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

by Nicole Jordan

  On her part, Venetia was trying hard to conceal the twitch of her lips, probably since she believed his sins were finally catching up to him.

  Hawk already knew about the Wilde family tragedy at sea, and the possibility that their shipwreck had contained a sunken treasure. When he inquired about the status, Quinn showed Venetia drawings of the unique design of the collection commissioned for his mother’s family.

  “It was Hawk’s colleague Beau Macklin whom I sent to southern France to investigate,” Quinn told her. “Hawk, if you hear anything from Macky while I am away…”

  Hawk nodded. “I will messenger you in Somerset at once. You may leave it to me. Now, however, I will arrange transportation to convey you there.”

  “I presumed we could take an unmarked carriage to insure we are not followed.”

  “You will need more than one. Never fear, my coachman is an expert at eluding pursuit.”

  Mrs. Cleo Newcomb was announced just then, so Venetia excused herself to receive her friend.

  Quinn was glad that unlike his female relatives, Hawk didn’t press him for personal details about his impending marriage. It was going to be a long enough day as it was.

  —

  As Venetia had predicted, Cleo strenuously objected to the nuptials. “I cannot believe you would willingly ally yourself with Traherne,” she began.

  “You needn’t worry, Cleo. I am no longer the gullible young fool I once was.”

  Unable to convince her to withdraw, Cleo gave her a heart-to-heart talk, warning her about the marriage bed and trying to prepare her in more detail.

  Venetia had very low expectations of her marriage. She was resolved to never fall for another rake. If she didn’t give her heart, she couldn’t be hurt again. In fact, if she didn’t have hopes, she couldn’t be disappointed. She was determined to put on a brave front and face the collapse of any remaining dreams she’d once harbored.

  The trouble was, Traherne’s sister, Skye, was as cheerfully optimistic about romance as Cleo was pessimistic. A delicate, almost ethereal beauty with pale gold hair, Lady Skye possessed the most charming manner imaginable.

  “Kate wished to speak to you also, but we both thought you might feel overwhelmed if we ganged up on you, two against one. So I was elected to welcome you into the family. Truly, it is a pleasure to have you for my sister, Miss Stratham.”

  Taken aback by her warm reception, Venetia managed a grateful smile. “Thank you, Lady Skye.”

  “If we are to be family, you must call me Skye. I would imagine you have a million questions about my brother.”

  “A million and one, actually.”

  “Well, it is most important that you understand why he is so cynical.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because he has always been the target for ruthless husband-hunters, beginning when he was barely out of leading strings. It is not surprising that he would wed you to protect you, though. He is not quite the rake the world thinks him.”

  At Venetia’s skeptical look, Skye went on. “Quinn has always been overly protective of the women in our family. Kate and I were young when we lost our parents. If not for having to help raise me, he would have traveled the world. I could not ask for a better brother, truly, but he has always been too smart for his own good and is easily bored. My uncle, Lord Cornelius Wilde, is a renowned scholar. Quinn shares his intellectual brilliance but never followed in his academic footsteps. He always had too much lust for danger and adventure.”

  Skye paused a moment to study Venetia’s expression. “I was quite happy that he found his life’s work recently. For nearly two years, Quinn has been holed away working feverishly on an invention—a design for a nautical steam engine that he claims will revolutionize sailing and save countless lives. You see, it is his own way of changing fate. If our parents’ ship had been powered by steam, it would not have sunk.”

  The revelation about his cause surprised Venetia. Skye must have liked her response for she nodded sagely. “I am very glad Quinn plans to hide out for a time while he heals. If I know him, he’s eager to hone his wits on uncovering a murderer. He made me promise to take refuge in my husband’s castle, but I worry that he gives little thought for his own safety. Please, will you watch out for him while you are in Somerset?”

  “I will do my best.”

  “Then I can rest easy. Now, if Kate or I can help you in any way, don’t hesitate to ask. Doubtless this situation is supremely awkward for you, but we hope to remedy that by making you feel at home with us.”

