Recognizing her dismay, Ackland had employed his roguish charm and attempted to talk his way out of his predicament. He’d sworn he loved her and promised to break off with his ladybird for good, but by then Venetia’s trust was irreparably broken. Any man who would betray her so publicly on the steps of a church would never remain faithful to his marriage vows, and she refused to marry an unfaithful libertine.
His deceit had made her sick at heart, Venetia reflected. At the time, she was half in love with Ackland—or at least she’d convinced herself it was love. More likely, she’d been caught up in the excitement of his courtship as well as her parents’ expectations, and flattered by the devoted attention of a handsome nobleman.
The scales had been ripped from her eyes that day. She later learned that Ackland had offered for her in order to please his father and gain his inheritance. He was now wed to a young lady and retired to the country, where reportedly Lady Ackland was with child.
No doubt Lord Traherne similarly intended to take a genteel young wife to sire an heir, just as Ackland had done. What other reason could there be for his attentions to so unsuitable a bride as Ophelia, Venetia wondered.
She feared her sweet, gentle sister was even more susceptible than she herself had been, for now Ophelia was desperate to mitigate the damage the scandal had wrought. As was Venetia. She would have done anything for her sister and regretted profoundly that she couldn’t make up for ruining her marital chances. It was alarming, though, how her warnings and pleas had fallen on deaf ears during the past week of surreptitiously exchanged messages and letters.
You and I have different aspirations, Venetia. I do not hope for love, merely a comfortable situation.
Venetia suspected she was fighting a losing battle. Their parents had persuaded Ophelia to overlook any possibility of love or happiness in marriage. In fact, their mother was doubtless overjoyed and would want nothing to stand in the way of the nuptials. Helen Stratham wouldn’t care that Lord Traherne was a libertine, and not only because of his illustrious title.
Venetia could still hear her mother’s furious admonitions regarding her broken betrothal to Viscount Ackland two years ago. Mama had been appalled that her elder daughter refused to marry a nobleman because of such a minor weakness.
“That is what gentlemen do, Venetia. You must be willing to overlook their peccadillos. I have done so with your father all these years. You should also.”
That somewhat shocking revelation about her father had not changed Venetia’s mind. Most of society thought she ought not to have called off the wedding, certainly not in so public a fashion, and instead endured Ackland’s licentiousness in silence. Her parents had been furious that she had caused them such scandal and mortification.
Cleo was one of the few people who had taken her side. Cleo cherished her independence from men and strongly encouraged Venetia to follow her example.
And truly, Venetia was earnestly attempting to master the art of repressing her deepest feelings, even if her best efforts had failed her miserably with Traherne last evening. For the life of her, she could not explain why she had reacted so strongly to his provocations, why she had allowed him to rouse both her ire and her sensual longings at once—or why, for that matter, his original transgression had affected her so painfully two years ago.
Inexplicably, she had felt betrayed by Traherne for the role he’d played in her betrothed’s duplicity.
The worst, however, was not the personal humiliation and hurt she had suffered at Ackland’s hands. The worst was that her family had washed their hands of her. The pain had cut deeply. She missed them terribly, especially her sister. She missed her home and her friends as well.
It had been her choice to leave England, though, and she would likely make the same decision again, Venetia supposed. Her parents might have allowed her to remain hidden away in the country, but exile in France with Cleo was preferable to remaining at home as an outcast, where she would be reminded daily of her sins in defying her parents’ wishes.
She was immensely grateful to Cleo for coming to her rescue and offering her a home; she could not ask for a more generous or loyal friend. But even with Cleo’s friendship, Venetia was often lonely, painfully so at times.
Of course she endeavored to repress such traitorous feelings. Attempting to emulate Cleo, she had taught herself to be strong and independent.
And there were benefits to her current situation, Venetia reminded herself. She had far more freedom now, and her life was never dull. She especially enjoyed the salons, the intellectual soirees, the conversation and music and art. A major advantage of being considered a fallen woman was the chance to explore her own artistic talent. In British society, a lady did not pursue art other than charcoal drawings and watercolors, certainly not sculpting.
But sometimes she wondered if her shattered dreams of a loving marriage were worth the price she had paid. She still wanted love, a husband, children—unlikely prospects, given her status as a pariah—
Venetia stiffened her spine. It was past time to banish the wretched sense of longing and deep, abiding loneliness she’d felt all these many months. She defied anyone to catch her indulging in misery or self-pity. She had made her bed, so to speak, and was willing to lie in it, Venetia sternly told herself.
However, she would not let her sister suffer in a similar bed.
When another half hour passed with still no sign of Traherne, Venetia announced that she would not wait any longer. She would not give up trying to convince him, and if he would not come to her, she would go to him.
“Perhaps I should accompany you,” Cleo said with a note of concern in her tone.
“No, I don’t want to drag you further into my problems.”
Because of her notoriety, she could not call at his London home without disguise. Thus, Venetia went upstairs to don a veil in addition to a hat and pelisse.
At the last moment, she searched in her bureau for a more convincing weapon. Traherne had laughed at her knife last evening. Well, she would bring her pistol this time, even if she would leave it unloaded.
