The trouble was, he took a final step closer and bent his head to kiss her.
Tasting the warm satin of his lips, Venetia wanted to curse. Over the past two years she had built up strong defenses, but Traherne was annihilating them once more. When in desperation she tore her mouth away and averted her head, he merely shifted his lips to the sensitive skin of her neck.
“This is exactly what I mean,” she protested breathlessly. “You’re a rake through and through.”
“Guilty as charged.”
He made her shiver with desire and excitement, damn him. And he was nuzzling her in broad view of anyone who happened to pass by. Venetia pressed her hands against his chest, irked that he was so careless with what remained of her shredded reputation.
“I can guess…what you are about,” she rasped. “I’ve been branded a scarlet woman, so you think you can take advantage of me.”
“Never,” he murmured. “I am simply indulging in the supreme enjoyment of kissing you…and perhaps a little more…”
She was startled to feel the cool breeze on her lower limbs. He was raising her skirts, she realized with a thrilling sense of shock. When she managed to forcibly brush them down again, his fingers reached through the fabric at the front of her gown to press against her woman’s mound, kindling an even greater excitement inside her.
“Lord Traherne!” Venetia exclaimed.
“You are familiar with the adage ‘better to be hanged for a sheep than a lamb’? Since you accuse me at every turn of being a libertine, I might as well live up to my dissolute reputation.”
The laughter in his tone vexed her as well as his nonchalance. He was trying to get a rise out of her, that was clear. Well, she would foil his plan and give back as good as she got.
Edging backward to elude his embrace, she reached into her reticule and drew out her pistol, aiming it directly at his chest.
When he froze for an instant at her unexpected gesture, Venetia felt mingled relief and triumph. “I brought a more lethal weapon this time, my lord. If I must suffer your company, I plainly need protection.”
His genuine amusement was apparent. “You continue to surprise me, love.”
When he advanced yet another step, crowding her against the railing, she waved the muzzle at him. “I’ll thank you to keep your distance.”
“Or what? You will shoot me?”
“I might, if you push me far enough.”
He had the temerity to laugh. Venetia’s fingers reflexively tightened on the stock. While he stood there, relaxed as ever, she debated whether to cock the hammer.
Of course he was in no danger, since she had not bothered to prime the pistol with ball or powder. If he were to call her bluff, she would look like a fool. Indeed, she felt like a fool already.
Venetia exhaled a breath in self-disgust. She had let Traherne goad her into threatening to fire when she should have maintained control of her emotions. Normally she was calm and even-tempered, but this maddening man invariably brought out the very worst in her.
While she wavered and considered how to back down from her empty threat, his voice softened.
“I admire the courage of your convictions, Miss Stratham. I should have known better than to provoke you.”
Now he was trying to appease her? It wouldn’t work, Venetia pledged, even as he continued.
“I suppose it is time to come clean, sweeting. I am not paying court to your sister—”
“So you say.”
“You are entirely correct that we are not at all suited. Ophelia is too young and mild-mannered for me. Even so, I am showing her attention, although not for the reasons you imagine.”
“Then what are your reasons?”
“I am attempting to do a good deed and bring her into fashion with the ton.”
His admission made no sense. “What on earth do you mean?”
“With me lending her countenance, she can attract admirers who are suitable.”
Venetia eyed him narrowly. “Why would you trouble yourself?”
“To compensate in small measure for my actions during your betrothal.”
She stared at him in confusion. She could not fully comprehend Traherne’s motives, but his declaration took the wind out of her sails.
“You are playing matchmaker for Ophelia?” she asked uncertainly.
“Actually, my sister, Skye, and my cousin Kate are the matchmakers, and I am attempting to avoid their numerous matrimonial traps. But chiefly I am acting for your sake.”
“Mine? I don’t understand.”
“I feel somewhat responsible for what happened to you two years ago.”
“You actually feel responsible for my broken engagement?”
“For the scandal that resulted from your rift. Don’t look so astonished. Had I not brought Ackland to the church in such a dissipated state, you might have ended your betrothal in a less public forum.”
“I am astonished. Count me as shocked.”
“It is not so shocking that I would want to protect you. You have no man to fill the role since you jilted Ackland and your father disowned you, so I can honorably step in now. You are the weaker sex, after all.”
Venetia clenched her teeth at his bald claim, but then faltered. From the glimmer in his eyes, she understood his intent. He was deliberately riling her in that highly provocative way of his—and clearly enjoying it.
“I doubt you believe that women are weak,” Venetia finally retorted. “I am acquainted with your sister and cousin, and from everything I have observed, you think very highly of them both.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “The women in my family are not weak by any means, and I imagine you are their equal. Most ladies would have cowered in fright last evening instead of coming to my rescue. You threw yourself into the battle like an avenging angel—a very impressive feat.”
She gave Traherne another deeply puzzled look. “So when I begged you to end your pursuit of Ophelia, you were simply being ornery by not telling me your plans and letting me think the worst of you?”
“Perhaps a little. As I said, I don’t enjoy being extorted. You might aim your pistol elsewhere, darling. Being held at gunpoint is rather discomfiting.”