  —

  With such a warm welcome, Venetia was not surprised that the evening proceeded far better than she could have hoped. A congenial dinner was followed by music and lively conversation. Even Cleo unbent a little in the face of such determined charm on the part of the ladies Skye and Katharine.

  Traherne worried Venetia, however, for she couldn’t help noticing he was in pain.

  He retired to bed earlier than the rest of the company. Seeing him leave the drawing room, she excused herself and went after him, caught up to him as he was climbing the stairs. “Do you need assistance changing your bandage, my lord?”

  “Mrs. Pelfrey will tend to it.”

  “You needn’t go through with this,” Venetia offered.

  He gave her an arch smile. “If you mean our nuptials, we have had this discussion already, and nothing has changed since then.”

  She spent much of the night tossing and turning and woke the next morning a bundle of nerves. As she dressed in a gown of pale green satin overlaid with white lace, her dark hair arranged in a braided coronet, Venetia couldn’t help recalling her last fateful wedding day.

  The ceremony this time was quite small and subdued compared to the lavish wedding at St George’s in Hanover Square. When the minister began to recite the vows, Venetia felt her veins fill with ice. She still had difficulty crediting she was standing here plighting her troth to a man who was nearly a stranger.

  Traherne’s voice was deep and aristocratic and tinged with irony; when it was her turn to respond, Venetia found the words stuck in her dry throat. She was fighting panic—no doubt the same feeling every bride experienced.

  Traherne gave her a long, level look and raised an eyebrow, as if to ask if she was thinking about bolting, which somehow had a calming effect.

  Shortly after he offered her a brief kiss to seal the vows. His lips were cool and dispassionate but still searing. The contact distracted her until they signed the documents that finalized their union. When the minister addressed her as Lady Traherne, she realized she had just become a countess.

  The next half hour went by in a blur and soon enough she was saying her farewells. Cleo took her aside from the others and hugged her fiercely.

  “If you need anything at all…if you are the least unhappy, send me word and I will come fetch you at once. If Traherne makes you miserable, I will shoot him myself.”

  Venetia forced a smile. “I am sure that won’t be necessary.”

  In a few moments more, her new husband was handing her into a plain carriage hired by Lord Hawkhurst and Venetia girded herself for a long journey.

  Thankfully their departure from London was uneventful. Before even leaving the city, they changed vehicles once more at a busy posting house, which reminded Venetia unpleasantly of the secretive nature of their flight. They set a rapid pace and harnessed fresh teams at regular intervals, since Traherne wanted to make as much progress as possible. The drive to Somerset could not be made in a single day, so he planned to stay at a hostelry that evening.

  Despite her anxiety over their improvised marriage and the danger from his clandestine enemies, however, Venetia felt a curious sense of adventure. They were in league together now, whether she liked it or not.

  Traherne proved more considerate than she expected, supplying hot bricks for her feet and a woolen lap robe to ward off the unusually chill spring weather. He seemed determined to ensure her comfort, yet they left the vehicle on
ly twice, to use the necessary and obtain food and flasks of hot tea.

  Venetia hadn’t slept well the previous night, and by late afternoon weariness overtook her. When she began nodding off, Traherne drew her against his good side so that she could rest her head on his shoulder. “You should sleep.”

  “What about you?” she asked, raising her gaze to search his face for signs of pain. No doubt the unremitting buck and sway of the carriage was jostling his wound.

  “I am fine.”

  “You don’t look particularly fine. You are weary yourself.”

  “A bullet wound will achieve that.”

  Before she would let herself sleep, she used her lap robe to make a cushion for his head. Although Traherne could likely care for himself, she felt absurdly protective of him, perhaps because she was conscious of the debt she owed him for pushing her out of the path of a bullet.

