“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.”
“Oh, relax,” Zara groaned. “What difference does it make? It’s not as if Helena will ever actually meet her. You’ll probably never see her again yourself.”
Her words, although true, were an arrow straight to his heart. He felt himself caving in beneath their weight.
He straightened. Why should he care if he ever saw Miss Scott again? There were plenty of beautiful women right here in England, none of whom made a habit of looking at him with obvious disdain in their eyes. Still, it was a struggle to clear his throat and speak with any sort of composure. “True.”
Zara laughed. “And it’s a good thing. Can you imagine if she were here? Helena would eat her alive.”
Donovan shuddered.
Eat her alive indeed.
* * *
Elizabeth’s first impression of London was that it was rather like looking at New York through rose-colored glasses. The people were far more fashionable. There wasn’t a pair of white athletic shoes in sight, and you couldn’t swing a stick without hitting someone with a fashionable Burberry scarf wound around their neck. Everything seemed cleaner, too, as if the city had recently had a good scrubbing. Then again, she was gathering her first impression of London from behind the privacy windows of a fancy black Jaguar.
The driver and his luxurious car had been the Barrows’ doing. A kind gesture, but one that made Elizabeth a tad nervous nonetheless. As she’d slid into the supple leather backseat with Bliss curled in her lap, she couldn’t help but wonder what exactly she’d gotten herself into. Jenna had insisted the Barrows were rich. Elizabeth had no argument there. They’d just hired a dog nanny, for crying out loud.
Oh,