Venetia was staring at him accusingly, and he could almost feel the sparks shooting from her eyes. Her spirit was one of the things he liked most about her. And he applauded her passionate defense of her sister.
In fact, when he’d first begun Ophelia’s social rehabilitation, he’d hoped that she would have some of her elder sister’s spirit but had quickly realized his error. Ophelia was sweet and bland with little of Venetia’s inner fire. The five-year difference in their ages also contributed to his preference.
He’d clearly angered Venetia—but then, she had angered him, making him out to be a villain. She thought he was lowly scum, dishonorable enough to harm her sister, when he was actually doing a good deed. He’d soon regretted embarking on his altruistic endeavor, but once started, he needed to follow through or risk leaving her reputation worse off than before. He knew how to play the courtship game, even if it thoroughly bored and often irritated him.
“You are maligning me unjustly,” he remarked, “relegating me to the same category as your former betrothed.”
“You were Ackland’s partner in crime.”
“We were hardly criminals.”
“But you were complicit in his lechery. You delivered him to the church, an hour late for his own wedding, drunk and disheveled, straight from the bed of his mistress.”
She had a point, Quinn acknowledged self-consciously. He’d known of his friend’s plans and hadn’t stopped him. Ackland had spent the night before his wedding in the arms of his mistress. Quinn had found the laggard bridegroom, roused him out of bed, and driven him to the church where Venetia was waiting on the front portico.
He could remember the scene vividly: Ackland still dressed in his previous night’s evening clothes, unkempt, unshaven, and reeking of cloying perfume; Venetia looking incredibly lovely in a virginal gown of ivory lace and satin.
He could tell the moment she fathomed the extent of her betrothed’s betrayal: The man she was promised to had come straight from a prostitute’s bed to be united in holy matrimony.
Venetia had deserved much better. She was proud, rightly so, but she hadn’t simply been reacting out of wounded pride, Quinn was certain. He was close enough to see the
pain in her eyes. No doubt her romantic dreams of a loving marriage had been shattered. She had loved Ackland, or so he’d claimed. Her stricken look had awakened Quinn’s protective instincts, especially since he felt partially to blame for not doing more to rein in his friend’s dissipation.
He thought she’d handled her humiliation with great aplomb, though. After her very public quarrel with Ackland, she had walked into the church, head held high, and announced there would be no ceremony. While the crowd collectively gasped and burst into conversation, she apologized sincerely to her shocked parents, then turned on her heel and marched out to her waiting carriage, brushing past Quinn on the way.
Ackland was a triple fool—for flaunting his liaison, for publicly shaming her, and for driving her away. How he had chosen his mistress over Venetia was an utter mystery. But it was no mystery why she had felt betrayed by both men.
Still nagged by an uncomfortable measure of guilt, Quinn swallowed his instinctive retort. He might be vexed at her charges, but they were justified. And rather than respond defensively to her accusations and rile her further, he would do better to let her have her say, then disarm her with charm and endeavor to change her poor opinion of him.
That would prove a challenge, obviously, when sparks crackled between them. There was fire in her eyes and frustration as well.
Uncrossing his arms, Quinn leaned back against the chaise longue. “You are right, Miss Stratham. My past leaves much to be desired. But I give you my word, I will not seduce your sister.”
Venetia hesitated, examining Traherne with mistrust and puzzlement. The softer, almost tender light in his eyes was wholly inexplicable. “I don’t know if I can believe you. I am no longer the naive, trusting girl I once was.”
“I can understand your caution,” he said gently.
“Then you can also understand why I mean to prevent Ophelia from making the same mistake I made, falling under the spell of a rake. I don’t want her to suffer the way I did.”
“You were wounded in love, so you believe your sister also will be.” It was not a question.
“If I thought you could love her, I would not be so worried.”
Traherne gave a faint grimace, as if loath to discuss the subject of love. “You should return home, Miss Stratham. Where are you staying?”
Realizing he was attempting to dismiss her, Venetia felt her frustration surge. “With Cleo—Mrs. Newcomb. She has a country home on the outskirts of London, in Kensington. But I am not leaving until I secure your promise to abandon your pursuit.”
“I can make no such promise.”
Venetia inhaled sharply. She had planned to persuade Traherne with reason, using honey rather than vinegar, but he was making it very difficult for her to remain sweetly calm and in control.
Perhaps it was time for more forceful arguments.
“I wish Ophelia could see you now, sporting with those women. I can still smell their perfume on you.” She didn’t bother to hide her distaste. “You remind me of Ackland. At least he had only one mistress in keeping at a time, and he never stole another man’s inamorata, to my knowledge.”
“Nor have I.”
“What about Lady X?”