“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.