He would change that, Quinn decided. He intended to make up for the deprivation she’d endured during her two years of exile. She had suffered too much hurt through no fault of her own.
Pleasure. The word was greatly on Quinn’s mind of late. Despite his physical discomfort and the warnings of his conscience, he meant to show Venetia the kind of pleasure she deserved, to make her feel the same pleasure he felt when she was near.
He would have a great deal of work to do to overcome her feelings of mistrust, of course. But he was willing to go slowly. Venetia had to be wooed delicately, enticed like a shy butterfly.
Quinn’s mouth curved in a wry grimace. He’d never envisioned wedding a reluctant bride. He’d never imagined needing to seduce his own wife, either. Ironic, when he was supposed to be such a vaunted lover.
But regardless, he would make Venetia forget her painful memories of her betrothed if it was the last thing he ever did.
The afternoon in the cave set the pattern for their relationship over the next several days. They shared an easy rapport as they came to know each other during their wide-ranging discussions, yet with a powerful undercurrent of sexual tension beneath.
When Venetia quizzed Traherne about his past, she discovered how he had come by his obsession with steam-propelled sailing ships. His distant relative and Lady Katharine’s uncle, Lord Cornelius Wilde, was a literary genius, but translating ancient tomes from Latin and Greek was not for him, Traherne admitted.
“I was always more interested in science and mathematics,” he explained. “For a time, I dabbled in medicine, which was how I met Biddowes. While still at university, I became fascinated with innovations. Although engineering is not my expertise, I could recognize ingenuity and hire technical experts to bring an invention to fruition, so I began funding various projects and providing capital for minor ventures. It is only in the past couple years, however, that I became involved on a grand scale.”
“Your steam engine?” Venetia asked.
“Yes. There are actually several enterprises pursuing the radical notion of steam power at sea, both here in Britain and in America. But mine will be one of the first to actually test the theory in a working model. We hope to launch by summer’s end.”
“It seems an admirable endeavor,” Venetia observed honestly, “especially for a man of your stamp.”
The corners of his eyes began to play with a smile. “Did you think I spend all my time in dissipation?”
“Well, yes. Or at least all your nights. You have always led a life of notoriety, and I know for certain that you consort with a raffish set, including Lord Byron, and of course Ackland.”
“There was a period in my life when I followed the frivolous vicissitudes of a wealthy nobleman, but I moved on to more productive endeavors.”
Venetia pursed her mouth. Traherne continually managed to subvert her admittedly biased conceptions about him. The Wildes were a breed apart—scandalous, hedonistic, passionate—but each time she tried to dismiss him as an arrogant, self-centered rake, he pushed her off balance.
He also acknowledged that his parents’ drowning had influenced him significantly. “Had their schooner been powered by steam, they might have been able to outrun the storm that took their lives.”
Venetia heard the deep emotion in his voice, the anger and sadness, and so was hesitant to press him further. She could only imagine the shock and grief he’d felt at the untimely death of his parents. It was difficult enough to endure that her parents had renounced her. She couldn’t bear to think of them perishing.
“How did it happen? I believe you said they were returning to England after collecting your mother’s inheritance that had been hidden since the French Revolution.”
“You have a good recollection for detail. My parents, along with Kate and Ash’s parents, had set sail from the southern coast of France when a storm overtook them and sank their ship with all passengers and hands on board. Flotsam and pieces of wreckage washed up on shore for weeks afterward, but the site of the shipwreck was never discovered. It was thought that the de Chagny family treasure sank with them…until the pendant appeared.”
“Yes,” Venetia said dryly, “adorning the neck of your former mistress.”
Ignoring her gibe, Traherne went on. “I set out to determine how Lisle came to possess the pendant. In addition, I sent Macky to France to investigate any recent news of the shipwreck. I also wrote to my mother’s distant cousin in Paris, the Compte de Montreux, requesting his aid in learning about a possible salvage attempt. The tragedy happened fourteen years ago, so Macky’s task will be difficult, but I had expected to hear from him before now. I’ve had no word in three weeks.” Traherne gave a testy sigh. “There has been no word from Hawk yet, either.”
“It has only been five days since we left London,” Venetia reminded him.
He ran a restless hand through his hair. “I know, but I will be glad to return. I cannot cower here in the backwoods of Somerset forever. I need to discover if Lisle hired an assassin to kill me.”
“Do you think him guilty?”
“He is the prime suspect, although I have no evidence linking him to the attempts on my life. For all I know, the culprit could be the owner of a rival shipping company, determined to prevent my steam-propelled ship from reaching completion. But if Lisle is the perpetrator, was his motive because I initiated a search for the treasure or something else?”
“Such as eliminating the competition?”
He raised an eyebrow in question. “Competition?”
“For Lady X’s favors. I should think jealousy would be a likely reason for Lisle to wish you in Hades. In truth, I cannot fathom how you reached the ripe age of—how old are you anyway?”
“One and thirty.”
“Well, I am surprised you managed to survive all your scandalous affairs without some possessive rival or slighted lover attempting to murder you before this. I was prepared to do it myself, albeit for a different reason.”
