by Julia Quinn
The blond girl looked up with relief in her eyes. “Victoria, I'm so glad you're finally 'ere.”
Victoria set her bundle down. “Is something amiss?”
“Madame is…” Katie paused, looked over her shoulder, and then continued in a whisper, “Madame is frantic. Four customers in the front, and she—”
“Is Victoria here?” Madame Lambert burst into the back room, not bothering to adopt the French accent she used with customers. She spied Victoria, who was sorting through the sewing she'd brought home with her the previous night. “Thank the heavens. I need you in front.”
Victoria quickly put down the sleeve she was holding and hurried out. Madame Lambert liked to use Victoria in the front of the shop because she spoke with a cultured accent.
Madame led Victoria over to a girl of about sixteen years who was doing her best to ignore the stout woman—most probably her mother—standing next her.
“Veectoria,” Madame said, suddenly French, “zees eez Miss Harriet Brightbill. Her mother”—she motioned to the other lady—would like some assistance een outfitting zee young lady.”
“I know exactly what I want,” Mrs. Brightbill said.
“And I know exactly what I want,” Harriet added, hands planted firmly on hips.
Victoria bit back a smile. “Perhaps we might be able to find something that you both admire.”
Mrs. Brightbill let out a loud harrumph, which caused Harriet to turn to her with a beleaguered expression and say, “Mother!”
For the next hour, Victoria displayed bolt upon bolt of fabric. Silks, satins, and muslins—they were all brought out for inspection. It was soon apparent that Harriet had much better taste than her mother, and Victoria found herself spending a great deal of time convincing Mrs. Brightbill that flounces were not necessary for social success.
Finally Mrs. Brightbill, who really did love her daughter and was obviously just trying to do what she thought was best, excused herself and went off to the retiring room. Harriet sank into a nearby chair with a huge sigh. “She's exhausting, isn't she?” she asked Victoria.
Victoria just smiled.
“Thank goodness my cousin has offered to take us out for cakes. I shouldn't be able to bear another bout of shopping just now. We still must attend to the milliner and the glove maker.”
“I'm certain you will have a lovely time,” Victoria said diplomatically.
“The only lovely time I shall have is when all the packages arrive home and I may open them—Oh look! There is my cousin walking by the window. Robert! Robert!”
Victoria didn't even stop to react. The name Robert did strange things to her, and she immediately darted behind a potted plant. The bell on the door jingled, and she peeked out between the leaves.
Robert. Her Robert.
She nearly groaned. Her life only needed this. Just when she had begun to carve out a bit of contentment, he had to come along and turn everything topsy-turvy. She wasn't entirely sure what she felt about him anymore, but one thing she was sure of—she didn't want a confrontation with him here.
She began to inch toward the door to the rear room.
“Cousin Robert,” she heard Harriet say as she crouched behind a chair, “thank goodness you are here. I declare that Mother is going to drive me mad.”
He chuckled—a rich, warm sound that made Victoria's heart ache. “If she hasn't driven you batty as of yet, I'd say you're immune, dear Harriet.”
Harriet let out a world-weary sigh, the sort that only a sixteen-year-old who hasn't seen the world can do. “If it hadn't been for the lovely saleslady here—” There was a dreadful pause, and Victoria scurried on her hands and knees along the back of the sofa.
Harriet planted her hands on her hips. “I say, what happened to Victoria?”
“Victoria?”
Victoria gulped. She didn't like the tone of his voice. Only five more feet to the back door. She could make it. She slowly rose to her feet behind a dressmaker's dummy wearing a gown of forest green satin, and, scrupulously keeping her back to the room, sidestepped the last few feet to the back room.
She could make it. She knew she could.
Her hand reached for the knob. She twisted. She was in. It was almost too easy.
She'd made it! She breathed an enormous sigh of relief and sagged against the wall. Thank the Lord. Dealing with Robert would have been beyond dreadful.
