The Art of Taming a Rake (Legendary Lovers #4)

by Nicole Jordan

  “Who would want to kill you?”

  “I have no bloody idea…unless it’s Lisle.”

  “Does he despise you enough to murder you?”

  “I would not have thought so before this. I am not well acquainted with him.”

  “It is fortunate you saw the threat in time to react. How did you know the shooter was carrying a rifle?”

  “I saw the silhouette of a weapon—and after the two earlier incidents, I was watching for danger. A musket would not have that accuracy or range, no matter how skilled the marksman.”

  “I thought he was one of the gardeners carrying a shovel. He was dressed in your livery colors.”

  “They were the same colors but not my livery. I don’t believe he was one of my staff, but he obviously went to some trouble to disguise himself in my colors, the better to blend in, I presume.”

  “Whoever he is, he should not be allowed to get away with attempted murder. He could have killed you!” Her angry tone held a note of fear.

  “I’m uncertain if he wanted to kill me or scare me away—for what reason I can only guess. What galls most is that he had the temerity to invade my property. He was either superbly confident in his skills or desperate to complete his task.”

  “Well, whatever his motives, it was a heroic gesture on your part to save me from being wounded or worse.”

  Traherne’s smile was entirely charming. “I’m not certain I can take credit for heroism. More likely it was sheer instinct. But I am happy to have something positive in my column to offset your many grievances against me.”

  “I haven’t that many grievances against you. Only where it affects my sister’s happiness.”

  He might have replied had his butler not made an appearance. “What is it, Wilkins?”

  “We conducted a search as you ordered, my lord, but there was no sign of the intruder.”

  Traherne’s grimness returned. “I expected as much.”

  “It is most likely he entered and fled through the east garden gate.”

  “From this point forward, I want all entrances locked or guarded. And instruct the staff to be on the alert for strangers or suspicious behavior.”

  “As you wish. May I be of further service?”

  “You may bring me the letter lying on my study desk, along with writing implements. I will finish it while awaiting Biddowes so you may courier it to Lord Hawkhurst in Kent. And have someone bring me a fresh shirt for when I am washed and bandaged.”

  Wilkins bowed and retreated, then returned a moment later. Since Traherne’s hands were still bloodied, Venetia spent the next several minutes taking his dictation at the servants’ dining table, explaining about the shooting and requesting Hawkhurst’s immediate presence. When she was done, Wilkins carried the missive away to be dispatched.

  “Lord Hawkhurst is your sister’s husband, but why would you seek his advice?” she asked curiously. “Why not turn to Bow Street or some other authority familiar with murderers and cutthroats?”

  “Hawk once worked for the Foreign Office and has experience with matters of this nature. And I want to keep this dilemma in the family for now.”

  “He has encountered possible assassins before?”

  Traherne nodded. “More than once, from what I understand.”

  Venetia would have explored that intriguing comment, but shortly afterward Dr. Biddowes arrived. “Two incidents in one morning, my lord? Rather alarming, wouldn’t you say?”

  “You only need to stitch my wound, old friend.”

  “Let me examine you…”

  He removed the blanket from Traherne’s shoulders and proceeded to investigate the damage to his side.

  The two men seemed to share a fond familiarity, but when the doctor took a long look at Venetia, his frowning scrutiny made her flush. He clearly recognized her—perhaps because of her scandalous past—and was not particularly happy to see her. “Is this the young lady who shot you?”

  Traherne replied coolly. “You are mistaken, Biddy. She was not the culprit. A lady would not shoot her betrothed so shortly before the nuptials.”

  Venetia was certain she had misheard—until Biddowes’s frown deepened and then turned to a slow grin. “I’ll be damned. You are putting your neck in the parson’s noose after all this time, Tray?”

  “Yes.” Traherne sent her an enigmatic glance. She couldn’t read his expression, and his succeeding announcement made her gasp. “Miss Stratham and I are engaged to be married. The ceremony will take place tomorrow by special license.”