His smile broadened. “I trust I’ve succeeded in improving your opinion of me.”
“Somewhat,” she conceded with a grudging smile. “At certain moments, I even find myself admiring you.”
Traherne laughed outright at her admission. “I am elated to count small measures of progress.”
In return, he probed her own past. That evening after supper, Venetia unexpectedly found herself revealing her deepest feelings about her bitter experience with Ackland.
“I felt like the greatest fool alive, to be so ignorant of his deception. All the while he was courting me and claiming to love me, he was disporting with a demi-rep behind my back. I only suspected the truth mere hours before the ceremony, and didn’t truly believe it until he arrived at the church unkempt and reeking of perfume.”
“I admired you on the church steps, acting on your beliefs.”
Venetia looked at Traherne warily and saw only sympathy in his expression. “My response was actually unplanned. I reacted out of shock and pain and humiliation.”
“You should be proud you took a stand. A weaker woman would have gone through with the ceremony or given in to hysterics.”
She looked away from his disconcertingly tender gaze. “It is hardly fair,” she muttered a long-held grievance. “My betrothed was the libertine, but I was the one punished and branded a scarlet woman. Men are allowed outrageous license to do anything they please, especially noblemen. Take yourself, for example.”
“Yes, do take me.” His easy tone suggested he was trying to lighten her mood, yet it didn’t soothe her.
“Your scandal in the park with Lady X was worse than anything I created. You didn’t suffer one bit.”
“It helps that I have a title and fortune. Had you possessed the same, your crime might have been mitigated a degree. But you were a genteel young lady who caused a public spectacle.”
Venetia sighed. He had punctured her swelling bubble of frustration. “Indeed. My airing soiled linen in public angered my parents immensely. Had
I learned earlier about Ackland’s long-standing liaison, I might have been more discreet when terminating our betrothal.”
She gave Traherne a considering look. “You knew he kept a mistress and yet you did nothing to warn me.”
“A man doesn’t betray his friends.”
“I would have been spared a lot of pain had I known. And I might have spared my family.”
She deeply regretted the distress she’d caused her family but not her denunciation of Ackland. “If I could do it over again, I still would have ended our engagement. I could never have been happy wedded to him. He was not the honorable man I thought him. My mother couldn’t forgive me, though. She thought Ackland was only sowing his wild oats before he settled down, and could not understand why I objected to marrying an adulterer.”
Traherne hesitated. “I might point out that you cannot commit adultery without being wed.”
His response was perfectly logical, but her feelings were not driven by logic. “He would have eventually been unfaithful, I have no doubt.” Venetia ground her teeth together involuntarily as she rose to her feet and began to pace the small parlor. “I don’t believe it is too much to ask that a husband remain true to his holy marriage vows, especially when he claims to love you. But I have learned my lesson. I will no longer trust any man’s avowals of love.”
“There you are again, tarring all of us with the same brush.”
“With good cause.” She glanced over her shoulder at Traherne. “I doubt you would ever practice fidelity.”
She could see her accusation nettled him. “You don’t know that,” Traherne answered slowly. “It’s not unknown for a rake to change his wicked ways.”
Venetia shrugged. “You needn’t bother to try. You promised we could lead separate lives once the danger has passed. I mean to hold you to your promise and return to France as soon as may be.”
He cocked his head. “Are you certain you would be any happier living in France?”
“I believe so. I have come to relish my independence. That has been the one major advantage to being an outcast. The scandal liberated me in many ways.”
Another smile tugged at his mouth. “You are not so liberated, love. You are still trapped by your past, and you have grave inhibitions about carnal relations.”
She quickly rallied. “I meant that I am no longer smothered by the same constrictions as before. My art is a prime illustration. In my parents’ view, my desire to pursue sculpting is another sin to my credit, or so my sister told me in her smuggled notes.” Venetia’s second sigh was even deeper. “I regret most disappointing them.”
“Your parents don’t deserve your consideration after casting you out. Their treatment of you was deplorable.”
In a way, she agreed with him. For a moment she was spun back two years to the aftermath of her public rebellion. She had been ruined and socially ostracized and exiled to a foreign country, but none of that held a candle to how hurt, how devastated, she’d been by her parents’ repudiation.
Suddenly her throat ached and her eyes smarted with unexpected tears. She had felt frighteningly vulnerable and alone those first few months. Without Cleo, she would have been desperate, forced to eke her own way in the world, living in shabby-genteel circumstances or outright penury.
Venetia stared blindly down at the carpet as she remembered. She had been prepared to endure the unenviable life of a spinster, but it had been such a lonely time, with so little remaining of her dreams. As a childless widow, Cleo was in a similar predicament. They had clung together and developed a strong friendship, to her eternal gratitude.
Just then Traherne rose from his chair and moved closer, startling her out of her sad reverie. When he touched her face, brushing back a tear that had escaped, her gaze snapped up to his.
She saw tenderness there, heart-tugging tenderness. His blue eyes were clear and intent, as if he could see down into her soul—which made her feel raw and exposed.
Despite her innate response to his sympathy, though, a jolt of purely sensual awareness shot through Venetia at his touch. There was no denying the surge of heat she felt standing this close to him.
