Page 8 of The Rake's Bride
A muscle in the other man’s jaw twitched.
“Viscount Blackwood,” Rafe interjected by way of introduction. “We have not formally met, but you must be Mr. Luke Rockford, unless I am mistaken?”
The American grunted and handed his sister the glass he’d been carrying; it had looked absurdly small in his enormous fist. “Is my Americanness so obvious?” he asked, a sardonic lilt to his clipped words.
Rafe made a thoughtful sound and looked between the siblings. “I would say it’s more in the eyes. You share the unique color of that feature.” Miss Rockford nearly choked on the sip of her drink she’d rather unfortunately attempted. That muscle in her brother’s jaw ticked again. Rafe always enjoyed unnerving overprotective male family members.
This was going to be even more fun than he’d thought.
By the endof the evening, Victoria’s sides ached from all the laughter she’d had to stifle. Though they hadn’t been seated very closely together at supper, Blackwood had still found ways to draw her attention and dramatically increase her enjoyment of the evening. She was quickly learning that he was a man who could embody an evening’s entertainment all on his own.
He could send her into a fit of giggles with only a sidelong glance. When the wealthy businessman to her left droned on about his collection of carved ivory tobacco pipes, she’d have dozed off right into the soup course had she not caught a well-timed eye roll from the viscount’s direction. How he managed to pull faces at a table full of people without being caught was beyond her, but surely it was an acquired skill he’d honed into an art form. It certainly made the meal a great deal more enjoyable for her.
She hadn’t expected the viscount to be in attendance that evening—his name had not been brought up as one of the attendees in any prior discussion of the event—but she was pleased to discover that she was far from disappointed. In fact, her pulse had tripped when he’d appeared at her side before the meal like a guardian angel sent to save her evening from the uncomfortable one it was shaping up to be.
Prior to Blackwood’s arrival, she’d been snubbed by several of the female guests. It was shocking to her that women who were old enough to be her mother could treat another womanwith such blatant disregard and issue a cut direct. Were she ever in such a position, Victoria vowed that she would be like Lady Morton and open her arms to one and all, no matter the rumors or what was written in the gossip rags. There was far more to a person than the whispers that were translated onto a page.
Following the meal, the women retired to the parlor, and the men were left to their drinks and cigars. Victoria’s cheeks ached from so many hours spent with a false smile upon her face, from grinning and bearing every little barb thrown her way. She could only take it so long before she needed a respite from it all. Not caring whether it was rude, she excused herself from the room under the guise of visiting the privy. As soon as she was in the hallway, however, she closed her eyes and sighed heavily, savoring the way she felt instantly lighter without so many eyes upon her.
Her eyes fluttered open, and there, appearing once more like an angel summoned from the mists of the shadows, was Viscount Blackwood.
“Just the lady I was hoping to encounter,” he drawled, his white teeth flashing in the dim lighting.
“You were hoping I would wander into the hallway?” she asked, proud that her slight breathlessness sounded more coy than in awe of him. How did he always know where to find her? And how did he have any right to be so handsome? He was, once more, impeccably dressed in expertly tailored evening wear, his dark hair was artfully mussed, and the knife-sharp cut of his jawline was smooth from a recent shave.
“Is it so wrong to hope?” He stepped closer and she tried not to read too much into his words. He had offered her friendship, and she reminded herself that she desired nothing above that. Looking at the carved angles of his handsome, angelic face made that voice in her head fall softer and softer, so she averted hereyes and noted the honey glow of brandy in the snifter cupped nonchalantly in his left hand.
“So, you abandoned the rest of the men on a hope?”
He chuffed gently. “Men have committed far worse sins for far less.” He held the glass out to her. “Would you like to try some?”
Victoria’s cheeks burned when she realized he’d caught the aim of her gaze even in the dim lighting. She hoped his keen eyes would not pick up on her increasing flush. “Do you not think it is unfair that Society women are told to refrain from imbibing spirits, yet men are expected to partake?” she asked as she accepted the drink. The glass was warm from his touch as she cradled it in her gloved palm and examined the rich hue of the liquid. “In my experience, very little business is done without at least a dram of whiskey or a snifter of brandy present. Men’s studies and offices possess well-stocked sideboards.” She held the glass to her nose and tested the bouquet—sweet, like caramelized sugar, and slightly smoky. “And women…we are expected to weather the lion’s den of yourtonevents without so much as a stiff drink to calm our nerves.” She sipped from the glass with practiced grace, her eyes sliding closed as she savored the rich explosion of flavors, the pleasant burn of the spirits as they trickled down her throat and curled languidly in her stomach. An appreciative murmur escaped her throat. The brandy could only be French—terribly expensive, hard to come by, and likely smuggled onto English soil—and it was all the more delightful for it.
When she opened her eyes, she found Blackwood’s dark gaze focused intently upon her. While she had not known him long, she’d never seen him look thusly…as if his eyes burned like banked coals and the firm line of his lips was the only thing holding his words in check. She found she very much desired to know what he had to say.
“Don’t you agree?”
That seemed to snap the viscount out of whatever had held him rapt. He blinked rapidly and cleared his throat. “Quite.” He brushed an imaginary wrinkle from his sleeve. “You may finish that if you’d like. I’ve had quite enough for one evening.”
“Thank you; I do believe I will.” Victoria smiled and enjoyed another sip of the brandy. She did not miss the way he followed her every small movement, and she suspected he watched her just as closely as she did him. For a man offering friendship, he seemed rather interested in her lips when she spoke.
Blackwood cleared his throat once more and said, “You escaped the rest of the ladies for a reason. Why?”
Victoria nibbled her lower lip. “Nothing new.”
“The room was stifling in its stuffiness?” he guessed.
“And certain areas were rather chilly,” she grumbled.
Blackwood made a thoughtful sound. “They are not worth a moment of your time.”
Victoria’s eyes flew to his face; his expression was impressively passive. “Society might say otherwise.”
“Then they need to sod off,” he said with a nonchalant lift of his shoulder. Victoria covered her mouth but couldn’t stave off a small giggle of surprise. “I am quite serious,” he added gravely, though mirth crinkled the corners of his eyes.
“I believe you are,” she said with a smile. “Are you always this irreverent?”
“I am afraid so. It is quite the deadly affliction.”
