The Art of Taming a Rake (Legendary Lovers 4)

“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.