If she had to protect herself from him, he might think twice if he had to look down the barrel of a gun.
And as she was handed into Cleo’s carriage, Venetia promised herself that no matter what sensual methods of seduction Traherne employed, or provocative diversions he created, or evasive lies he told, or sly manipulations he devised in order to put her on the defensive, she was utterly determined to hold her ground with him this time.
Lord Traherne’s home in Berkeley Square was said to be splendid, but rumors did not do it justice, Venetia decided upon arriving. Elegant and regal, the gray stone mansion was surrounded by terraced gardens that rivaled the royal gardens at Kew.
The earl’s butler did not seem disquieted by her concealing veil or insist that she give her name, but politely asked her to wait in the entry hall while he inquired if his lordship was receiving. Perhaps shrouded females visited here regularly.
To hide her nerves and pent-up frustration, Venetia focused her attention on the marble sculptures that graced the hall, trying to identify the artists. The paintings and gilt ceilings hinted at a more feminine touch, and she wondered how much Traherne’s younger sister had contributed to the decorating. She had merely a passing acquaintance with the charming Lady Skye, and also with his vivacious younger cousin, Lady Katharine Wilde. Both were older than she by a few years, but she liked them very well.
When shortly Venetia was shown into what looked to be a study, she found Traherne seated at a large desk, writing. He had removed his coat and waistcoat and was informally garbed in cravat and shirtsleeves, which emphasized his broad shoulders and chest to perfection.
Her butterflies soared the moment he looked up and locked gazes with her. He was still one of the most impossibly attractive men she had ever met. His gold hair was tousled, though, as if he’d run his hand roughly through it more than once, while the cut on his cheek had scabbed over a
nd was now surrounded by a dark purple bruise.
The reminder that he was only mortal and not some sort of Greek god served to bolster her determination. This time she would not accept defeat, Venetia vowed.
Schooling her emotions and crushing whatever sympathy she felt for his battered state, she began in a cool tone. “I am surprised to find you here, my lord. You seem to have forgotten our appointment.”
Traherne frowned slightly at her declaration but took the time to sand his letter. He seemed distracted when he rose to greet her with a slight bow. “I did not forget, Miss Stratham. I was regrettably delayed.”
“Indeed?” she replied, infusing a measure of derision into her voice.
“What brings you here? You could not have received my message so soon, since I just sent off the courier.”
She eyed him in disbelief. “I intend to finish the discussion we began last night, of course. When you were tardy by more than an hour, I decided to come to you.”
“I was on my way to Kensington when my curricle was run off the road.”
She lifted a skeptical brow. Admittedly, his response surprised her. It was not the excuse she had expected—nor was she particularly inclined to believe him. “If you think you can fob off my concerns, you are gravely mistaken—”
“My groom was injured in the accident,” he said. “Thankfully not seriously. My physician just left.”
Traherne’s further explanation took her aback. How could she take him to task if he had a legitimate reason for failing to appear this morning?
Venetia frowned behind her veil. “How do I know you are not just making up tales? Perhaps you were simply too craven to meet me.”
His smile was dry. “I assure you, I would not fabricate an excuse that puts my driving skills in such a poor light. An accident of this magnitude only makes me look ham-fisted and inept. Moreover, I would never risk my horses’ safety for the sake of assuaging a lady’s sense of ill-usage—even one as lovely as you, Miss Stratham.”
Venetia held her tongue as she realized the need to reformulate her approach. When she was silent, Traherne expounded.
“Last night I thought the miscreants might be targeting us both, but the incident this morning proved otherwise. You are not the instigator, either, I am convinced.”
“Certainly I am not. But regardless of what delayed your call this morning, you are avoiding the matter of my sister.”
“Not intentionally.”
“Either way, I would be naive to leave here until we come to terms.”
“You are persistent, I will give you that.” The slight smile in his voice irked her, even though he quickly followed with a declaration. “I swear to you, seducing your sister is the last thing I would ever contemplate, let alone act upon.”
“You swore you would call on me this morning, and that never happened. Besides, a marriage could be nearly as painful to her as a seduction.”
“I have no intention of marrying your sister,” he stated curtly. “There, is that definitive enough for you?”
“Then why in the devil are you courting her?” Venetia exclaimed.
When he glanced at the open study door, she realized she had raised her voice to an unladylike degree. When he strode across the room toward the door, however, she divined his intent and protested. “Please do not close that.”
“I presume you don’t want our argument overheard by my servants.”
“I don’t. But I will not be shut in a room alone with you. Not after last night.”
“Now who is being craven, darling?” he asked, a gleam of amusement in his eyes.
At his long, penetrating look, she found herself flushing. When she refrained from replying, he gave a faint sigh. “You might endeavor to trust me.”
“Whyever should I? What have you ever done to deserve my trust?”
A muscle twitched in Traherne’s cheek. “You have a point. If it will mollify your sense of propriety, we can take our discussion outside onto the terrace, in public view. That would be less compromising.”
She was not concerned about her reputation being compromised—that horse had already bolted the barn two years ago with the scandal of her broken engagement. But the enforced intimacy would grant Traherne an advantage she could ill-afford, given her nonexistent ability to resist him.
