Chapter Four
Thanks to his numerous connections, it was no difficulty for Rafe to discover which event the Rockfords would be attending next and wrangle an invitation for himself.
Now that he’d caught Miss Rockford’s attention, he knew the trick lay in keeping it.
He had to set himself apart from the other men pursuing her… by not directly pursuing her.
Oh, of course, he’d set his sights upon her, but to attempt to perform an open seduction would make him no better than those bloodhounds from whom she’d fled at the ball.
No. He had to offer her what the other did not.
He’d witnessed the gleam in her eyes when he’d extended the possibility of friendship; he knew it was the way past the defenses she’d built to guard herself against the other fortune-hunting Englishmen, and into her good graces.
Luckily for him, she was far less aloof than reports had led him to believe.
Her laughter came more easily, her smile was broader, and even her shoulders relaxed somewhat when she was not beneath the assessing eyes of London’s unforgiving ton.
Having spent his entire life beneath their scrutiny, he knew it could wear down even the hardiest of souls—to throw a young woman unused to the customs and culture into the fray was surely overwhelming.
Rafe knew he had to become the sanctuary for Victoria in London’s shark-infested waters.
As Rafe scanned the crowd at the Atkinson dinner soiree, he felt that description was quite apt, indeed.
Men circled desirable women like predators.
Girls and their chaperones huddled together like schools of brightly colored, well-coordinated fish.
The matrons watched him warily as they guarded their broods; the chits eyed him desirously like a shiny lure cast into their midst, irresistibly tempting despite the obvious danger.
For his part, Rafe had eyes for only one creature of the American variety.
Eventually, he spotted Miss Rockford on the far end of the long, narrow parlor.
She was dressed in diaphanous blue of the richest hue he’d ever seen.
She dripped with matching sapphires and diamonds—not a single paste gem to be found on her person.
Elegance and refinement were the words best used to describe her that evening…
until Rafe caught sight of the cut of her gown.
It was daringly low-cut and revealed a great swath of her flawless decolletage.
While the skirts floated around her legs like the froth of an agitated sea, the bodice was so form-fitting that there was no way the garment wasn’t a bespoke piece from the finest modiste.
It cradled her bosom to perfection, hiking the pale globes up for his attention, barely covering enough of her to conceal her nipples.
And that sent his mind down a dangerous path.
Delicious.
That was the adjective his stuttering mind latched onto and decided to apply—quite appropriately—to the American heiress.
Not since he’d been a lad had he gone so long without a bed partner.
He’d broken off his latest arrangement the minute he decided to pursue a wealthy heiress to fill his depleted coffers.
Lesser men might not have taken that step, but that was the only point where Rafe drew a line.
If he were finally going to seriously court a woman, he might as well do it properly.
Now, faced with Miss Rockford’s deliciously enticing wares, his pulse began to throb in a most concerning manner.
Rafe knew he had to keep his wits about him if he was going to be successful in his venture. He couldn’t allow his lust to drive his actions, no matter how tempting the prospect was.
“Miss Rockford,” he drawled as he approached her from just behind her left shoulder. Was it his imagination, or did her eyes glitter at the sight of him?
“Lord Blackwood,” she greeted him and tilted her head up and to the side, as if both amused and perplexed by his appearance.
Rafe bowed over her hand with all the charm and grace he possessed. “A true pleasure to see you again so soon.”
“You have been introduced?” inquired a man’s deep voice.
Rafe straightened to find a tall, dark-haired man watching their exchange with narrowed eyes.
From the looks of it, he’d recently returned from retrieving a refreshment for Miss Rockford.
Though the men were of similar height, Rafe stood a little straighter when he realized the newcomer likely outweighed him by nearly a stone.
He was as broad as one of the ships his family owned.
“We have,” Miss Rockford answered. It did not miss Rafe’s notice that she did not remove her hand from his…not even when her brother’s hazel eyes snagged on their point of contact. “At the ball earlier in the week—the one you were unable to attend.”
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 end of 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 woman with 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 her eyes 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?”