Chapter Fourteen #2
“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 blame him. 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.”
“That, I can believe,” chuffed Rafe.
“Can you blame me?” Kempton chuckled. Before he could say anything more, his mistress gestured to him and indicated that she wanted to walk about before the intermission concluded.
“She likely wants to be seen on his arm a bit more,” muttered Rafe as he watched his friend leave.
“The woman is a bit much,” Swanleigh said with a cringe.
“She isn’t the one for him, then?”
“Not even close.”
The Rank of Rakes had a longstanding consensus that Kempton, for all his easy ways with the fairer sex and thirst for entertainment, was truly the only one in their group who had ever desired a wife.
The man had nearly made it down the aisle almost a decade earlier and would have been blissfully wedded to the woman of his dreams had fate not intervened and made a jaded man of him.
They’d all watched Kempton spiral into a life of debauchery and pain-honed anger, but none of them was particularly equipped to offer any sort of advice.
Instead, they stood by as he went through mistress after mistress and tried to convince everyone that he was managing quite well without the woman to whom he’d given his heart.
“Poor bastard.”
Rafe nodded in agreement and then turned his eye toward Victoria’s elegant profile.
His skin actually tingled when she laughed.
Was Kempton the poor bastard for having loved and lost, or was Rafe, for having been locked into marriage with a woman to whom he was drawn with inexplicable force? Which situation was more disastrous?
Rafe was unsure.
Following the final bows, Odette excused both herself and her husband to disappear backstage and offer their congratulations on the well-done performance.
“I would invite you to attend, but I fear Lord Blackwood may not make it out alive.” She leaned into Victoria and added conspiratorially, “As I mentioned the other day, I do not put it past some of those women to orchestrate an accident for the viscount.”
Victoria chuckled and shot Rafe a glance. “I shall keep that in mind. That knowledge may come in handy one day.”
“Plotting my demise?” Rafe asked as he tucked Victoria’s arm through his and escorted her from the box and into the milling crowd.
All around them, bejeweled and perfumed patrons were chatting, blocking the way, and weaving through the throng toward the stairs and their awaiting carriages.
It would be at least an hour before they were on their way back home, but Rafe did not mind—not when his wife looked up at him with mischief glittering in her eyes.
“If I tell you, then where will the fun be in the surprise of it all?”
“Leave it to me to marry a murderess,” he groaned dramatically, earning another small laugh from Victoria. “You will drop a curtain weight upon my head and flee back to America!”
“Of course not.” He could tell she was trying to stifle a smile. “I would ask the opinions of the hordes of ladies you have wronged, and I am certain we will come up with something far more creative than merely bludgeoning you.”
He chuckled in response and decided it was time to steer the subject away from his untimely death.
“Did you enjoy the performance?”
“Very much so!” she replied animatedly. “I was impressed with the beauty of the scenery. I wonder how much like an Italian villa it was.”
“I’ve never been, so I cannot comment on the accuracy.”
Victoria made a thoughtful sound and then inclined her head to a passing acquaintance.
“I think I would like to travel to Italy someday. I read a journal detailing an extensive trip from the southernmost tip to the Alps. The range of climates and terrain, the food, the people, the customs…they all seemed so beautiful and remarkable.”
“Perhaps we might travel there in the future,” Rafe suggested without thinking. “I do still owe you a honeymoon trip.”
The genuine smile she gave him made his stomach perform some unfamiliar acrobatics.
God, how he wanted her again…though he sincerely doubted she would welcome his advances.
It was still too soon after their arguments, their accord, still too tenuous.
He liked to think they understood one another better, but that had not come without its own issues and injuries.
He could appreciate how Victoria didn’t wish—nor did she deserve—to live in the shadow of the ghosts of his past. He would not pressure her to open her bed to him and make her feel as if she were merely stepping into a generic role.
If he had any hope of a peaceful future, then Victoria needed to be a part of it, one way or another.