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“I believe I shall have breakfast upstairs in my room,” said Amelia, rising.
“You know you’re wrong to refuse him!” Victoria called after her, rising as well. With dogged determination, she followed her sister, ignoring their father’s protest. “Amelia, he loves you! Give him a chance to prove himself to you!”
“He had his chance. He could have refused to aid you in your deception of me. Had he done so—”
“You would never have even seen him, much less considered him for a husband!” shouted Victoria. “Had he come to you honestly in the beginning, you would have trampled him beneath your cold, hard heels the same as all of the others. I’ve seen you do it countless times. You’ve broken more hearts—”
“You still don’t see, do you?” her sister interrupted. “False, all of them! Every last one had something to hide. I discovered their dirty secrets, routed them out and exposed them to the light. How could I accept such men when they were full of lies? When they were not at all who they claimed to be? And Withington is the worst of them all. I would not marry him now if he was the king of England!” She turned and stomped her way up the stairs.
“You should have left it alone, Victoria,” said her father from behind her. “She has her reasons for being this way. Let it be.”
She turned. “But Papa, he loves her. I know he loves her.”
“It matters not,” he said, shaking his head. His voice was surprisingly gentle, given his anger toward her. “Amelia has made her choice, and we must respect it.”
Wedding preparations progressed at a steady—and very quick—march. The entire house was in a state of uproar with Victoria at the center of the storm.
Countless things had to be ticked off a lengthy preparations list.
Her trousseau had to be finished and all of her things transported to her new home at Holker Hall, an estate recently bequeathed to Julius by his good cousin, Sir Lowther.
There was a banquet to prepare for. Food and decorations to be ordered and invitations sent. The guest list, while restricted to family and only those friends deemed unwise to exclude, was still quite substantial.
Their parents’ ranks demanded that the ceremony be performed at St. Paul’s. Necessity demanded that it be done within one month of the “incident.” A lavish gift to another couple had secured the date, and a large charitable contribution to the diocese from both families, ensured that Lord Cavendish would marry Lady Victoria at eight o’ clock that morning with all the proper pomp and circumstance.
A week before the wedding, Withy came to call.
Victoria greeted him with no small amount of surprise—and concern. “What are you doing? You know she won’t see you…”
“I know,” he said sadly. “But I thought I would at least try. She hasn’t sent an official refusal yet, and I’d hoped that—”
She shook her head. “It’s no good. Papa is right, she won’t give over. She’s only waiting until after the wedding to publicly break it off.”
He sat. The look on his face was so forlorn that she could hardly bear it. “I’m so sorry. I feel like this is all my fault.”
“No. You warned me. I thought I could somehow convince her. That I could prove my love for her and she
’d…”
His voice died, and she turned away to give him a moment.
“It’s all right,” he said softly after a moment.
“It’s not,” she said with heat. “She’s being completely pigheaded about it all.”
“She has a right.”
“You sound just like her,” she replied wryly. “If ever there were two people who should be married…” She left off, afraid to say anything more.
Tea arrived. Having nothing better to do, she leaned across to pour. As she did, the lace at her elbow snagged on the corner of the tray, causing her to upset it and nearly drop the teapot. She managed to save the delicate china from disaster; however, the lid came off, sending the hot contents of the pot directly into Withington’s lap.
“Bloody bollocks!” he howled raggedly, leaping up and clutching at the front of his breeches to hold the steaming cloth away from his more sensitive parts.
Blushing furiously, she closed her eyes and shoved a tea towel at his hands—and accidentally hit him in the tenders.
Grunting in agony, he doubled over, sending her sprawling. The teapot slipped from her hands and hit the parquet floor, sending tea and shrapnel in all directions.
“Sweet Lord above, woman, are you trying to kill me?” he gasped, steadying himself against her. “God, what a bloody mess we’ve made of it.”
