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Moments later, she reclaimed her seat and cast a nervous, sidelong glance at Withington. She hoped he would understand and prayed that Papa would forgive her for creating a scene that would likely be all over the papers by morning.
At the very end of the opera, right as its climactic closing note began to die, she stood, intending to let out an indignant scream of outrage. She opened her mouth, and an angry screech did indeed echo throughout the hall—but it was not hers.
All heads, including Victoria’s, whipped about to peer across the theater into a box belonging to one very angry Duchess of Melmont. Her Grace was shrieking her displeasure at a handsome gentleman who was, notably, not her husband. Following her enraged outburst, the lady’s arm rose, and the crack of her hand’s impact upon the offender’s cheek shattered the silence.
A collective gasp erupted from the crowd, followed by excited murmurs.
Victoria cursed. Her act had been stolen! Fate, it seemed, was playing against her. Annoyed, she sat with a thump, avoiding Withington’s askance look.
“How very undignified,” said Amelia with a sniff of disapproval. “They’ve completely ruined the opera with their unseemly display. Could she not have at least waited until after the applause?”
Withington smiled indulgently. “Ah, but love knows neither dignity nor propriety, my lady. It plays by its own rules, its foibles subject to the laws of no authority save the divine.”
“What rubbish,” she replied at once, rising. “Come, let us leave before everyone else comes to their senses and crowds the hall.”
“I happen to agree with the Marquess,” said Victoria. Obviously, Amelia had forgotten that she was trying to seduce him away. “Love is a wild, untamed thing.”
Amelia’s mouth quirked as she paused to address her in an imperious tone: “Any woman willing to throw away her dignity for a gentleman’s affections is foolish beyond imagining. Once a man loses his respect for a woman, his affections will soon follow.” Without awaiting a response, she took Cavendish’s arm and exited the balcony.
“She is going to be damn near impossible, isn’t she?” mumbled Withington.
Victoria bit her lip. “It might be a bit more difficult than I thought. But I imagine she might feel differently if a man were to sacrifice his dignity for love of her.”
Withington groaned. “I’ll be a bloody shade before this is finished.”
“Nonsense. Now, here is the plan. You and I must have an argument tonight,” she whispered quickly. “Something that will leave an opening for Ju—Lord Cavendish to begin wooing me away from you.”
“Very well,” he said dubiously. “What shall we disagree about?”
She wracked her brain for a moment. “Horses! We shall quarrel over which breed is the better.”
He stared at her, clearly questioning he
r sanity. “She’ll never believe it.”
She patted his arm, confident. “She will. Because she knows how I feel about them. We shall start by comparing breeds, and then you’ll say something derogatory about Andalusians. That shall get things started nicely. Come, let us catch up.”
“Why I let you two talk me into this, I’ll never—”
“Come on!”
They were among the first to depart the theater, thanks to Amelia’s lack of inclination to socialize. The carriage rolled on, bearing them away from the heart of London toward Richmond Manor.
“I’ve made arrangements for our box at the Ascot races, Lady Victoria,” ventured Withington. “If you still wish to attend, that is.”
“I should like nothing better, my lord. Are you to enter a horse?”
“My family does so every year,” he said with aplomb. “We’ve been part of Ascot since its inception. Our horses have won many prizes. Why, just this last year, our Regulus won the Queen’s Plate.”
“Really? How intriguing,” she said. “May I ask what breed?”
“Godolphin Arabian, of course. I would never enter anything less than an Arabian at the Ascot.”
“What do you mean, ‘less than an Arabian’?” she replied with a touch of acid. “Why not an Andalusian or some other breed?”
Withington patted her hand as if she were an ignorant child. “Because other breeds, like the Andalusian, are far too heavy for the sport. The competition demands an animal that is light and fleet-footed. I seriously doubt an Andalusian would make even the first turn without being dead last.”
“I’ll wager Primero wouldn’t come in last,” she said with heat.
