A group of men currently surrounded Miss Rockford—each offering to bring her a drink, begging another dance, complimenting her on her otherworldly beauty with flourishing odes—none of them a threat to Rafe. It was no task for him to insert himself into the group, but it was another for him to set himself apart from the rest of the money-hungry men surrounding her.
And he knew precisely how to accomplish it: He would be nothing like them.
These men made their interest known. They all but threw themselves at her feet and begged her to look their way. They did nothing to mask their intent or interest; they desired only the opportunity to lay claim to her for the novelty of it, or for the undeniable draw of her fortune. Thinking of his wards asleep at home, Rafe knew no other man in London was more motivated than he.
He performed a quick scan of the men’s familiar faces and knew instantly that none of them possessed his confidence or skill. He might have had some competition if the Marquesses of Kempton or Swanleigh were in the group; however, the former was escorting his current mistress to another function, and the latter was still in the deliriously happy early months of his marriage to their mutual friend, Caroline. While they may have had titles, the men encircling Miss Rockford were sorely lacking in the proper panache, gusto, and creativity. Rafe suspected not one of them possessed more of any of those things than Rafe did in his smallest finger. No. Compared to them, a little boldness would go a long way, and, judging from the slight pinch between Miss Rockford’s dark, elegant brows, she wouldn’t mind a reprieve from the gulls pecking at her from all sides.
“Miss Rockford,” Rafe interjected, smoothly slipping between two of her admirers during a brief lull in conversation and holding his gloved hand out to her. “If you’ll excuse theinterruption, your presence is requested by the refreshment table.”
Her rich hazel eyes assessed his outstretched hand, running up his arm to land on his face. He was startled to realize that she was more than passably pretty at this distance. Her irises were a unique blending of shades of green and brown, framed by long, kohl-black lashes. The bridge of her nose and the apples of her cheeks were splashed with faint constellations of freckles, and he found he admired the fact that she hadn’t attempted to mask them with powder as so many women of his acquaintance would have. He’d objectively admired her figure from afar, but now he could fully appreciate the contrast of her hair—so dark a brown as to be nearly black—to the healthy blush of her skin. She was willowy, but not frail in the least; in fact, he suspected she’d outpace half the men in their circle in a footrace. Her breasts were small and high—nothing extraordinary, but, while Rafe appreciated a good set of tits, he far preferred the curves hidden beneath a woman’s skirts. He would delight in exploring her.
In all, the woman wasn’t a great beauty of ballads and epics, but, taken as a whole, her features made her stand out as uniquely attractive. Pleasing to the eye.
“And you are?” she said, her wide lips parting skeptically to reveal a very slight—unexpectedly charming—overlap of her white front teeth.
“Rafael Hart, Viscount Blackwood, at your service,” he replied, a tilt to his head. The amused gleam in her eyes told him she was well aware of the unconventional way he’d approached her, rather than wait for a mutual acquaintance to perform the introduction. But would she have the guts to take his hand and the escape he offered her? Would she rather alight with him, the newcomer, or remain in the cloying safety of the group of admirers? “Our hostess is a friend of the family, and I was asked to retrieve you.”
Another heartbeat passed before she placed her hand in his. Rafe ignored the zing he felt when pulling her hand into the crook of his arm as he extricated her from the frustrated glares of men left in their wake.
“I am no fool,” Miss Rockford murmured to him as she politely returned another guest’s smile.
“I do not believe you are,” Rafe replied lightly, and she shot him a sidelong glance.
“Then why?” She didn’t need to elaborate.
“Can a man not be allowed to play knight when he sees a woman overwhelmed?”
“So you are a knight? I thought you said you were a viscount; would that be a demotion?” She cocked an impressively saucy brow at him. “I fear I am still learning the hierarchy of the English nobility.”
She was playing with him… “A demotion in title, but not in soul,” Rafe answered smoothly. “I do not believe there is anything more noble than rescuing a fair maiden.”
“So you believe I required rescuing?”
He nodded gravely. “They might have smothered you had they stood much closer.”
“And you don’t believe I could handle myself? That you were the only man capable of saving me from such a fate?”
“I was, wasn’t I?” His tone might have been flippant, but the words were intended to draw attention to the differences between him and the other men vying for her attention.
“That was rather bold of you.”
“I’ve never before been accused of being subtle.”
“Or modest?”
Rafe’s head whipped to the side just quickly enough to catch the wry tilt to her lips before it disappeared. Intriguing.
“Nor that,” he replied.
“Am I expected to believe your absconding with me had a purely altruistic aim?”
“I have never pretended to be that selfless.”
Miss Rockford emitted a brief breath of laughter before she could stifle it. “Then you are no better than the men I’ve just left.”
“You wound me, Miss Rockford,” Rafe said, pressing a hand to his chest. “Am I not allowed to enjoy the jealous stares of other men as I make off with the loveliest lady here tonight?”
Rather than blush as any English chit might have, Miss Rockford erupted into a gale of laughter far louder than what was appropriate in a public setting. He found himself entranced by the way she didn’t care one whit.
