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.”