Chapter Four #2
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 your ton events 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.”
“Oh, is it?”
“I fear the prognosis is grim.”
Victoria swatted lightly at his shoulder and was impressed by the solidness of it. There was no padding beneath that coat.
Blackwood finally unleashed his grin, and it was glorious.
Already unbearably handsome, the expression made him shine with all the blinding light of the summer sun.
It also made her knees go slightly weak.
Much like the ball the other evening, she found herself wishing she did not have to return to the rest of the guests—that she and the viscount might continue to chat and laugh uninterrupted and unobserved.
Three weeks, two balls, three dinner parties, and four fortuitous meetings while strolling in Hyde Park, and Rafe was confident he had ingratiated himself quite sufficiently with Miss Rockford.
She was more comfortable with him each time they met; she laughed more readily around him, and it did not go unnoticed by her doting father.
Despite his amiable smile and ready generosity, Rafe had heard the American shipping tycoon was considered unpolished amongst most of the ton—likely more to do with the fact that it was bad form that a man who had come from nothing possessed a fortune that dwarfed much of English Society.
For his part, Rafe enjoyed the man’s loud laughter, so juxtaposed to the father-figure with which he’d been raised.
In fact, he didn’t think he’d ever heard the old viscount laugh, and he was quite certain the man’s face would have shattered had he so much as attempted a smile.
“Blackwood!”
Mr. Rockford, the elder, clapped Rafe on the shoulder hard enough to make him choke on air, but he recovered quickly and offered Miss Rockford’s father a welcoming smile.
“Mr. Rockford. A pleasure.” Both men watched as Miss Rockford executed the complex steps of the current dance with her partner, an overeager young buck too much like a spaniel to present any threat to Rafe’s position. “How are you enjoying the evening?”
“Too hot. Too crowded. Too starched.”
A chuckle escaped Rafe’s throat at the unexpected candor. Leave it to an American to distill a high society event down to such simplicity…apt as it was.
He leaned in and spoke from the side of his mouth. “Lord and Lady West have never been known for their exemplary hosting.”
Mr. Rockford grunted. “That information would have been much more useful before we accepted the invitation. Though Victoria seems to be enjoying herself a great deal.” He lifted his chin toward his daughter, and Rafe realized the man was right.
Her cheeks were crested with delighted color, and her movements were free and graceful.
Her eyes glittered each time she turned and caught Rafe’s gaze, making his skin warm.
None of it was lost on the American, whose keen assessment Rafe felt as tangibly as Miss Rockford’s.
“In fact, her enjoyment seems to be directly correlated to your presence, my lord,” he added thoughtfully.
Rafe tore his eyes away from the dance floor and met the other man’s intelligent, piercing blue eyes.
He’d have been a fool to underestimate him; he was, first and foremost, a shrewd businessman.
A man did not reach his station in life without a ruthless business acumen and a decent judgment of character.
This was the moment Rafe had been waiting for—the one that would present him the opportunity to shift his budding relationship with Miss Rockford from friendship to one of courtship and (hopefully) a quick marriage.
“I am pleased to hear that,” Rafe said evenly, allowing Mr. Rockford to set the tone and show him how to proceed. Would the man be open to allowing a relationship between them, or would Rafe need to redouble his efforts with Miss Rockford to earn her father’s blessing?
“Do you ride, Blackwood?”
The abrupt change in topics nearly caused Rafe’s head to spin, but his mind was quick, and his tongue was quicker.
“As often as my schedule permits.” He didn’t need to admit that he no longer owned any horses of his own and, instead, borrowed those of his closest friends when the need arose.
Everyone benefited from the arrangement; the horses received their exercise, and Rafe needn’t truly go without.
“Tomorrow morning, then. Dawn. I ride in the park, and you will join me—that is, if you don’t find yourself in too bad a way after tonight’s festivities.”
Rafe eyed the glasses of watered-down punch with barely masked disdain.
“I don’t believe that will be a problem at all.
” His pulse thrummed with anticipation. This was his opportunity.
He’d already worked his way into Miss Rockford’s life; to earn the trust of her father could only help him to cement his place as primary suitor—whether Miss Rockford realized it or not.
Given the narrowed eyes and obvious distaste he displayed, Rafe doubted that he’d ever fully win over the younger Mr. Rockford, but that did not concern him overmuch.
The father controlled the wealth.
The father signed the marriage contracts.
The father paid the dowry.
The corners of Rafe’s mouth tilted in a smile. The end was in sight.
The next morning, Rafe reined in the gelding he’d borrowed from Swanleigh’s mews.
The beloved chestnut with a white spattering of markings on its nose was the marquess’s favorite mount, but he trusted Rafe to care for the animal and immediately gave his blessing when approached with the request. The horse and its tack were finer than anything Rafe could have hoped to afford, so the image presented was precisely the one Rafe hoped to convey to the elder Mr. Rockford.
Swanleigh was not expressly aware of Rafe’s dire financial straits, but, even if he suspected the reason behind the request when Rafe admitted he was riding with the American, he was a good friend and made no comment.
Rafe patted the horse’s thick neck. “Good lad, Posy.” The name was undignified for a horse so large, but Caroline had named him, and Swanleigh had never been able to say no to the woman who was now his wife and mother to his son and heir.