Page 6 of The Rake's Bride
“Hardly,” she finally said. “Only one of the wealthiest.”
That was, by far, the last response Rafe had expected. The American bluntness was something the tabloids had mentioned, but to be confronted with it in the face of his charm was jarring. An Englishman didn’t discuss money, and a lady didn’t call fortune-hunters out to their faces; one simply knew who and what they were and went about their business.
“Come now,” Miss Rockford added with a motherly pat to his hand. “Given your earlier actions, I thought you’d have appreciated a bit of candor. Everyone here knows who I am and what I am worth; any interest in my person is solely for the size of my purse and my ties to an American shipping company. I am not so delusional as to believe I am a great beauty when compared to your English roses. I intrigue them, but they will not be so blunt as to admit to themselves or to me the reasons why. No one here speaks directly of the taboo topic of wealth, even when they wallow in it, covet it, and use it to fund the lavish facades everyone here is so fond of.”
The dart struck remarkably close to home for Rafe, and he was beginning to realize he hadn’t given this woman enough credit. “You are quite observant.”
“Do not patronize me, Lord Blackwood,” she said with a scoff. “I am not observant, merely more straightforward than most of the people I’ve met since setting foot on his island.” The words could have been bitter and biting, but the glitter in her eyes told him she enjoyed the banter. She was weighing him—seeing if he’d be put off by her speech and her mien. Little did she know, he enjoyed a bit of spice…and he was desperate enough that he’d have pursued her, were she twice his age and missing half her limbs. Seeing this spark in her, the flat sense of humor, the willingness to test him, was like a chisel in stone, lending permanence to his determination. It made him smile.
“Would you care to dance?” Rafe asked suddenly, just as the last notes of another song wrapped up.
“I believe this next song has already been claimed.” She stammered slightly, caught off guard by his abrupt change of subject.
“By whom?”
She skimmed the dance card affixed to her wrist by a bright pink ribbon. “Baron Trote.”
Rafe chuffed. “That dullard isn’t worth your time.” Without giving Miss Rockford a moment to reconsider, Rafe swept her into his arms and onto the floor. He wished he’d paid better attention to the type of dance—a novice mistake brought on by the pressing need to make headway with her before the night was through—because the reel had them parting ways and spinning so often that they had no time at all to converse. He did, however, have plenty of opportunity to watch her wide red mouth grin unabashedly at everyone she passed.
The candlelight did wondrous things to her skin and her hair, making her glow as if she’d been born from the sunset—the perfect combination of gold and shadows. Her ivory gown, splashed in beads and gems, glittered, making her the center of attention whether she cared for it or not. Lord knew Rafe couldn’t tear his eyes away.
She wound up in his arms once more as the dance concluded. He held her a moment too long before they parted to bow and curtsey to the other couples around them, and then he took her arm once more and led her from the floor.
“Regardless of your intentions, I must thank you for your rescue,” Miss Rockford said slightly breathlessly from the vigorous steps. “The escape was quite refreshing, but I fear my respite has now passed.” She tilted her chin to gesture to the fresh wave of men approaching them, their eyes fixed on her like hounds on a vixen.
“Is it always like this for you?” Rafe asked, slightly surprised by how much he did not care for those predatory gazes upon her. “These men eyeing you like dogs with a bone to be fought over?”
She nodded but raised a brow at his description. “I will choose not to take offense at being likened to a bone; but yes, this is what most events are for me. I never have a moment of peace. Sometimes my feet are so sore from dancing and being trodden upon that I cannot walk the following day.”
Coming to an instantaneous decision, Rafe snatched a pair of crystal champagne flutes from a passing servant and murmured beneath his breath for Miss Rockford to duck behind the potted plant near the veranda doors. She did precisely what he’d asked, shooting him a mischievous smile.
“Gentlemen!” Rafe grinned at the approaching flock of disgruntled peers.
“Blackwood,” said one of them in greeting, though his eyes remained occupied as they tried to discern where Miss Rockford had gotten off to.
“If you are searching for Miss Rockford, I believe she’s ducked off to the ladies’ retiring room. She should return momentarily.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Might I suggest camping out near the far entrance to the ballroom? You should be able to catch her just as she returns.”
Several of the men clapped him on the shoulder, others muttered their thanks, and a few dashed off without bothering to acknowledge what he said just so they might scout the best position before the others got there.
Rafe scoffed. She hadn’t been lying; she was as near to being hunted as a woman might be.
Good thing he was an excellent shot.
“Surely, you cannotexpect me to believe you and your friends havejousted?” Victoria laughed incredulously. “I might have believed you were this the sixteenth century, but even I, in my ignorance, am quite certain that such events have not taken place in England for some time.” She took another sip of the chilled champagne Lord Blackwell had handed her, quite enjoying the way the icy bubbles tickled her nose and the way the drink struck the perfect note between sweet and dry.
“I assure you, I am quite serious about this,” the viscount said, leaning in closer as the golden candlelight danced in his eyes, illuminating his mirth and charm. He couldn’t have been much older than his mid-twenties, but the corners of his eyes crinkled when he grinned, telling her of a man who laughed well and often. “Really!” he insisted. The infectiousness of his laughter had increased as the minutes passed in the back garden of the party they’d abandoned. She shook her head and tried to wave off his absurd claim, but his fingers gently closed around her wrist, and she felt the lightning of it travel all the way up her arm. Every muscle from her face to her smallest toes froze; her eyes locked onto that point of contact. They both woregloves, but the heat of him—his gentle power—was nearly as intoxicating as the drink she held in her other hand.
What—what was this?
“The Marquess of Swanleigh and I were schoolmates, and we’ve remained close through the years. He claimed he could sit a horse better than I; I countered that, not only could I sit a horse better, but I could do so doinganyactivity.”
Why did the last thing he said make her stomach flutter? What did that even mean? Clearly, logic was not in play any longer when it came to her senses.
“Lord Brinley was the one who mentioned jousting,” he added.
“And you interpreted that as a brilliant idea?”
“Naturally!” Blackwell tilted his chin and puffed out his chest in an exaggerated posture of pride so absurd that Victoria was forced to bite her lips to prevent a bark of laughter.
