The Confessions of Rafferty Bloom Chapter One by Rafferty Bloom
💋 Rafferty Bloom Ch 1 Confessions of a Garden Variety Sinner from Mills and Swoon MM Shorts
I have long maintained that posh London dinner parties are nature’s way of reminding one that money cannot buy taste, only more opportunities to be bored by it. Tonight’s gathering at the Kensington townhouse of my dear friend Elouise was proving the theorem with particular enthusiasm.
I was seated beside Miss Poppy Harrington-Smythe, a creature so delicately vacant that one worried a stiff breeze might scatter her thoughts like dandelion seeds. Elouise had pressed her upon me with the whispered plea, “Just make her feel good, darling, for my sake. The poor lamb cried into her Negroni last night because no man ever looks at her twice.”
Everyone in our circle knew I was “colourful.” The word hung around me like a particularly well-tailored scarf, elegant, noticeable, and never quite explained in mixed company. My parents, bless their oblivious trust funds, still believed I simply hadn’t met the right girl. At nearly thirty-two I felt ancient, like a vintage claret that had been left uncorked too long and was now in danger of turning to vinegar. Tonight was a night of suppressed yawns and drowning sorrows.
Poppy was currently explaining, with great sincerity, why she believed kale had “negative calories.” I smiled the smile of a man calculating escape routes.
“Fascinating,” I murmured. “Rather like this conversation.”
She beamed, missing the joke entirely. I almost felt sorry for her but her brain was seemingly filled with cotton wool and empty space.
The waiter assigned to our end of the table was a different matter altogether. He moved with the quiet grace of someone who knew exactly how beautiful he was as he minced in and out of the guests’ plates. Twenty-five at most, sun-kissed skin that suggested recent holidays in places more interesting than the Cotswolds, and a lean, nubile frame that made the standard black waistcoat and white shirt look like an act of deliberate provocation. His name tag read “Luca.” I decided immediately that Luca was dangerous, as were the visions appearing in my head……think X rated B movies set in a garden….because the garden was where I needed to get Luca before I died of cotton-wool boredom.
He caught me watching him pour wine and offered the smallest, most knowing smile. My pulse answered before my brain could file a complaint. And did I mention stirrings of the loins….need I say more?
I restrained myself till après pudding.
“Excuse me , dear girl, a terrible habit I must satisfy.” I took out my cigarettes.
“ Oh,” Poppy giggled a cotton wool giggle. “ I will join you.”
Darn…thought I.
“Capital idea,” I said, rising with theatrical reluctance.
We excused ourselves. As we crossed the marble hallway toward the French doors, I scanned for tactical advantages. The garden was large, discreetly lit, and blessed with several strategically placed topiary bushes that could hide a multitude of sins. Or at least one very specific sin.
Once outside, the cool night air felt like mercy. Poppy shivered delicately and moved closer, clearly expecting me to play the gentleman and offer my jacket. Instead I produced the cigarette packet with a flourish.
“Would you like one?” I asked, knowing full well she didn’t smoke.
“Oh no, I couldn’t possibly. I am just keeping you company.”
How wonderful.
It was time to enact plan B.
With the precision of a man who had practised this move in the mirror more times than he cared to admit, I tilted my glass of red wine all over cotton wool’s dress. A perfect crimson sphere spread from her minor cleavage to her small waist. Poor Poppy.
She gasped. I gasped. Even the garden seemed to gasp in floral solidarity.
“Oh no,” I cried, all solicitous horror. “How terribly clumsy of me. That dress is ruined. You must go inside at once and see if Elouise has anything you can borrow. Tell her it was entirely my fault. She’ll understand.”
Poppy blinked rapidly, wine already soaking through to what I suspected was very expensive lingerie. If I was straight……well not happening readers.
For a moment I feared she might cry again. Then, to my eternal relief, she gave a small, tragic laugh.
“Well,” she said, dabbing ineffectually at the stain with my best silk cravat, “at least now a man has looked at me twice tonight.”
“And it will be thrice my dear, I feel sure.”
As she hurried back inside, I could breathe properly once again, reminding myself to get menthol next time to make them more palatable.
I was halfway through pretending to finish my cigarette when a quiet voice spoke from the shadows near the doors.
“Impressive.”
Lovely Luca stepped into the light, carrying a tray with fresh drinks he clearly didn’t need to deliver out here. His eyes held open amusement and something hotter. Something that made the word “nubile” feel suddenly inadequate.
“I was aiming for dramatic effect,” I said, dropping the cigarette and grinding it under my heel with theatrical finality. “Though I’ll admit the collateral damage was higher than anticipated.”
He set the tray on a stone bench and moved closer. Close enough that I could smell his cologne, something crisp and citrusy that made me think of flesh and folly.
“You don’t actually smoke, do you?” he asked.
“God, no. Terrible habit. I only bring them to parties so I have an excuse to escape conversations with cotton wool ladies.”
Luca laughed softly. It was a low, lovely sound that did unfair things to my composure. “And the girl?”
“Collateral damage,” I admitted. “Elouise’s charity project. I was meant to make her feel desirable for one evening. I fear I may have over-delivered on the memorable part.”
He tilted his head, studying me with open curiosity. “So you’re the famous Rafferty Bloom. The colourful one who still hasn’t told his parents.”
I winced. “London really is too small.”
“London is enormous,” he countered. “You just travel in very particular circles.” His gaze flicked over me, slow and appreciative. “Circles that don’t usually include waiters in the garden.”
“Perhaps they should,” I said, stepping closer. The topiary loomed invitingly behind us, thick, discreet, and perfectly positioned for exactly the sort of conversation one shouldn’t have at a Kensington dinner party.
Luca’s smile turned wicked. “Are you suggesting I abandon my post for a tour of the shrubbery, Mr Bloom?”
“I’m suggesting,” I replied, voice dropping, “that if you’re very quick and very quiet, we might discover whether these bushes are as accommodating as they look.”
He glanced back toward the house, then at me, eyes bright with mischief and promise.
“Lead the way,” he murmured. “But fair warning, if we get caught, I’m blaming the man who ruined an innocent girl’s dress with red wine.”
I laughed, already steering him toward the shadows. “Darling, if we get caught, the dress will be the least scandalous thing that happened tonight.”
And as the first leaves brushed against my shoulders and Luca’s hand found the small of my back with delightful confidence, I reflected that perhaps turning thirty-two wasn’t so ancient after all.
And remember, dear readers, some sins, are best committed in formalwear.
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