“It is nothing more than you deserve,” she muttered even as she let the muzzle fall so that it was pointing at the flagstone. “You should have told me last night what you were about.”
“I found it much more pleasurable to ruffle your feathers and demand a kiss in exchange for my cooperation.”
He was boasting of his underhanded tactic? Shaking her head in disbelief, Venetia couldn’t hold back a reluctant chuckle. How did he manage to make her bristle in one breath, then laugh the next?
He shared her amusement, judging by the laughter in his blue eyes. A moment later, however, his expression changed. He was gazing over the railing at her back, she realized, as if something had caught his eye down in the gardens behind her.
Absently Venetia glanced over her shoulder and saw a figure below. One of the staff, she presumed, since he wore the Traherne livery and carried an implement like a shovel, raised to chest height.
By the time she returned her attention to Traherne, his face had darkened. Then suddenly he lunged at her and pulled her away from the railing. Spinning them both around so that his back was to the gardens, he pushed her down.
As she felt herself falling, Venetia gasped, too shocked to react otherwise. She was vaguely aware of the explosive retort in the distance. Then Traherne’s body jerked and he gave a soft grunt.
Even though he tried to cushion the impact with his right arm and shoulder, she landed hard, the breath knocked out of her.
It took her a moment to regain her senses and realize that he’d thrown her to the stone floor, behind the terrace rail.
She was pinned partly beneath him, but she recovered more quickly than he did. “What in blazes are you doing?”
“Were you…hit?” he demanded in a rough pant.
“Hit? What d
o you mean?”
Gritting his teeth, he rolled to one side, relieving her of his weight. “That was a rifle shot I heard.”
“That man below shot at us?” she repeated dumbly.
A surge of fear and fury flooded her veins. Without thinking, Venetia picked up her pistol and struggled to her feet. As she went to the terrace railing, Traherne tried to grasp her skirt but missed. “Keep your head down! The shooter could still be down there.”
She started to aim her pistol, for what purpose she wasn’t certain since her weapon wasn’t loaded and she couldn’t return fire.
“He must have fled,” she muttered. “I don’t see him any longer.”
Turning around, she saw that Traherne had been slow to rise and had merely pushed himself up to a sitting position. He was holding his side at waist level, and blood was seeping through his fingers, she realized in horror.
“Dear God…were you shot?”
“I believe so.”
Her shock deepened as a bright red stain spread farther across the pristine white of his shirt.
Alarmed by the sight, she knelt beside him. He was already pulling the tails of his shirt from his breeches in order to examine the extent of the damage.
A coarse gouge scored the fleshy part of his waist, just below his lowest rib.
“It is a flesh wound,” he observed unsteadily. “Not life threatening. The bullet missed any bone.”
“If you like, I could use your cravat to fashion a bandage until you can send for a doctor.”
Wincing in obvious pain, he unwound his intricately tied cravat from around his neck, then gingerly lifted his shirt over his head.
As she watched, Venetia comprehended what had happened. She had been in the direct path of the bullet. Traherne must have seen the threat below and moved to shield her with his body, taking her place at the railing—
Just then she heard the sounds of running footsteps. An instant later several house servants swarmed onto the terrace to find her kneeling over their master, holding a pistol.
When they saw the earl bloodied and half-dressed, shouts followed. Before Venetia could say a word in explanation, her pistol was seized and she was dragged to her feet by the arms and held prisoner by a mob of angry, loyal employees.
Her reflexive struggle to be set free was cut short when Traherne issued a sharp command to release her at once and return her pistol. “Miss Stratham was not the shooter. The real villain took aim from below and got away.”
With skeptical looks on their faces, his servants did his bidding and freed her from restraint. Their conclusion that she had shot Lord Traherne was not surprising, Venetia thought as she stood there catching her breath from yet another shock and rubbing her bruised arms.
A gray-haired man she recognized as the butler hovered over the earl worriedly, but Traherne brushed off his concerns and waved away any help. “I will survive, Wilkins. The shooter is likely long gone, but I need you to organize a search party. Try to ascertain how he gained entry and where he might have gone when he fled.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
Venetia glanced over the railing. The rear gardens were surrounded by a high stone wall, she could see, but there must be numerous ways a gunman could have entered, including the rear drive and carriage house where the horses were stabled, and the service entrance where tradesmen delivered goods and produce for the household.
Yet the shooter was not her chief concern when Traherne was bleeding so profusely.
“You should also send for a surgeon,” Venetia suggested worriedly. “You will likely need to have your wound poulticed or even stitched.”
“My lord?” the butler asked, seeking permission to follow her advice.
“Yes, send for Dr. Biddowes,” Traherne agreed. “He was just here, seeing to Giles.”
One by one, the servants left the terrace. Venetia knelt beside Traherne again. He was pressing the cravat to his side; the white linen had turned crimson.
“You ought to go inside,” she said, biting her lower lip in consternation. “Indeed, perhaps you should move to the kitchens so you don’t ruin your elegant furnishings.”
A wry smile twisted his lips. “A wise suggestion. My housekeeper would have apoplexy to find bloodstains all over my study.”