  The lie was so blatant, Venetia could give it no credence. “You have clearly taken leave of your senses, my lord.”

  Traherne cast a sideways glance at the doctor, who was engaged in removing medical instruments from a leather satchel. “Will you permit us a moment of privacy, Biddy?”

  Biddowes did not seem happy to oblige. “I am short on time, Tray.”

  “Pray indulge me. It should not take long.”

  Venetia was unsurprised when Biddowes withdrew from the dining hall. Alone with the earl, she gave him a quelling look. “That was an outrageous falsehood.”

  “Not in the least. I wish to make you a formal offer of marriage.”

  Her gaze skewered him. “If this is your idea of a jest, it is in extremely poor taste.”

  “It is no jest.”

  “Then you must be mad.”

  Traherne chuckled without humor. “Desolated as I am to contradict you, it is simple logic. This affair will make your previous disgrace look like child’s play. Shooting a peer is a criminal offense, far more serious than merely jilting one at the altar.”

  “So what of it?”

  “Take a moment to consider. What do you think will happen to your sister’s marriage prospects if you are mired in yet another scandal? You don’t want her to suffer further, do you? If you want to save Ophelia, then you must marry me.”

  As comprehension dawned, Venetia sank weakly onto the bench. The shock of his words filled her with gut-wrenching dismay. “There must be some other way.”

  “I can think of no other. And I am not leaving you to face the wolves alone this time.”

  He was set on trying to protect her? She couldn’t help but be grateful for his consideration, but she could not let him make such an enormous sacrifice. “You needn’t actually marry me,” she murmured. “A betrothal should suffice.”

  “Not given how spectacularly your last betrothal ended.”

  She glanced up at Traherne earnestly. “But I don’t wish to marry you. And I am certain you don’t wish to marry me.”

  He didn’t try to conceal his look of irony. “Granted, I did not wake this morning expecting to offer for you. But we must make the best of a poor hand. Marriage to me is your only course if you don’t want to put your sister at risk.”

  A nauseating, sinking feeling knotted Venetia’s stomach. As much as she wanted to protest, she realized that he was right. A fresh scandal loomed—one that would put her entirely beyond the pale of respectability and ensnare her sister with her. She would be convicted in the court of public opinion without even a trial.

  A spurt of defiant anger surged through her. “It is absurd that an erroneous belief should force us to marry.”

  When she rose to face Traherne in a belligerent stance, he held up a bloodied hand in self-defense.

  Venetia gave a start. She ought not take her anger out on him. This problem was not of his making. Indeed, he had acted valiantly to shield her from the shooter.

  “You should not have to pay for my blunder. I was the one who drew my pistol on you.”

  “It makes no difference now.”

  Venetia shook her head in disagreement. “This is not even the time for discussion. You need to have the gash in your side sewn closed.”

  “I want your answer now.”

  “I cannot possibly give you an answer on so enormous a matter!”

  “Suit yourself, but I am not budging until you agree to marry me tomorr
ow.”

  From the steely look in his eye, she had little doubt Traherne meant exactly what he said. Frustration and despair filled her anew at his ultimatum, even before he prodded her.

  “Come now, love, you are delaying the good doctor’s practice. Although young, Biddy is one of London’s brightest physicians and is extremely busy. He only came to attend me so quickly because I recently donated a large sum to his new hospital.”

  Venetia nearly ground her teeth. She could simply refuse, but Traherne was likely willing to bleed to death before he gave in. And they could always argue about their alternatives later, after his injury received proper treatment.

  “Very well, then, I will marry you.”

  “A wise choice.”

  “It is a demented choice,” she muttered, pressing a hand to her queasy stomach as myriad emotions assaulted her.

  “You may admit Biddy again,” he said.

  She stalked to the door, exasperated by Traherne’s recklessness and the fact that he had so little regard for his own skin. To think that she had once envied his devil-may-care manner and even admired his audacity.

