Teri Wilson - Unleashing 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.”