“I have no desire whatsoever to curtail your freedom.”
“Even so, I’m certain you don’t want a wife underfoot, hindering your licentious lifestyle. And for me, one rake in a lifetime is more than enough.”
Only by the slightest tightening of his jaw could she see that she had struck a nerve, probably the same one as before. He did not like her criticism of his wicked exploits.
But then he seemed to shrug off her disapproval and poured himself another glass of port before lounging in his chair and changing the subject to more pleasant matters.
The next morning brought another fishing excursion. When they settled on the grassy bank beside the stream—Traherne with his rod and line, Venetia with her sketch paper and pencil—she began to draw a collection of wildflowers. After an hour, her concentration waned and her gaze gravitated to the aristocratic lines of his profile.
Her fingers itched to capture his handsome features in clay—the high cheekbones, the sensual mouth, the intelligent eyes….Before she knew it, she found herself sketching Traherne’s likeness. In this light, his sunstreaked hair was the color of winter wheat, and she struggled to capture the right shading with mere charcoal.
Frowning at her rendering, she bit her lower lip and glanced back at him, only to discover he was watching her.
“What are you drawing?”
The instant flush on her cheeks at being caught out annoyed her. She ought not feel embarrassed about sketching Traherne when he was the only human subject available. Her interest had nothing to do with her captivation with him—
Knowing she was lying to herself, Venetia hedged her reply. “Nothing of importance.”
She abandoned her present sketch in favor of the wildflowers, while Traherne returned to his fishing, and eventually a companionable silence resumed. The sun rose high in the sky till the warmth of the day felt more like summer than spring.
Traherne shed his waistcoat and coat, and Venetia removed her pelisse. A short while later she realized she was perspiring under her bonnet and so removed that article also, along with her shoes and stockings, then moved to sit beneath the shade of a nearby willow tree in order to protect her fair skin.
r />
But she continued to watch his sporting success. By the time another hour had passed, he had an impressive catch collected in a pail of water.
“I plan to hand these fine fellows over to Mrs. Horton to vary our menu,” he remarked as he gathered his gear, “even though I would rather build a fire and grill them.”
Venetia raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Do you know how to clean and cook a fish?”
“I learned as a boy.” He flashed a grin at her skeptical expression. “Why do you look so shocked?”
“I find it hard to believe that a pampered, wealthy nobleman has common talents such as cleaning fish.”
Traherne winced. “You do have a habit of cutting me down to size with that uncomplimentary tongue of yours.”
His aggrieved tone made Venetia want to apologize for the undeserved criticism. “Forgive me—my remark was uncalled for. I meant merely to say that your aptitude is unusual when you have a large kitchen staff at your mansion in London and countless other servants at your beck and call.”
“For your information, I grew up mainly in the country. I spent many a pleasant hour of my childhood having adventures in the woods with my cousins on the Beaufort and Traherne estates. I could live off the land now, if I were forced to. I could even endure privation if need be. I just don’t see the need. Have you ever tasted fire-grilled trout?”
The thought made Venetia’s mouth water. “No.”
“It is one of life’s small pleasures. But we will have to make do with the picnic basket Mrs. Horton packed for us.”
His comment made her realize she had grown hungry. While he washed his hands in the stream, she laid out the alfresco luncheon of mutton pie and apple tarts under the willow.
When they had finished eating, he lay back on the grass, his hands folded behind his head, and closed his eyes, apparently sated and content.
Venetia felt replete and drowsy as well. She wanted to lie down beside him and nap, yet the last time she had slept beside him, she had woken to his marvelous lovemaking—
“Do you mean to go to sleep?” she asked to distract her wayward thoughts.
“No. I am devoutly attempting to keep my hands to myself.” At her puzzled silence, he pried one eye open to regard her. “You have no idea how incredibly appealing you are, do you?”
The rhythm of her heart changed perceptibly. The sexual awareness between them had returned with a vengeance. That same tingling, nervous, exhilarating sensation she had fought for days.
In self-defense, Venetia wrapped her arms around her upraised knees and averted her gaze to look out over the far meadow. “Did you have to go and spoil a peaceful afternoon?”