A faint flush rose to Sue’s cheeks. “He’s wonderful. His kennel has excellent bloodlines.”
For some reason, Elizabeth doubted that rosy glow had much to do with his kennel’s bloodlines. “What kind of dogs does he breed? Terriers?”
Sue’s flush intensified. She fanned herself with a copy of the show catalog. “He’s here.”
A tall gentleman with a ramrod-straight spine strode past them and into the ring. His presence brought with it a flutter to Elizabeth’s heart. She tightened her grip on Bliss’s leash and tried to tell herself it was a simple case of preshow jitters. Bliss looked up at her with a crease in her furry brow. Even the dog seemed to know Elizabeth was kidding herself.
Mr. Darcy was handsome. Sweaty-palms, forget-how-to-breathe handsome. Apparently, his dogs weren’t the only genetic-lottery winners.
Elizabeth made an attempt to take a deep, calming breath and willed herself not to look at his intense, dark eyes or his broad shoulders, shown off to perfection with the tailored cut of his suit jacket. It wasn’t easy. Everything about the man was captivating. Noble, even. Which, when she thought about it, really should have disgusted her. She’d been right, after all. Mr. Darcy was clearly wealthy. What kind of person jetted all over the globe to judge dog shows?
Good grief. He was rich, imposing and handsome enough to cause heart palpitations. Next to Elizabeth, Sue’s fanning arm had gone into overdrive.
Life just wasn’t fair.
Of course, Elizabeth had learned that lesson long ago. And, just in case it slipped her mind, the recent Markham incident had served as a painful reminder.
“You’re up,” Sue whispered.
The comment barely registered in Elizabeth’s consciousness. She blinked. Somehow she was once again staring at Mr. Darcy. She must have also been hallucinating because he seemed to be staring back at her. All the breath whooshed out of her lungs. His intensity was almost crippling when it was aimed directly toward her, even though it was only in her imagination.
“Elizabeth,” Sue hissed. “You’re up.”
The older woman gave her a shove, and she stumbled forward. Bliss let out a little yip as Elizabeth tripped over her and slammed into Mr. Darcy’s impressive chest. It seemed he’d not only actually been staring at her, but he’d also taken several steps in her direction.
Horrified, Elizabeth backed up. “I’m so sorry, Your Honor. I mean, sir...um, Mr. Darcy.” Too mortified to look him in the eye, she aimed the words at his tie. It was royal-blue, by all appearances silk, and likely cost more than Elizabeth’s entire ensemble. Shoes included.
The tie rose and fell with his irritated sigh. “Cavalier King Charles spaniel puppy number eight?”
“Yes, that’s us.”
“The steward has been calling you for two full minutes. Is something preventing you from entering the ring?”
Your exquisite bone structure? “No. I’m sorry. I was a bit...distracted.”
“Would you care to enter the ring now, or do you require an engraved invitation?” His smooth voice and the beauty of his British accent did little to soften the blow of his sarcasm.
Once she got over the initial shock, Elizabeth was almost grateful for his rudeness. At least he was no longer perfect. He was a man, just like any other.
She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. Even then she almost had to crane her neck to look him in the eye. A wasted effort, since he appeared to look right through her.
“That won’t be necessary,” she whispered.
“Then by all means...” He waved her through the white lattice ring gates with a flourish.
Elizabeth’s cheeks burned. The other judges she’d encountered since she’d begun showing Bliss had all been friendly. Or civil, at the very least. With only three strides of his long legs, Mr. Darcy was halfway across the ring. Even at that distance, Elizabeth could still feel the frosty chill emanating from his every pore.
What is his problem?
All she could reason was that, unlike Sue, Mr. Darcy was fully cognizant that he was in New Jersey rather than his posh country estate in England. And he appeared none too pleased with this realization.
“Number eight?” From his place in the center of the ring, Mr. Darcy tapped his foot. Bliss watched it with rapt attention. “If it’s not a bother...that is, if you aren’t too distracted, could you take your dog around the ring?”
Elizabeth wasn’t sure what happened in the next instant, other than that she’d finally reached her breaking point. After all she’d been through, she couldn’t tolerate breathing the same air as another arrogant, wealthy man. Even one who looked more like a god than a mere mortal.
The words flew out of her mouth, as if of their own volition. “I have a name, you know.”
A hush fell on the crowd of onlookers standing ringside.
Mr. Darcy crossed his arms, revealing the tips of his French cuffs and a discreet pair of gold cuff links. “I beg your pardon?”
“I have a name.” Elizabeth’s voice was shakier than she would have liked. She cleared her throat. “And it’s not number eight.”
Mr. Darcy’s eyebrows rose. “Do enlighten me.”
“It’s Elizabeth. Elizabeth Scott.”
Electric sparks of tension ricocheted around the ring, bouncing off the white lattice separating the two of them from everyone else. The only one who appeared oblivious to what was going on was Bliss. She inhaled a wide, squeaky dog yawn and curled into a ball at Elizabeth’s feet.
Elizabeth poked the dog with the toe of her ballerina flat. “Bliss, get up, baby.”
The Cavalier rose to her feet and glanced back and forth with her wide, round eyes from her mistress to the judge.
“Very well, then,” Mr. Darcy said evenly. “Miss Scott, please take your dog around and then place her on the table.”
Elizabeth gathered the end of Bliss’s show lead in her left hand. Her palm was damp with perspiration, as was the back of her neck and the area between her breasts. She could only hope no one else noticed.
“Come on, Bliss. Let’s go.” She tried to infuse her tone with as much enthusiasm as possible.
It wasn’t the loveliest lap Bliss had ever made, but Elizabeth could hardly blame the poor dog. She cooed and cajoled and, in general, made a fool of herself in an effort to get the Cavalier to perk up a bit. It felt like the longest trot around the ring in dog-show history.
When it was finally over and they reached the table, Bliss’s little doggy eyebrows looked as though they were scrunched in concern. Elizabeth couldn’t resist planting a tiny kiss on her head as she scooped her up and placed her on the grooming table.
In Elizabeth’s experience—limited as it was—most judges gave the handler time to get the dog stacked, or posed, on the
