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.”