Page 33 of The Rake's Bride
In the carriage on the way to the theater, Mrs. Stratford had explained to her how she’d grown up entrenched in the bustle of the theater. Her mother was one of the principal actresses at the location and regularly drew full houses for her brilliant and moving performances. To say that Victoria’s interest had been piqued was an understatement. While she’d already witnesseda few performances during her time in London, it was another experience entirely to say that she had a distant connection to someone in the performance—someone lauded for her talents. She wondered why Mrs. Stratford had never taken up a role on the stage, but she did not have an opportunity to ask.
“If you’d like, I am sure I can arrange for us to visit backstage one of these days,” Odette had offered. Then, her eyes flicked to Rafe before she added, “Perhaps, just you and I shall go. There are too many ways to accidentally kill a man with a prop or piece of scenery.”
The performance takingplace on the candlelit stage below held everyone in the audience rapt…except for Rafe.
He was busy taking advantage of the shadows and his position sitting behind his wife in Simon and Odette’s theater box to watch her. Every thoughtful tilt of her head, each time her slim shoulders leaned forward during a moment of tension, the graceful arch of her neck…he’d been held rapt by all of it since she’d descended the stairs dressed in that artful concoction of iridescent sapphire silk. The gown was not one he’d seen on her before—he certainly would have remembered it. The cut accentuated her porcelain bosom and trim figure; a sheer swath of the fabric was draped below her collarbone to draw the eyes, and made Rafe nearly desperate to nibble her just there.
He marveled at how easily she’d charmed Odette, how she’d even managed to wrest a small smile from Simon, how beautiful she was when she was free. This was the first time out that she hadn’t been swarmed by a passel of hangers-on and would-be fortune-hunting suitors. Without all those men vying for her attention (and Rafe working to prevent any of them from garnering her favors), Victoria was more relaxed than he’d ever seen her in public.
During intermission, it was everything he could do not to pull her into the rear of their sheltered alcove and taste every inch of her. He didn’t know how much longer he could stand being so close to her and not touching her. Unfortunately for him, his friends had impeccable timing.
“I thought I’d heard you’d returned to Town!” Dorian Poole, Marquess of Kempton, said by way of greeting as he entered the private box. He was a tall man with chestnut hair and ice-blue eyes, known for his intense moods and love of expensive horseflesh. A woman dressed in a low-cut gown of navy and black lace was on his arm. Her ebony hair was studded with pearls, and around her neck dangled a sizable sapphire. Kempton was known for being quite generous with his mistresses. Rafe had yet to meet this one, but she had a worldliness about her sultry eyes which, thanks to his years of experience, would have intrigued him enough to inquire as to her availability once his friend moved on to another paramour. That was, if the woman wearing his ring hadn’t so thoroughly infiltrated his mind that evening. “I saw you from across the way when the lights came up and couldn’t allow the night to pass without gracing you with my presence.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Swanleigh and Caro came as well. It was a beast trying to pry them from their home—they’ve practically become shut-ins.”
Kempton greeted the ladies, then warmly extended his hand to Rafe and then Simon. Though Simon was not generally considered a part of their close-knit circle of rakes and hell-raisers (one needed to step away from his books if he was to accomplish anything that would earn him such a title), he was welcomed, regardless, thanks to his long-standing friendship with Rafe.
“You’d heard correctly,” Rafe replied and took his opportunity to slip an arm about his wife’s waist. She stoodthere stiffly, though she did not recoil. He decided to take it as a positive. “Unfortunately, we had a change in plans.”
“Thatisrather unfortunate,” Kempton tsked.
“Such is life,” Victoria replied airily just as Odette and Simon politely excused themselves to join another conversation into which they’d been beckoned from the hallway outside their box.
Rafe raised a brow at the fact that she did not reveal the real reason for their canceled trip. She’d questioned him after Simon and Odette had left the other day, wondering why he hadn’t divulged to them the true reason for their canceled trip.
“I cannot destroy my image and let Odette know that I would overreact over my niece’s health rather than galivant off to the Continent,” he’d replied flippantly, but recognized her skepticism instantly. Sighing, Rafe had admitted that, while Simon and a few select close friends knew of his recent status as guardian to the children, he was uncomfortable revealing just how much he’d allowed his life behind closed doors to change. It wasn’t that he resented the children in the slightest; he simply didn’t want to invite pitying looks or inquiries into his suitability. Victoria seemed to find that reasoning much more satisfactory and had nodded along with offering a promise to maintain his secrets for as long as he desired. He hadn’t expected her to do so with such ease and earnestness.
He wouldn’t have minded that she brought up the children—Kempton was among his close friends who knew the circumstances of his guardianship—but what he found most interesting was how she didn’t lay the blame at their feet. Nor, as it happened, did she blamehim. How interesting.
“Marriage seems to suit you both quite well,” Kempton complimented them charmingly. “How goes the marital bliss, then?”
“Marital and blissful,” Victoria replied with just a dash of wryness in her tone. Rafe was certain only he knew her well enough to pick up on it.
Just then, Odette gestured for Victoria’s attention. “Lady Blackwell, I’ve someone here I wish for you to meet.”
Victoria politely excused herself, so Rafe was left with Kempton and his lover, who seemed far more preoccupied with being seen in the private box than taking part in their conversation.
“Now that the wedding is through, I can finally tell you about the betting books,” Kempton said, full of nonchalance.
“The what?”
“The books.” His friend gave a negligent lift of his shoulder. “You know? The ones with wagers in them?”
“I’m not daft, you tosser.” Rafe knew bloody well what books he was discussing. Duke’s held extensive records and odds for betting on everything from prizefighting to how long it took a man to wind up drunk in the gutter with his purse missing. Earlier in the year, there had been wagers about how long it would take for two of their friends, Gideon Bray, Marquess of Swanleigh, and Caroline Wells, to admit to their feelings for one another and marry. Rafe had won that wager. He should have suspected that there would have been bets involving his own marriage. “What were the bets?” he demanded.
Kempton held up his hands in mock defense. “I did not start them.”
“But I am certain you partook,” Rafe said with a roll of his eyes.
“There were some wagers about whether or not your wedding to Miss Rockford would actually take place. Then there were the spectacular odds that you would be the one to cry off.”
Rafe was instantly disgusted. “You realize how vile all of that is, don’t you?”
“Come now,” Kempton chided, clapping a hand on Rafe’s shoulder. “Were it anyone else, you know you would have participated.”
Rafe emitted a noncommittal grumble.
“Thank you for the win, by the way. I’ll have you know, my faith in you won me a tidy sum.”
“Do not pretend at altruism,” came the playfully chiding voice of the Marquess of Swanleigh a moment before he clapped Kempton on the back. “You only bet that way because the odds meant the payout would be larger.”