With Venetia’s help, he got to his feet. She collected his bloodied shirt, and since she wouldn’t leave him injured, she accompanied him through the house, then below stairs to the kitchens.
A half-dozen servants looked aghast when their injured lord appeared in the domestic center of the household. Venetia felt on firmer ground there, however, and asked for linen towels and water for washing, lint for bandages, and a blanket to drape around his bare shoulders.
Then she led Traherne to the adjacent dining hall and instructed him to sit on the edge of a wooden table so she could inspect the gouge in his side. The staff looked on agog from the doorway—until he curtly issued a dismissal and sent them scurrying back to the kitchens.
Alone with Traherne, she carefully washed the drying blood from the skin surrounding the raw gash.
“Does it hurt badly?” she asked, feeling profound sympathy.
“Excruciatingly.”
From his light tone, she realized he was exaggerating.
Before she could reply, though, an older woman bustled into the room, her expression fearful and angry all at once.
“Merciful heavens, I heard this…person shot you!”
“You heard incorrectly, Mrs. Pelfrey,” Traherne replied. “The perpetrator was a prowler in the gardens. Miss Stratham, this is my housekeeper and sometime healer, Mrs. Pelfrey.”
Seeing the pistol lying on the table beside him, the housekeeper ignored his introduction. “Why is she armed, my lord?”
His hesitation was barely noticeable. “She was carrying a weapon in self-defense because we were attacked last night—”
“Miss Stratham was with you in the alley last night?” Mrs. Pelfrey exclaimed, her surprise and disapproval evident.
Traherne started to reply, then cut himself off—apparently, Venetia guessed, because any attempts at explanation were just making the situation worse.
Mrs. Pelfrey also seemed to realize she had overstepped her bounds, for she changed her focus. “Forgive me, my lord. I am terribly worried for you. May I see the wound?”
“Yes.”
When he lifted the towel, dismay claimed her features. The flow had stemmed significantly but the ragged flesh was still seeping blood.
“I fear this is beyond my skills to repair.”
“I suspected as much. I had Wilkins summon Dr. Biddowes.”
The housekeeper carefully probed awhile, her expression one of grave concern, but she kept throwing angry glances at Venetia.
Venetia, however, was inclined to forgive her since she was clearly acting out of protectiveness for her master.
When the woman made another sound of regret, Traherne stopped her. “Take heart, Mrs. Pelfrey. Of all my injuries, this is my first time being shot.”
She sniffed. “This is not a jesting matter, my lord.”
“There is no point in crying over it, either. My energies are best spent trying to find and stop the culprit before he can cause any more harm. Meanwhile, you should return to your other duties, Mrs. Pelfrey. Giles will be better off with you attending him.”
“Poor Giles is sleeping now from the laudanum.”
“I don’t want you fretting over me.”
“Well, if you are certain…”
“I am certain.”
After giving an acknowledging curtsy, she sent Venetia another censorious look and then quit the dining room.
As he covered the wound again, Venetia heard his faint sigh. “It won’t be long before half of London believes that you shot me.”
Venetia frowned in agreement. “I suppose there is no hope for it.”
His mouth curled. “I would have claimed that I discharged the pistol myself, but no one would beli
eve I could be so clumsy, since I’m a crack shot. I doubt we can contain the damage to your reputation.”
“I don’t give a fig for my reputation just now. I am worried about you. Mrs. Pelfrey is right—you are taking this far too lightly.”
“Not in the least. I simply prefer not to frighten my servants or let them think that a killer might be trying to put a period to my existence.”
Perhaps he was right to understate the danger for his servants, Venetia decided. She was badly shaken herself.
Traherne shifted the subject to her skepticism. “Now do you believe that I was run off the road this morning?”
“Yes, I believe you.” Venetia hesitated. “I suppose I must apologize for that. I practically accused you of lying.”
“It was not the first time you have doubted my word of honor.”
“No,” she said in a small voice. “I should have trusted you more.”
“Yes, you should have.”
Looking away from the intent blue depths of his eyes, she leaned over him and gently touched his hand holding the towel in place. “I am so very sorry you were hurt.”
Traherne’s tone turned curious. “Why such distress? You were ready to shoot me yourself.”
She glanced up ruefully. “I could not have done so. I never loaded my pistol.”
His eyebrows rose. “It was unloaded?”
“Yes. When I decided to charge over here, I feared I might do you real harm. You are quite skilled at inciting me to mayhem.”
He gave a bark of laughter and then winced at the jarring movement to his side.
“Actually,” Venetia confessed, “I feel partly to blame.” She was frankly appalled at the role she had played, and she felt guilty, even if she hadn’t shot Traherne herself.
“Why would you be to blame?”
“You would not have been outside if not for me.”
Traherne shrugged. “He would have likely found another vantage point for the shot.”
“But perhaps you could have eluded the bullet if you hadn’t moved to shield me.” He had acted without thought for his own safety in order to protect her. “You might have saved my life by pushing me to the ground.”
“Or I might have endangered you more.” He looked grim. “It’s possible I am being targeted by an assassin. If so, I have put you at risk.”
The Art of Taming a Rake (Legendary Lovers #4) Page 8