When he opened the French doors, she willingly accompanied him out onto the stone terrace, which overlooked his beautiful gardens. Hints of bright color greeted her with the newly leafed trees and early spring flowers. Clearly an army of master gardeners had been hard at work, planting and pruning.
Renewing her vow not to let the earl under her skin, Venetia took a deep breath of the fresh air and turned to face him. “I have made a valiant effort to be reasonable, my lord, and I will try once more. A rake like you is simply not suitable for my sister. You proved that at Tavistock’s last evening.”
The sigh he gave this time was heavier and held exasperation. “There is only one problem, love. I was not at the club for the carnal sport, as I told you. Gaming was my only purpose. Edmund Lisle is in possession of a priceless necklace that I suspect once belonged to my mother, and I was seeking information about it.”
Venetia listened with growing interest as Traherne explained about the shipwreck that had killed his parents, Lionel and Angelique Wilde, along with his distant Wilde relatives, Lord and Lady Beaufort, and his theory that the sunken treasure belonging to his mother’s family had somehow been excavated.
“I have initiated inquiries,” he concluded, “and sent an agent to the French coast to investigate, but have not yet received any reports. I am still no closer to locating the source of the pendant.”
“How did you learn that Lisle had it?” Venetia asked curiously.
Traherne hesitated. “I saw it in the possession of Lady Dalton.”
He paused a moment to let that revelation sink in, and when it did, Venetia’s tone betrayed her amazement. “Lady X has your mother’s jewelry?”
“Yes. Lisle gave her the pendant. For obvious reasons, he is reluctant to share any information with me.”
“Very obvious,” she murmured sardonically.
“Last night was my attempt to force Lisle’s hand,” Traherne added. “If he were indebted to me for a significant fortune, I could compel him to disclose what he knows.”
Venetia shook her head at the irony. “Why didn’t you tell me this last evening?”
“I am not one to air family secrets. And had I told you, would you have believed me?”
She gave him a rueful smile. “Probably not. You make it difficult for me to give you the benefit of the doubt.”
“But now that I have told you, you can draw the same conclusions I did. It’s possible Lisle fomented both attacks to prevent me from reclaiming the pendant.”
Venetia considered Traherne for a long moment. “Do you know what I think, my lord? Your sins are coming home to roost.”
His eyes narrowed. “What sins might those be?”
“Your debauchery, of course.” Humor edged her voice as she couldn’t help ragging him good-naturedly. “Doubtless it serves you right if a jealous lover set his thugs on you.”
She thought Traherne might take offense, but instead, he smiled that slow, sensual smile that never failed to set her pulse racing. Seeing it, Venetia realized she had allowed him to steer her off track. “But all that really has nothing to do with my sister. If someone is bent on harming you, it could endanger her. And if not…Even if your quarrel with Mr. Lisle now is about the pendant and not over your former mistress, you are still very much a libertine and I won’t let you hurt Ophelia.”
“I repeat, I have no intention of hurting her.”
“Perhaps you would not consciously mean to…and you may be enough of a gentleman to draw the line at seduction. But with your courtship, you are cruelly raising her expectations, if not actually toying with her affections. And now you say you don’t even intend marriage…although to my mind, marriage
would scarcely be preferable.”
When he approached her, Venetia moved backward toward the terrace railing while trying to make her retreat appear casual. Halting his advance, Traherne crossed his arms over his chest and studied her with an air of fascination. “Why do you object so strenuously to my marrying your sister?”
“I want to save her from the heartbreak of having an unfaithful husband. Ophelia is far too vulnerable to a man such as yourself. I shudder to think if she ever came to love you…”
“You assume I could not be faithful.”
Venetia hesitated. She wanted to be fair, and yet all the past evidence was not in his favor. “I suppose you could, but you wouldn’t. You will only betray her, the way Ackland betrayed me.”
“Actually, I wouldn’t. I have more honor than that.”
Her eyebrow rose dubiously. “Do you?”
He reacted to her cynicism with a soft chuckle. “I understand the concept of fidelity, sweeting. I don’t share my women, and I myself exhibit exclusivity in my affairs.”
The scoffing sound she made was half ridicule, half amusement. “Your particular brand of scruples fails to impress me.”
“I shall try to do better,” he said, stepping toward her again. Venetia was caught off guard when he lifted her veil.
“Don’t presume too far, Traherne,” she warned. She grasped his wrist, but failed to make him release the filmy black lace of her veil or back down even an inch.
“I want to see your beautiful eyes.” He gazed at her steadily, his blue eyes holding a challenge. He was acting contrarily just to see her reaction, she knew very well.
Venetia gritted her teeth. “You have a knack for overstepping your bounds.”
He smiled again, and her breath stopped. “True.”
He was a provocative devil, but she would not allow him to put her off or distract her this time. Nor would she forget her earlier frustration with him. His charm allowed him to get away with every transgression short of murder, and even that might be possible were he to set his mind to it.
The Art of Taming a Rake (Legendary Lovers #4) Page 7