Chapter Nineteen
“Are you ready?” Chase asked.
Victoria stared out the coach window to the crush of theatergoers and revelers around Drury Lane Theater, milling about, lit by torchlights and lanterns.
Ready?
Would she ever be ready for this moment?
No, she never would. In fact, it was quite tempting to tell Derek to turn the coach around on the crowded road and head back to the house where she could feel comfortable again, surrounded by artifacts and her notations.
But that would not do.
They had a ruse to show, that they were a happily married couple and that all was well. And they were happy if one could use such a word. They were contented friends and allies, so it wouldn’t be such a difficult show to put on. Certainly easier than the one the actors were about to perform upon the stage, or at least so she told herself.
The truth was her insides were positively rioting.
She hated the ton.
She hated everything about it.
She hated the way they stared at her, the way they made comments about her appearance and her insufferableness. She was not the one who was insufferable. They were. They were the ones who turned her into a prickly pincushion of a woman. And rightly.
Their standards were ridiculous.
The idea that the only thing a woman was good for was her appearance was appalling. Not just her appearance, she amended. Her breeding capability, which was really, truly horrendous. Victoria did not see herself as a bovine wandering about society, preparing herself to propagate, but she knew that was what many of the people inside the theater might think. Not all of them, of course, but certainly the vast majority of the ton.
Still, she was no coward, and she would not retreat now. She took her sea-green shawl embroidered with the most beautiful peacock she’d ever seen and swung it over her shoulders.
She met her husband’s gaze and said, “Of course I’m ready. What do you take me for?”
“I take you for the boldest of women,” he said firmly.
And with that, he threw open the coach door, bounded down, and offered her his white-gloved hand. She took it and gazed upon his beautiful face.
He did not look daunted in the slightest.
In fact, he appeared as if he indeed was ushering the most beautiful woman in the world into the theater. This, of course, made him a fool. Her husband was most strange. Quite unlike anything that she’d ever thought he would be, not like any sort of rake at all. No, he was kind and supportive and wanted her to succeed. She could see it.
All of this made her…like him. She liked him very much. And it was astounding, because she’d never thought she could have liked a person like him. No doubt, the gods were having a good laugh at her expense.
She took that gloved hand and stepped down, chin held high.
“That’s it, Victory,” he encouraged. “Shoulders back at the ready to face the firing squad.”
“Oh, dear,” she drawled. “Do you think they’re going to fire?”
“Of course,” he said brightly. “They cannot wait to get in their pricks. It’s what they do, for the lot of them are pricks,” he whispered in her ear.
She gasped. “You are terrible, and you should not say such a thing to a lady.”
“I am not saying such a thing to just a simple lady,” he pointed out playfully. “I am saying something to my wife, the Duchess of Chase, the most intelligent and capable woman in London, who deserves to be told the truth about the state of most of the ton.”
She beamed up at him. “You, Your Grace, are terrible.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “But you like it, don’t you?”
She could not stop the laugh that belled out of her. “Yes, I find that I do.”