  As she moved through the kitchens, Biddowes gave her a curious look but remained silent as he returned to his patient, accompanied by a footman, to aid with the surgery, she supposed.

  Her stomach still churning with dread, worry, and guilt, Venetia paced the corridor outside, appalled that her options were so limited. It was unbelievable that her plan to save her sister from Traherne’s courtship had only made matters infinitely worse.

  And that was not even the gravest problem. Some vengeful gunman was apparently set on killing the earl. She was afraid for his life, even if she frequently felt the urge to throttle him herself. Astonishingly, Traherne aroused her own protective instincts to an extraordinary degree. She felt horrible that he had been shot while shielding her with his own body.

  And no matter how shocked she was by his hasty proposal, intuitively she knew he was choosing the only honorable course for a gentleman—which disturbed her greatly. He had already risked his life for her. It also grated that she even needed his protection from society. Traherne did not seem pleased that his hand had been forced, either.

  Venetia spent the next half hour stewing and fretting, alternately feeling defiant and totally helpless.

  She was already under a cloud of disgrace; more infamy could not hurt her much. But her family was a different matter. She couldn’t bear to bring them more pain. She just could not.

  —

  By the time Biddowes finally summoned her, she had managed to calm her warring sentiments enough to appear composed. Upon being allowed back in, she found the doctor cleaning the last of his instruments.

  Traherne still sat on the table’s edge, now with a linen bandage wrapped around his waist, wincing as he donned a pristine cambric shirt with care.

  “I am ordering him to rest, Miss Stratham,” Biddowes stated bluntly. “His skull is so thick, he believes himself to be invincible. It is the same recklessness he showed when we were lads.”

  “I am not taking to my bed, even if this blasted wound has left me weak as a kitten,” Traherne declared, obviously frustrated by his condition. “My study will have to do. I have too much urgent correspondence to attend to.”

  “Then lie down on a sofa and dictate your letters,” Biddowes instructed. “I don’t want you breaking open my masterful stitches. You may experience dizziness and fatigue for several days. My willow bark tea should help with the pain. Be alert for signs of fever and have your bandage changed once per day and apply my poultice of flowers of sulphur. I will send ’round more in the morning. If the wound turns putrid, you could die.”

  “I understand,” Traherne grumbled before gruffly thanking his friend with genuine appreciation.

  He was able to walk under his own power, so Venetia gathered the writing implements and remained at his side as he retraced his steps through the house and returned to his study.

  As he sank slowly onto a leather sofa, a low oath escaped his lips. “How can a simple gunshot be so bloody painful?”

  The question only added to Venetia’s guilt, but she inhaled a calming breath. “Before we begin writing messages, my lord, I hoped we could discuss this situation like reasonable adults and perhaps find a way out.”

  He shot her a sharp glance. “Oh, no, I won’t let you withdraw from your promise, sweetheart.”

  “It was not a promise,” Venetia objected. “It was a capitulation made under duress.”

  Traherne sighed. “You cannot back out now without again being seen as a jilt. Not after my announcement to Biddowes.”

  Her anxiety returned full strength. “Is that why you claimed we were betrothed? So you could force my hand?”

  “In part. You should be gratified. You wished to stop me from pursuing your sister. Our marriage will accomplish your goal in spades.”

  “But I never envisioned anything like this.”

  “Nor did I,” he said with heavy irony. “You realize that if you refuse, you will undo all my noble efforts toward your sister.”

  Unconsciously Venetia resumed her pacing. “You should have told me of your plans to improve Ophelia’s marital prospects from the first. Had I known, I never would have kept hounding you, and we would not be in this disastrous predicament.”

  “I started to tell you before you threatened me with your pistol and I was shot.”

  She bit her lip in contrition. “I have said several times how sorry I am.”

  “So you have. Just as I am sorry for what happened to you two years ago. I mean to make amends. I owe you that much.”

  “In other words, you feel pity for me. I do not want your pity, Lord Traherne.”