  When Traherne shook her gently awake sometime later, the interior of the carriage was dark. It took Venetia a moment to recognize the lack of motion and realize where she was.

  Reflexively she flushed. She was draped against Traherne’s strong body, enjoying his warmth.

  “We will stop here at The Lion for the night,” he murmured as he tenderly brushed back a tendril from her face.

  Wincing, she sat up. He could be seductive without even trying, and she sincerely hoped he wouldn’t try. When he escorted her inside, however, he raised her misgivings by engaging a single bedchamber.

  “It will be safer if we remain together,” he explained quietly as they followed the proprietor up the stairs. “I am armed to the teeth and am a light sleeper, so you are better off with me as your guard.”

  There was only one bed, Venetia noted, which meant they would have to share, unless Traherne volunteered to take the floor, which was unlikely, she suspected, nor could she possibly ask him to do so in his injured condition—

  Realizing her scatterbrained thoughts were leaping ahead, she ordered herself to calm down. Her wedding night was looming, but she took consolation in Traherne’s promise that they would have a marriage in name only.

  They ate supper at a small table and afterward she rummaged in her valise, which Cleo had packed with clothing and books and art supplies, and drew out a novel to read.

  Traherne occupied himself with studying a sheaf of documents he had brought with him. For a while, the silence was—remarkably—almost comfortable between them. Wounded, he seemed more approachable, not quite as imposing as the wealthy, powerful nobleman he actually was.

  As the hour grew later, though, Venetia found herself growing tense. And when he put away his correspondence and rose from the table, her heart rate increased significantly.

  Wanting to put off the moment of reckoning as long as possible, she offered to change his bandage. When Traherne agreed, she helped him remove his coat and waistcoat and then his shirt.

  He had a magnificent body, she thought, watching the lamplight play on the wheat gold of his hair and the rippling muscles under his skin. The sight of him sitting there shirtless made her stomach curl with fresh nerves.

  She concentrated on unwrapping his bandage and examining the wound. The ravaged skin had dried and tightened, she saw, but all in all it seemed to be healing. “The stitches do not look overly inflamed. Do they hurt?”

  “It itches as much as it hurts. This morning Biddy sent me more of his special ointment. Will you apply some for me?”

  She opened a jar of yellow paste and was met with a pleasant scent. When she spread a small amount on the wound, Traherne’s features relaxed. She was supremely aware of his nearness and her own body’s response to touching him.

  When she was done, she wrapped a fresh strip of linen around his waist. While she washed her hands, he began taking off the rest of his clothes. Although she kept her back to him, Venetia felt her nerves skittering.

  Several moments passed before he spoke again. “Come to bed, love. We both have had a long, tiring day.”

  She risked a glance over her shoulder at him and was very glad to see that he had donned a nightshirt.

  “You should retire alone,” she murmured. “I am not in the least sleepy after my nap in the carriage.”

  A hint of amusement glinting in his blue eyes, he gave her a pointed look, as if to ask, Is that the real reason?

  He didn’t challenge her prevarication, however, and only replied mildly, “You will be more comfortable if you take down your hair. Allow me to assist you.”

  “I can manage,” Venetia hastened to say as he crossed to her side.

  She removed the pins from her coronet and combed out the dark tresses with her fingers.

  “You have lovely hair,” Traherne remarked.

  She shot him a quelling look and found herself caught in his gaze. Was he trying to steal away her wits? She wanted to appear sophisticated and unaffected, but with him watching her so intently, it was impossible.

  “Do you need help changing your gown?” he prodded, evidently knowing she was dallying.

  She shook herself from her enchantment. “Thank you, no.” She found her nightdress but hesitated. “Will you put out the lamp first?”

  “You needn’t be missish with me. I have already viewed your charms.”

  He had kissed her breasts, he meant.

  She felt herself flush, and yet she welcomed the teasing note in his voice. She liked it better when he was provoking her. Indeed, for her own self-protection, she wanted to keep their relationship adversarial so that she could resist him more easily. Yet maintaining their initial antagonism was much more difficult when one had to share a bed.