“Victoria?” Katie said, looking up at her questioningly. “I thought you were 'elping—”
The door burst open with a thundering crash. Katie shrieked. Victoria groaned.
“Victoria?” Robert yelled. “Thank God, Victoria!”
He leapt over a pile of fabric bolts and knocked down a dressmaker's dummy. He stopped when he was barely a foot away from her. Victoria stared at him, bewildered. He was breathing hard, his face was haggard, and he appeared to be completely unaware that a length of Spanish lace was draped over his right shoulder.
And then, either unmindful of his audience, or simply unaware that Katie, Madame Lambert, Harriet, Mrs. Brightbill, and three other customers were watching, he reached out like a starving man and yanked her against him.
Then he began to kiss her. Everywhere.
Chapter 11
Robert ran his hands up her arms, across her shoulders, down her back—all just to assure himself that she was really there. He paused for just a moment to stare into her eyes, and then took her face in his hands and kissed her.
He kissed her with all the passion he'd kept bottled up for seven years.
He kissed her with all the agony he'd experienced these last few weeks, not knowing if she was dead or alive.
He kissed her with everything he was and everything he wanted to be. And he would have kept kissing her if a hand hadn't closed around his left ear and yanked him away.
“Robert Kemble!” his aunt yelled. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”
Robert shot a beseeching glance at Victoria, who looked quite dazed and mortified. “I need to talk to you,” he said firmly, pointing his finger at her.
“What is the meaning of this?” Madame Lambert demanded, with nary a trace of a French accent.
“This woman,” Robert said, “is my future wife.”
“What?” Victoria screeched.
“Heavens above,” Mrs. Brightbill breathed.
“Oh, Victoria!” Katie said excitedly.
“Robert, why didn't you tell us?” Harriet exclaimed.
“Who the devil are you?” Madame Lambert asked, and no one was quite sure if the question was directed at Robert or Victoria.
All of the above was uttered at much the same time, leading to such confusion that Victoria finally yelled, “Stop! All of you!”
Every head swiveled in Victoria's direction. She blinked, not quite certain what to do now that she had everyone's attention. Finally she cleared her throat and lifted her chin. “If you'll all excuse me,” she said with what she knew was a pathetic display of pride, “I'm not feeling at all the thing. I believe I'll go home a touch early today.”
All hell broke loose again. Everyone had a firm and vocal opinion about the uncommon situation. In the melee Victoria tried to slip out the back door, but Robert was too fast. His hand wrapped around her wrist, and she felt herself being hauled back into the center of the room.
“You're not going anywhere,” he said, his voice somehow fierce and tender at the same time. “Not until I talk to you.”
Harriet scooted under her mother's frantically waving arms and darted to Victoria's side. “Are you really going to marry my cousin?” she asked, her face a picture of romantic delight.
“No,” Victoria said, shaking her head weakly.
“Yes,” Robert barked. “She is.”
“But you don't want to marry me.”
“Obviously I do, or I wouldn't have declared it in front of the biggest gossip in London.”
“He means my mother,” Harriet said helpfully.
Victoria sat down
on a bolt of green satin and let her face fall into her hands.
Madame Lambert marched over to her side. “I don't know who you are,” she said, jabbing her finger into Robert's shoulder, “but I cannot have you assaulting my shopgirls.”
“I am the Earl of Macclesfield.”
“The Earl of—” Her eyes bugged out. “An earl?”
Victoria moaned, wanting to be anyplace but where she was.
Madame crouched down beside her. “Really, my girl, he's an earl. And did he say he wanted to marry you?”
Victoria just shook her head, her face still in her hands.
“For the love of God!” an imperious voice demanded. “Can none of you see that the poor girl is distressed?”
An older lady dressed all in purple made her way to Victoria's side and cast a maternal arm around her shoulders.
Victoria looked up and blinked. “Who are you?” she asked.
“I am the dowager Duchess of Beechwood.”