“You know I don’t want your pity,” she said finally, with more defiance than she intended.
“Trust me, sweeting, it is not pity I feel for you at the moment. Just now I want to shake your parents, or commit some even more violent act upon their persons.”
What she wanted just now was for Traherne to put his protective arms around her, to draw her into his warm embrace and simply hold her. But that would never do.
Drawing back, she covered her discomfiture by resuming her place on the sofa and disparaging his tactics. Oh, he was a wily devil. She knew very well he enjoyed undermining her defenses, yet she could feel herself softening toward him almost hourly.
If she was honest, she would admit she greatly enjoyed his companionship. His conversation was scintillating and his sharp wits kept her own honed. Even with the peril they faced—or perhaps because of it—she couldn’t deny the exhilaration he had kindled in her. Traherne had yanked her out of her safe cocoon and enlivened her dull, lonely existence. She was never lonely when she was with him….
Venetia swallowed, resolutely pushing away the ache in her chest. She was her own mistress now. She had fought hard to build her new life in France, with a fulfilling pursuit to occupy her time. For her own self-preservation, she couldn’t now add a libertine husband who had been compelled to wed her.
When he spoke again, his voice gentled even further. “Let me be clear, Venetia.” He waited until she looked at him once more. “I want to assure you, as my countess you can continue to be independent. You will have the means to live whatever life you wish.”
Venetia shook her head. “As your countess, I am legally your property.”
“I have no desire whatsoever to curtail your freedom.”
“Even so, I’m certain you don’t want a wife underfoot, hindering your licentious lifestyle. And for me, one rake in a lifetime is more than enough.”
Only by the slightest tightening of his jaw could she see that she had struck a nerve, probably the same one as before. He did not like her criticism of his wicked exploits.
But then he seemed to shrug off her disapproval and poured himself another glass of port before lounging in his chair and changing the subject to more pleasant matters.
The next morning brought another fishing excursion. When they settled on the grassy bank beside the stream—Traherne with his rod and line, Venetia with her sketch paper and pencil—she began to draw a collection of wildflowers. After an hour, her concentration waned and her gaze gravitated to the aristocratic lines of his profile.
Her fingers itched to capture his handsome features in clay—the high cheekbones, the sensual mouth, the intelligent eyes….Before she knew it, she found herself sketching Traherne’s likeness. In this light, his sunstreaked hair was the color of winter wheat, and she struggled to capture the right shading with mere charcoal.
Frowning at her rendering, she bit her lower lip and glanced back at him, only to discover he was watching her.
“What are you drawing?”
The instant flush on her cheeks at being caught out annoyed her. She ought not feel embarrassed about sketching Traherne when he was the only human subject available. Her interest had nothing to do with her captivation with him—
Knowing she was lying to herself, Venetia hedged her reply. “Nothing of importance.”
She abandoned her present sketch in favor of the wildflowers, while Traherne returned to his fishing, and eventually a companionable silence resumed. The sun rose high in the sky till the warmth of the day felt more like summer than spring.
Traherne shed his waistcoat and coat, and Venetia removed her pelisse. A short while later she realized she was perspiring under her bonnet and so removed that article also, along with her shoes and stockings, then moved to sit beneath the shade of a nearby willow tree in order to protect her fair skin.
But she continued to watch his sporting success. By the time another hour had passed, he had an impressive catch collected in a pail of water.
“I plan to hand these fine fellows over to Mrs. Horton to vary our menu,” he remarked as he gathered his gear, “even though I would rather build a fire and grill them.”
Venetia raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Do you know how to clean and cook a fish?”
“I learned as a boy.” He flashed a grin at her skeptical expression. “Why do you look so shocked?”
“I find it hard to believe that a pampered, wealthy nobleman has common talents such as cleaning fish.”
Traherne winced. “You do have a habit of cutting me down to size with that uncomplimentary tongue of yours.”
His aggrieved tone made Venetia want to apologize for the undeserved criticism. “Forgive me—my remark was uncalled for. I meant merely to say that your aptitude is unusual when you have a large kitchen staff at your mansion in London and countless other servants at your beck and call.”
“For your information, I grew up mainly in the country. I spent many a pleasant hour of my childhood having adventures in the woods with my cousins on the Beaufort and Traherne estates. I could live off the land now, if I were forced to. I could even endure privation if need be. I just don’t see the need. Have you ever tasted fire-grilled trout?”
The thought made Venetia’s mouth water. “No.”
“It is one of life’s small pleasures. But we will have to make do with the picnic basket Mrs. Horton packed for us.”
His comment made her realize she had grown hungry. While he washed his hands in the stream, she laid out the alfresco luncheon of mutton pie and apple tarts under the willow.
When they had finished eating, he lay back on the grass, his hands folded behind his head, and closed his eyes, apparently sated and content.
Venetia felt replete and drowsy as well. She wanted to lie down beside him and nap, yet the last time she had slept beside him, she had woken to his marvelous lovemaking—
“Do you mean to go to sleep?” she asked to distract her wayward thoughts.
The Art of Taming a Rake (Legendary Lovers #4) Page 15