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 had to force himself to look away from her mouth. He cleared his throat. “I’ll see you again for the Winner’s Bitch competition.” He couldn’t resist adding, “Miss Scott.”
“Thank you.” The warmth returned to her eyes, changing them back to the pleasing shade of warm chocolate. “Mr. Darcy.”
She smiled again, and Donovan felt his worries slowly slipping away. For the first time since he’d boarded the plane at Heathrow, all the stresses of home seemed every bit as far away as they actually were. A kind look from Miss Scott, coupled with the sound of his name coming from her sweet honey lips, was a startling balm to his troubled soul.
* * *
“Pardon me for asking—” Sue greeted Elizabeth with a wry smile as she exited the ring “—but what the hell was that?”
Elizabeth made an attempt at nonchalance and shrugged. Not an easy task when every pair of eyes ringside was trained on her. The other exhibitors were openly staring at her, slack-jawed. She wanted to crawl under the bright blue carpeting and disappear, like Bliss did under the covers whenever there was a thunderstorm. “What do you mean?”
“What do I mean? Are you seriously asking me that? After what just happened?” Sue gestured toward Mr. Darcy, waving the next group of dogs into the ring.
Elizabeth had no idea if he was watching her or not. She couldn’t bear to venture a glance in his direction. She looked at Sue instead. The older woman appraised her with a look that was a peculiar combination of curiosity and sympathy. It hadn’t escaped her notice that the other exhibitors were slinking away as though she had the plague or something. Only Sue Barrow remained at her side.
At that moment, Elizabeth decided she liked Sue. She liked her very much.
“Was it that bad?” Her stomach plummeted, indicating that, yes, what had transpired in the ring had indeed been that bad.
“I’m not sure if I would call it bad, per se.” Sue grimaced. “Although at times it looked as though you were about to slap Mr. Darcy.”
How would she ever show her face at another dog show? “Oh, my God. What have I done? I can’t believe he didn’t excuse me after the things I said.”
“Probably because it also looked like you wanted him to kiss you.”
“You must have been hallucinating.”
Sue wagged a finger at her. “You can’t fool me. I’ve been around the block a few times, dear. You don’t know whether to slap that man or kiss him silly.”
“Ha. As if. Never in a million years.” A phrase from college English Lit ran through Elizabeth’s consciousness. “The lady doth protest too much.” Shakespeare. What a smarty-pants.
“Okay, then. Slapping it is.” Sue nodded resolutely, but behind her glasses her eyes twinkled with humor. “Personally, I would have gone with the kiss, but to each her own.”
“Just who are you planning on kissing?” Alan, Sue’s husband, sidled up next to them. He’d obviously given up on his war with the rubber bands. At least a half dozen of them, knotted together in a spaghetti-like mess, held his armband in place.
“Only you, dear.” Sue gave his cheek a fond pat. “Only you.”
Elizabeth couldn’t help but smile at their easy affection. It was a welcome diversion from the great slapping-versus-kissing debate. She extended her hand and introduced herself to Alan. “Hi, I’m Elizabeth.”
“Cheers, Elizabeth.” Like Sue, he spoke with a British accent.
For a fleeting moment, Elizabeth let her mind wander back to Mr. Darcy’s similar manner of speaking. When he’d first said her name, she’d loved the way it had sounded. Miss Scott. So poetic. Lyrical.