Victoria looked over at Robert. “Another relation of yours?”
The dowager answered in his stead. “I can assure you that scoundrel is no relation of mine. I was minding my own business, shopping for a new gown for my granddaughter's first ball, and—”
“Oh, God,” Victoria moaned, letting her head fall back into her hands. This brought new meaning to the word “mortification.” When total strangers felt the need to pity her…
The dowager fixed a sharp stare at Madame Lambert. “Can't you see that the poor dear needs a cup of tea?”
Madame Lambert hesitated, clearly not wanting to miss a minute of the action, then nudged Katie in the ribs. The shopgirl ran off to prepare some tea.
“Victoria,” Robert said, trying to sound calm and patient—a difficult endeavor considering his audience. “I need to talk with you.”
She lifted her head and wiped her damp eyes, feeling a bit emboldened by all of the feminine sympathy and outrage surrounding her. “I don't want to have anything to do with you,” she said with a slight sniffle. “Not a thing.”
Her performance caused Robert's aunt to move to the side of Victoria not occupied by the dowager Duchess of Beechwood and drape her with yet another maternal arm.
“Aunt Brightbill,” Robert said in an exasperated voice.
“What did you do to the poor girl?” his aunt demanded.
Robert's mouth fell open in disbelief. It was now quite obvious that every female in Britain—with the possible exception of the odious Lady Hollingwood—was aligned against him. “I am trying to ask her to marry me,” he bit out. “Surely that counts for something.”
Mrs. Brightbill turned to Victoria with an expression that flickered between concern and practicality. “He is offering for you, poor dear.” Her voice dropped an octave. “Is there a reason why it would be imperative you accept?”
Harriet's mouth fell open. Even she knew what that meant.
“Absolutely not!” Victoria said loudly. And then, just because she knew it would get him into such big trouble with their conventional female audience, and, of course, because she was still rather furious with him, she added, “He tried to compromise me, but I didn't let him.”
Mrs. Brightbill jumped to her feet with surprising speed considering her girth and swatted her nephew with her reticule. “How dare you!” she yelled. “The poor dear is clearly gently bred, even if circumstances have brought her low.” She paused in mid-thought, clearly just realizing that her nephew—an earl, for goodness' sake—was offering for a shopgirl, and turned back to Victoria. “I say, you are gently bred, aren't you? I mean to say, you do sound gently bred.”
“Victoria is all that is gentle and kind,” Robert said.
The woman of whom he spoke merely sniffed and ignored his compliment.
“Her father is the vicar at Bellfield,” he added, and then gave a very brief recounting of their history.
“Oh, how romantic.” Harriet sighed.
“It was not in the least bit romantic,” Victoria snapped. Then she added a bit more gently, “Just so you don't get any foolish notions of elopement in your head.”
Harriet's mother patted Victoria approvingly on the shoulder. “Robert,” she announced to the room at large, “you will be a lucky gentleman indeed if you can persuade this exceedingly lovely and practical young woman to accept your suit.”
He opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by the howl of the teakettle. He was then roundly ignored while the women saw to the tea. Victoria sipped from her cup while she received more approving pats and several concerned “poor dears.”
Robert wasn't sure when it had happened, but the balance of power had definitely shifted against him. He was only one man against—his eyes swept the room—eight women.
Eight? Bloody hell. The room started to feel very tight. He tugged at his cravat.
Finally, when some woman in a pink dress—he had no idea who she was and could only deduce that she was another innocent by-stander—moved to allow him a view of Victoria's face, he said for what seemed, like the hundredth time, “Victoria, I need to talk with you.”
She took another sip of her tea, received another maternal pat from the dowager Duchess of Beechwood, and said, “No.”
He took a step forward and his tone grew vaguely menacing. “Victoria…”
He would have taken another step forward, but eight women simultaneously speared him with disdainful glares. Even he was not man enough to withstand that. He threw up his arms and muttered, “Too many hens.”