  She waited until he put out the light before beginning to undress. The darkness enveloped them, relieved only by the flames from a lazy hearth fire. She heard the rustle of the bedcovers as he settled in the bed. Venetia felt her tension soar, knowing he expected her to join him. Eventually she climbed in beside him but turned her back to him and stayed as far away as possible on the narrow mattress. Perversely, the scent of him was alluring while his warmth surrounded her, and both were having an arousing effect on her.

  “Try to relax, love. You are as jittery as a feral cat.”

  “What did you expect? I have never slept with a man before.” She paused. “It feels strange being married to you, even if it is not a true marriage.”

  “Trust me, it feels strange to me as well.” His voice was dry with humor. “But I told you, you have nothing to fear from me.”

  “Why am I not reassured?”

  “Because you attribute wickedness to my every motive, regardless of how innocent.”

  Venetia could not let his comment go unremarked. “Just how innocent are your motives, Lord Traherne?”

  “I am your husband now. Isn’t it time we left off such a formal method of address? My given name is Quinn.”

  “Perhaps, but I prefer to use your title. And you are not truly my husband.”

  He didn’t argue the point, merely offered a different sort of rationale. “Lamentably, your ravishment will have to wait. I am not in the best condition to make love just now.”

  “That is a vast relief,” she said honestly.

  “You sound happy that I am in dire pain.”

  Dire pain? He was clearly exaggerating the extent of his suffering.

  “I think,” Traherne added when she was silent, “I deserve more sympathy from you. You said yourself, I was wounded while trying to shield you.”

  “Yes, and I am profoundly sorry for that.”

  “Your remorse warms my heart.”

  The laughter in his tone made her aware how he was playing on her guilt.

  “It is small wonder that someone wants to hurt you,” Venetia observed. “You are positively aggravating.”

  “How can you be so heartless after I was shot in your defense?”

  Opening her eyes, Venetia almost rolled them at the dark ceiling. “Must you remind me at every turn? You enjoy making me grovel, don’t you?”

 
; “What I enjoy is changing your poor opinion of me.”

  “That would be impossible.”

  “You were frightened for me yesterday, admit it.”

  “It was the stress of the moment.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Of course I felt compassion for you, as I would for any wounded creature, but I should never have given in to your extortion.”

  “Extortion? That is a case of the teapot calling the kettle black. You initiated the tactic at Tavistock’s, if I recall.”

  Just then Traherne reached out his hand and drew his fingers gently down her spine. Venetia shivered with unexpected longing. “I’ll thank you to keep your hands to yourself, my lord.”

  “As you wish.”

  His hand fell away, and Venetia was conscious of an infuriating feeling of disappointment. At the same time, she felt the strangest sense of regret. This was nothing like the wedding night she had once imagined. She had expected to love her husband and give herself joyously. She’d hoped for sweet words and whispered secrets and expressions of undying affection and devotion. Not this sparring exchange.

  She closed her eyes and willed sleep to come, but failed utterly. There was something too intimate about sleeping while Traherne was awake. It made her too vulnerable. She was excruciatingly aware of her own body and the heat building inside her.

  Apparently he was having as much trouble sleeping, for although she listened for the sound of his even breathing, it never came.

  When she shifted her position restlessly for the fourth time, he sighed softly. Then he started to speak gently.

  “Venetia, love, I have promised to keep you safe. That means from myself as well. I am not the sort of man to attack virgins, in any case. And I have never in my life hurt a woman or taken one against her will.”

  Venetia felt the tension ease inside her fractionally. She knew enough about Traherne to believe his claim. Whatever his vices, he would never hurt her, at least not physically.

  Despite his reassurance, however, it was a long, long while before she fell asleep.

  —

  Quinn lay awake for much longer. His own body was on fire, and not just from his bullet wound.