      Donovan crossed his arms, even though they itched to wrap themselves around Miss Scott’s slender shoulders. It was as if those arms belonged to another man entirely. “Miss Scott, I recognize tears when I see them. I urge you to get ahold of yourself. There are people everywhere.”

      “I don’t care.” She lifted her chin. It wobbled with emotion.

      Donovan averted his gaze before that wobble became his undoing.

      He heaved a frustrated sigh. What in God’s name had convinced him coming all the way to America to judge this show was a good idea? He had more than enough on his plate back in England. Between acting as his sister’s guardian and running the family foundation with his aunt Constance, he barely had time to think. Not to mention that his favorite dog, his pride and joy, was about to have puppies any day. Poor Figgy was bursting at the seams. He’d been distracted beyond reason worrying about her.

      Donovan inhaled a deep breath and directed his attention back to Miss Scott. Only then did he notice the fine sprinkling of freckles the exact color of cinnamon across her pert nose. Realization dawned, a little too late. Miss Scott obviously thought he’d been insulting her complexion, not critiquing her dog.

      He let his gaze linger on her porcelain skin. The freckles only added to her charm, giving her the same sort of inviting quality as a pastry dusted with sugar and spice.

      Get ahold of yourself. She’s a woman, not a dessert.

      Donovan moved as slowly as he could, as if approaching a spooked polo pony, and took a step closer to her. “Miss Scott...”

      The careful approach was useless. She sniffed—rather loudly—and then rolled her eyes. “For God’s sake, would you stop saying Miss Scott?”

      He held up his hands in surrender. “Miss Scott is your name, is it not?”

      Another sniffle. “Yes, but you make it sound so formal. It can be rather intimidating.”

      He lifted his brows. “Perhaps we should go back to number eight, then?”

      He’d meant it as a joke, but the angry flush crawling up Miss Scott’s lovely face, threatening to all but obscure those delightful freckles, told him his attempt at humor had missed its mark.

      Some sort of action was most definitely in order. He’d somehow managed to lose control of his own ring in less than ten minutes.

      “Miss Scott, when I expressed my disappointment in the freckles, you do know I was referring to your dog?” He waved a hand toward her little Blenheim pup.

      She looked at the dog, and her forehead crumpled in apparent confusion. Then she ran her fingertips over her cheekbones with a featherlight touch. “Oh. Of course. I knew that.”

      Right. Donovan couldn’t resist playing with her a bit. “Did you, now?”

      “Look, can you just give us our ribbon and let us go?” There was nothing remotely playful about her tone.

      Donovan bristled. “Miss Scott,” he began.

      Her eyes flashed, switching from warm brown to fiery copper in an instant.

      “Miss Scott.” He enunciated with exaggerated slowness. She may have grown weary of hearing him say her name, but he wasn’t about to go back to calling her number eight. “You do realize that I’m the judge and you’re the exhibitor.”

      She gave an almost imperceptible nod. “I do.”

      I do.

      She sounds like a bride.

      The nonsensical thought blindsided Donovan. He railed against it, injecting more irritation into his tone than he intended. “And as a judge, I have the power to withhold a ribbon from your dog. Or, if I so choose, I could have you excused altogether.”

      She narrowed her gaze, staring daggers at him. Her slender fingers tightened around her show lead. Donovan was left with the impression of a mother bear defending her cub.

      An unexpected wave of tenderness washed over him. Miss Scott clearly loved her dog. It was a condition with which he readily identified.

      Donovan said nothing. After fixing his gaze on hers for a prolonged moment, he looked back down at her Cavalier. The little dog blinked up at him with wide, expressive eyes. She really was a nice puppy, more so upon second inspection. Freckles notwithstanding.

      Donovan turned and strode back to the judge’s table, making the proper notation in the official book. He could feel Miss Scott’s presence behind him as he surveyed the arrangement of neatly stacked ribbons at his disposal. He selected a smooth royal-blue one and offered it to her.

      A smile tipped her rosy lips.

      At last.

      Donovan