Victoria just sat there amidst her new band of admirers, looking disgustingly serene.
Robert took a deep breath and jabbed his finger in the air. “This is not the end of this, Victoria. I will speak with you.”
And then, with another incomprehensible comment about roosters and hens, he stalked from the dress shop.
“Is he still there?”
At Victoria's request, Katie once again peered through the storefront window. “'Is carriage 'asn't moved.”
“Damn and blast,” Victoria muttered, which caused Mrs. Brightbill to say, “I thought you said your father was a vicar.”
Victoria glanced at the clock. Robert's carriage had been parked in front of the dress shop for two hours now, and he showed no signs of leaving. Neither did any of the ladies who had witnessed their bizarre reunion. Madame Lambert had had to boil four more pots of tea to accommodate everyone.
“He cannot remain in the street all day,” Harriet said. “Can he?”
“He's an earl,” her mother replied in a matter-of-fact voice. “He can do anything he pleases.”
“And that,” Victoria declared, “is just the problem.” How dare he come waltzing back into her life, assuming that she would throw herself prostrate at his feet, and just because he suddenly had it in his head that he once more wanted to marry her.
He wanted to marry her. Victoria shook her head, quite unable to believe it. Once it had been her deepest dream; now it seemed more like a cruel mockery of fate.
He wanted to marry her? Ha! It was too damned late for that.
“Did you just curse again?” Harriet whispered, darting a furtive glance at her mother.
Victoria looked up, surprised. She hadn't realized she'd spoken her thoughts. “He does that to me,” she growled.
“Cousin Robert?”
Victoria nodded. “He thinks he can manage my life.”
Harriet shrugged. “He tries to manage everyone's life. He usually does a bang-up job of it, actually. We've never been in such good funds as since he started managing our money for us.”
Victoria looked at her oddly. “Isn't it considered bad ton to discuss money?”
“Yes, but you're family.” This was said with an expansive wave of Harriet's arm.
“I am not family,” Victoria ground out.
“You will be,” Harriet replied, “if Cousin Robert has anything to do with it. And he usually gets what he wants.”
Victoria planted her hands on
her hips and glared out the window at his carriage. “Not this time.”
“Er, Victoria,” Harriet said, looking a touch anxious, “I haven't known you for very long, so it would be quite beyond me to know the intricacies of your facial expressions, but I must say I don't like the look in your eye.”
Victoria turned slowly around, baffled. “What the devil are you talking about?”
“Whatever it is you're thinking of doing, I must caution you against it.”
“I'm going to talk with him,” Victoria said resolutely, and then, before anyone could stop her, she marched out of the dress shop.
Robert jumped down from his carriage in an instant. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but Victoria cut him off. “You wanted to speak with me?” she said, her voice sharp.
“Yes, I—”
“Good. I want to talk with you, too.”
“Torie, I—”
“Don't think, even for a second, that you may manage my life. I don't know what has prompted your remarkable change of heart, but I am not a puppet who may be maneuvered at your will.”
“Of course not, but—”
“You cannot insult me the way you did and expect me to forget about it.”
“I realize that, but—”
“Furthermore, I am quite content without you. You are high-handed, arrogant, insufferable—”
“—and you love me,” Robert interrupted, looking quite pleased to have finally gotten a word in edgewise.
“I most certainly do not!”
“Victoria,” he said in an irritatingly pacifying tone, “you will always love me.”
Her mouth fell open. “You are mad.”
He swept into a courtly bow and raised her limp hand to his lips. “I have never been saner than I am at this very moment.”
Victoria's breath caught in her throat. Fragments of memory flashed through her mind, and she was seventeen again. Seventeen, utterly in love, and desperate to be kissed. “No,” she said, choking on her words. “No. You are not going to do this to me again.”
His eyes burned into hers. “Victoria, I love you.”
She wrenched her hand away. “I can't listen to this.” And then she ran back into the shop.