  “Don’t get your back up, darling.”

  She took another deep breath. “I applaud your chivalry, truly. I am even grateful for it. But you know we would never suit. We could never love each other, and that is not even taking into account your…our differing values.”

  His eyes reflected a gleam of self-mockery. “And that is your chief objection to me? That you could never love me?”

  “Among other things. I want love and loyalty and fidelity in marriage. I broke off with Ackland because our goals were vastly incompatible. Marrying you would be leaping from the frying pan into the fire.”

  “But you would have the protection of my name and title and my fortune at your command.”

  “Title and fortune are not good enough reasons to marry. If they had been, I would have wed Ackland two years ago.”

  “You are forgetting that the connection to me would be extremely advantageous for your family, especially your sister. As my countess, you could insure her own superior marriage.”

  Venetia started to retort, but fell silent. That was the rub. She couldn’t forever condemn Ophelia to spinsterhood. She had to save her sister at all costs.

  Traherne was correct. Marriage would solve both her immediate problems. She would prevent him from causing her sister untold heartache and avoid another massive scandal at the same time. Best of all, Ophelia might someday be able to wed for love rather than social necessity.

  “Sit down, sweeting. You are giving my neck a crick with your prowling the floor.”

  At his wry command, Venetia sent Traherne a resentful look. “I cannot believe you are so unfazed by this debacle.”

  “I am hardly that. But there is a simple answer to your objections. We can have a modern marriage of convenience. Once the scandal is over and the danger from my unknown assailant has passed, we can go our separate ways.”

  That brought her up short. Venetia stared at him. “What do you mean?”

  “Ours needn’t be a real marriage.”

  “You are suggesting a union in name only?”

  “Precisely. I will need an heir at some point, but Skye’s children can inherit my title. You would be free to return to France with Mrs. Newcomb at Season’s end, assuming I catch the perpetrator. I’m not letting you
out of my sight until I know you are safe.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Entirely.”

  For a long moment, Venetia scrutinized Traherne’s handsome features, which held no clue as to his feelings about so momentous a decision. But he could not be as nonchalant as he appeared.

  “How do I know you will uphold our bargain?” she finally asked.

  “You will simply have to trust me.”

  In the past day she had gotten herself in big trouble by not trusting his word, Venetia reflected. It was time for her to change.

  When she didn’t answer immediately, Traherne went on. “Trust or no, we really have no choice. And I won’t argue further with you.”

  She was doing enough arguing for the both of them. For another score of heartbeats, she mentally reviewed the evidence.

  The last thing she wanted was to be locked in marriage to a Lothario, especially one as provoking as Traherne. She could not regret choosing to become an outcast two years ago rather than marry her philandering betrothed. She had weathered that scandal and could do so again. And yet this time the damage to her sister would be more monumental. Ophelia would be scorned and spurned, all because of Venetia.

  Which was unthinkable.

  No, her sister and parents had to take precedence over her own personal wishes.

  At the inevitable conclusion, despondency nearly overwhelmed Venetia, but she forced herself to respond.

  “Very well, then…” she said in a small voice. “I will marry you, Lord Traherne.”

  “Take heart, Venetia. It is not the end of the world.”

  There was a gentleness in his voice that surprised her. And when she returned his gaze intently, the blue eyes pierced her. She saw understanding and sympathy there, even tenderness. He must have guessed how distressed she was.

  His reaction brought sudden tears to her eyes and a lump to her throat—which made her vexed at herself for showing such weakness.

  Whether or not he was giving her a moment to compose herself, Traherne continued as if he had always known what her answer would be. “There is much to be done. I will first have to apply for a special license and arrange for a minister. As for wedding invitations, I have already sent for Hawk. Skye will likely accompany him, if I know her, but I must invite my cousin Katharine as well. My cousins Ash and Jack will be content with a simple announcement, but Kate would never forgive me if she could not attend my wedding.”