He saw an unwilling smile tug at her lips. “I hardly think you are in any danger, my lord. From what I have heard, you lost your virtue long ago.”
Wincing inwardly, Quinn strolled over to the chaise and sat down, casually stretching his arms over the brocade back in an open, non-threatening gesture. In a strange way, her shyness was enchanting. He did not believe for a moment that she lacked courage. She was actually one of the bravest women he knew, including his own sister, Skye, and his cousin Lady Katharine Wilde.
Venetia Stratham had defied society at great personal cost and made herself an outcast by standing up for what she believed, even to the extent of losing the family she held dear. He had to respect that kind of courage.
“So what did you wish to discuss ab
out your sister?” he invited.
“I am highly concerned. The reports say you have taken a marked interest in her.”
He’d only stood up with Ophelia Stratham at several balls but already the gossip was rife that he was courting her. A nobleman with his reputation didn’t show marked interest in a well-bred young lady without stirring a whiff of matrimony, which indeed had been his intent.
“So you rushed home to save her?” he asked.
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
“You feel protective of her.”
“Certainly I do. She is my sister. You are very close to your own sister, are you not? I’m certain you wish to protect Lady Skye.”
“Naturally.” He’d been responsible for his younger sister since he was seventeen years old, but Skye had wed the Earl of Hawkhurst last year, so he needn’t worry about protecting her any longer. Hawk had assumed that role quite effectively.
Venetia bit her lip again. “It is my fault that Ophelia’s marital prospects are so poor. If not for the scandal I caused, she would have ample legitimate suitors for her hand.”
“And you don’t consider me a legitimate suitor.”
“No, my lord. You may be extremely eligible, but you are not at all suitable for her. You are not the marrying kind.”
It was true, he had no interest in marriage. He had good reason for avoiding genteel ladies who not only expected matrimony but connived for it.
When he didn’t immediately answer, Venetia pressed him. “I cannot believe you mean to propose to Ophelia.”
“Why not?”
“Because you are a rake—” She cut off the word, then went on, obviously choosing her words more carefully. “I mean…because of the sort of man you are…the excessive lifestyle you lead. You don’t truly want to marry her. Come, admit it. She is as different from you in temperament and situation as a young lady can be. And she is far too innocent for you.”
On that point he agreed entirely: Ophelia was too young and innocent for him. She most certainly was not his match.
He frankly had wanted nothing to do with the girl, but his cousin Katharine had chosen Ophelia for his future bride to fulfill some absurd romantic theory she’d had since girlhood. Kate firmly believed the five Wilde cousins of the current generation could find true love based on legends of the world’s greatest lovers. His tale was supposed to be the Greek myth of Pygmalion—a sculptor who was so enamored of his stone carving that the gods took pity on him and brought his creation to life. Kate thought the younger Miss Stratham was moldable enough to make Quinn an ideal bride, which would have been laughable if not for his cousin’s dogged persistence, and Skye’s as well. He would be fatally bored within a week of the nuptials, he had told them.
However, sharing his family’s schemes and altercations about matrimony was not a conversation he particularly wanted to have with Miss Stratham, so he said merely, “Perhaps the union would not be ideal.”
“Are you courting her, then, my lord?”
“I’ve made no formal offer.”
“But you have raised her expectations and those of our parents as well.”
In truth, Venetia was the reason he was showing Ophelia such marked attention. Elevating the younger sister in society would reduce the stigma of scandal that hung over the Stratham family. And in small measure make up for the role he’d played in Venetia’s broken betrothal. But explaining his feelings of guilt was not something he cared to do just now, either.
Venetia apparently was losing patience with his vagueness. “If you don’t wish to marry her, then I can only presume you have seduction in mind.”
“I believe you are leaping to conclusions.”
“Can you fault me? Accounts of your affairs have traveled all the way to France. I still have friends in England, and even if I didn’t, Mrs. Newcomb keeps a regular correspondence with her numerous acquaintances here.”
“You have clearly assumed the worst about me.”