Victoria didn't say much. She didn't feel she had very much to add to the conversation, and even if she had, Mrs. Brightbill and Harriet didn't give her many opportunities to do so.

After an hour the mother and daughter deposited Victoria back at the dress shop. Victoria poked her head through the door suspiciously, convinced that Robert was going to jump out at her from behind a dressmaker's dummy.

But he wasn't there. Madame Lambert said that he'd had business to attend to in another part of town.

Victoria was horrified to realize that she was feeling something that vaguely resembled a stab of disappointment. It wasn't because she missed him, she rationalized, she just missed the battle of wits.

“He did leave you this, though,” Madame said, holding out a fresh box of pastries. “He said he hoped you would deign to eat one.”

At Victoria's sharp look, Madame added, “His words, not mine.”

Victoria turned to hide the smile tugging at her lips. Then she forced her mouth back into a frown. He was not going to wear her down. She had told him that she valued her independence, and she'd meant it. He would not win her heart with romantic gestures.

Although, she thought pragmatically, one pastry really couldn't hurt.

Robert's smile spread into a full-fledged grin as he watched Victoria eat a third pastry. She obviously didn't know that he was watching her through the window, or she wouldn't have even so much as sniffed at one of the small cakes.

She then picked up the handkerchief he'd left with the box and examined the monogram. Then, after a quick scan to make sure that none of her co-workers were looking, she lifted the scrap of cloth to her face and inhaled its scent.

Robert felt tears prick his eyes. She was softening toward him. She'd die before she admitted it, but it was clear she was softening.

He watched as she tucked the handkerchief into her bodice. The simple gesture gave him hope. He would win her back; he was certain of it.

He smiled for the rest of the day. He couldn't help himself.

Four days later Victoria was ready to whack him over the head. And she rather relished the concept of doing so with an expensive box of sweets. Any one of the forty boxes he'd sent would suffice.

He'd also given her three romantic novels, a miniature telescope, and a small bouquet of honeysuckle, with a note reading, I hope this reminds you of home. Victoria had almost started to bawl right there in the dress shop when she read his words. The blasted man remembered everything she liked and disliked, and he was using it to try to bend her to his will.

He had become her shadow. He gave her enough time alone to get her work done at Madame Lambert's, but he always seemed to materialize by her side whenever she stepped foot outdoors. He didn't like it when she walked alone, he told her, especially in her neighborhood.

Victoria had pointed out that he followed her everywhere, not just to her neighborhood. Robert's mouth had tightened into a grim line and he had muttered something about personal safety and the dangers of London. Victoria was fairly certain that she'd heard the words “damn” and “fool” in the sentence as well.

She told him over and over that she valued her independence, that she wanted to be left alone, but he didn't listen. By the end of the week he wasn't speaking either. All he did was glower at her.

Robert's gifts continued to arrive at the dress shop with alarming regularity, but he no longer wasted words trying to convince her to marry him. Victoria asked him about his silence, and all he said was, “I am so goddamned furious with you that I am trying not to say anything for fear of biting your nitwit head off.”

Victoria considered his tone of voice, noticed that they were trodding through a particularly unsavory area of town at the time, and decided not to say anything more. When they arrived at her boarding house, she slipped inside without a word of farewell. Up in her room she peeked out the window.

He stared up at her curtains for more than an hour. It was disconcerting, that.

Robert stood in front of Victoria's building and assessed it with the eye of a man who leaves nothing to chance. He had reached his boiling point. No, he had gone far, far beyond it. He had tried his best to be patient, had wooed Victoria not with expensive gifts but with thoughtful tokens that he felt would be more meaningful. He had tried to talk sense into her until he ran out of words.

But that night had been the straw that had broken the proverbial camel's back. Victoria didn't realize it, but every time Robert followed her home, MacDougal followed them both, about ten paces behind. Usually MacDougal waited for Robert to seek him out, but that night he had made his way to his employer's side the moment Victoria slipped into her boarding house.

A man had been stabbed, MacDougal said. It had happened the night before, right in front of Victoria's boardinghouse. Robert knew that her building had a sturdy lock, but that did little to ease his mind as he regarded the bloodstains on the cobblestones. Victoria had to walk back and forth to work every day; sooner or later someone was bound to try to take advantage of her.

Victoria didn't even like stepping on ants. How the devil was she supposed to defend herself against an attack?

Robert lifted his hand to his face, his fingers pressing against the muscle that was jumping spasmodically in his temple. Deep breaths did little to ease the fury or sense of impotence that was growing within him. It was becoming obvious that he would not be able to protect Torie properly, as long as she insisted on remaining in this hellhole.

Clearly the current state of affairs could not be allowed to continue.

Robert acted very strangely the next day. He was more silent and brooding than usual, but he seemed to have an awful lot to discuss with MacDougal.