“If we ever meet, you
mean,” Venetia corrected in a tart tone as she picked up her sketch pad and pencil and tried to distract herself by outlining an idea for a new bust. It was best not to dwell on her embarrassingly scandalous encounter with Traherne.
Cleo was her dearest friend in all the world and they had few secrets, but Venetia had flushed hotly when recounting the events of last night. She had also left out the part where Traherne had suckled her breasts, for that detail was just too intimate to share.
But when she complained about his underhanded methods, Cleo had sincerely sympathized.
Understandably, Cleo was even more set against rakes than Venetia, having endured an unfaithful husband for three long years. To aid her spendthrift family, Cleo had made a marriage of convenience and then was widowed at the tender age of twenty-one when Mr. Newcomb was shot in a duel by a jealous husband.
The unhappy experience had left her slightly bitter, and eager for freedom from men. Cleo also longed to see Europe and so offered Venetia a position as her companion, for which Venetia was profoundly grateful.
Two years ago, Cleo had actually been the one to inform Venetia—gently and with much regret—that Ackland had spent the eve of his wedding in his mistress’s bed. Rumors that he was still consorting with—and even openly flaunting—his paramour had been floating all the previous day, but of course the bride was the last to know. Cleo, who was much more savvy about men, with servants who adored her and kept her well informed about the ton’s doings, had taken it upon herself to investigate.
Venetia’s lips tightened at the memory. At first she’d refused to believe Cleo’s reluctantly delivered report, and there was no opportunity to confront Ackland before the ceremony, since her repeated messages to his home went unanswered. When he arrived late at St George’s church in Hanover Square, where the beau monde held most society weddings, he was still partly foxed and his evening clothes stank of exotic perfume. Seeing his disgraceful condition with her own eyes had forced Venetia to accept the painful truth and relinquish her idealistic naïveté.
Recognizing her dismay, Ackland had employed his roguish charm and attempted to talk his way out of his predicament. He’d sworn he loved her and promised to break off with his ladybird for good, but by then Venetia’s trust was irreparably broken. Any man who would betray her so publicly on the steps of a church would never remain faithful to his marriage vows, and she refused to marry an unfaithful libertine.
His deceit had made her sick at heart, Venetia reflected. At the time, she was half in love with Ackland—or at least she’d convinced herself it was love. More likely, she’d been caught up in the excitement of his courtship as well as her parents’ expectations, and flattered by the devoted attention of a handsome nobleman.
The scales had been ripped from her eyes that day. She later learned that Ackland had offered for her in order to please his father and gain his inheritance. He was now wed to a young lady and retired to the country, where reportedly Lady Ackland was with child.
No doubt Lord Traherne similarly intended to take a genteel young wife to sire an heir, just as Ackland had done. What other reason could there be for his attentions to so unsuitable a bride as Ophelia, Venetia wondered.
She feared her sweet, gentle sister was even more susceptible than she herself had been, for now Ophelia was desperate to mitigate the damage the scandal had wrought. As was Venetia. She would have done anything for her sister and regretted profoundly that she couldn’t make up for ruining her marital chances. It was alarming, though, how her warnings and pleas had fallen on deaf ears during the past week of surreptitiously exchanged messages and letters.
You and I have different aspirations, Venetia. I do not hope for love, merely a comfortable situation.
Venetia suspected she was fighting a losing battle. Their parents had persuaded Ophelia to overlook any possibility of love or happiness in marriage. In fact, their mother was doubtless overjoyed and would want nothing to stand in the way of the nuptials. Helen Stratham wouldn’t care that Lord Traherne was a libertine, and not only because of his illustrious title.
Venetia could still hear her mother’s furious admonitions regarding her broken betrothal to Viscount Ackland two years ago. Mama had been appalled that her elder daughter refused to marry a nobleman because of such a minor weakness.
“That is what gentlemen do, Venetia. You must be willing to overlook their peccadillos. I have done so with your father all these years. You should also.”
That somewhat shocking revelation about her father had not changed Venetia’s mind. Most of society thought she ought not to have called off the wedding, certainly not in so public a fashion, and instead endured Ackland’s licentiousness in silence. Her parents had been furious that she had caused them such scandal and mortification.
Cleo was one of the few people who had taken her side. Cleo cherished her independence from men and strongly encouraged Venetia to follow her example.
And truly, Venetia was earnestly attempting to master the art of repressing her deepest feelings, even if her best efforts had failed her miserably with Traherne last evening. For the life of her, she could not explain why she had reacted so strongly to his provocations, why she had allowed him to rouse both her ire and her sensual longings at once—or why, for that matter, his original transgression had affected her so painfully two years ago.
Inexplicably, she had felt betrayed by Traherne for the role he’d played in her betrothed’s duplicity.
The worst, however, was not the personal humiliation and hurt she had suffered at Ackland’s hands. The worst was that her family had washed their hands of her. The pain had cut deeply. She missed them terribly, especially her sister. She missed her home and her friends as well.
It had been her choice to leave England, though, and she would likely make the same decision again, Venetia supposed. Her parents might have allowed her to remain hidden away in the country, but exile in France with Cleo was preferable to remaining at home as an outcast, where she would be reminded daily of her sins in defying her parents’ wishes.
She was immensely grateful to Cleo for coming to her rescue and offering her a home; she could not ask for a more generous or loyal friend. But even with Cleo’s friendship, Venetia was often lonely, painfully so at times.
Of course she endeavored to repress such traitorous feelings. Attempting to emulate Cleo, she had taught herself to be strong and independent.
And there were benefits to her current situation, Venetia reminded herself. She had far more freedom now, and her life was never dull. She especially enjoyed the salons, the intellectual soirees, the conversation and music and art. A major advantage of being considered a fallen woman was the chance to explore her own artistic talent. In British society, a lady did not pursue art other than charcoal drawings and watercolors, certainly not sculpting.
But sometimes she wondered if her shattered dreams of a loving marriage were worth the price she had paid. She still wanted love, a husband, children—unlikely prospects, given her status as a pariah—
Venetia stiffened her spine. It was past time to banish the wretched sense of longing and deep, abiding loneliness she’d felt all these many months. She defied anyone to catch her indulging in misery or self-pity. She had made her bed, so to speak, and was willing to lie in it, Venetia sternly told herself.
However, she would not let her sister suffer in a similar bed.
When another half hour passed with still no sign of Traherne, Venetia announced that she would not wait any longer. She would not give up trying to convince him, and if he would not come to her, she would go to him.