Untaming Lady Violet by April Moran

 

Chapter 1

Darby Meadows

Kent, England

Life as a wallflowersometimes had its perks.

Wallflowers were forgettable. Unnoticeable. Invisible.

And Lady Violet Everstone had long ago decided that being invisible was a valuable commodity.

Today would be no different than any other, and once again, she was grateful her presence would go unnoticed.

With almost detached curiosity, she watched the man draw closer. His strides consumed the terrain, long legs never slowing as he marched with a single-minded purpose. Advancing across a hillside stained deep, emerald green, he glanced neither left nor right on his unwavering path.

Violet’s heart gave a flutter of apprehension.

Was her imagination playing tricks or was he stalking straight toward her? Or more precisely, the tree she’d just recently climbed?

Violet almost lost her balance, trepidation morphing into awkward clumsiness. With her free arm, she gripped the tree tighter, a dismayed cry escaping tightly pressed lips when one low-heeled shoe slipped free of her foot. Crafted of golden damask, it landed like a colorful leaf amongst the oak’s exposed grayish-brown roots. She stared at the ground, horrified there was now tangible evidence of her presence.

Another quick check of the man’s location dragged a groan of disbelief from deep in her chest.

Of all the meadows in England…

And of all the trees, his focus seemed narrowed on the one where she sat perched like a plump little partridge.

Blasted bad luck.

I’m safe up here. There is no reason to believe he will see me or my stupid slipper. And, I can do this before he comes any closer.

Violet’s fingers scrambled over rough bark before finding purchase in the oak’s grooves. With stocking-clad toes curling into the wood, and one hand clutching a branch above her head, she kept her precious bundle safe while moving away from the main trunk.

She stretched out the hand holding the crumpled bit of handkerchief, then stretched some more, and even more, until her arm ached and her toes cramped from digging into the tree’s rough surface.

Just a… bit… further…

There!

Finally nestled within a cocoon fashioned of twigs, leaves, and bits of morning glory vine, the wee bird flopped disjointedly. Mouth yawning wide, it desperately chirped for food alongside two equally hungry siblings.

Violet tucked the bit of silk back into her bodice as the mama robin landed on the nest.

The bird’s inquisitive eyes darted several times between Violet and the fledglings before deciding she could resume feeding her flock.

Violet watched, transfixed to see something so natural and primitive up close.

The chattering of a nearby squirrel jerked her back to awareness, a reminder that the discovery of her location was still possible. A course of action should be decided quickly.

Earlier, she’d scaled the enormous oak with stubborn determination, ignoring the possibility of a nasty tumble. Now, clutching the thinner overhead branch with both hands, Violet did not feel so brave. With her weight centered upon a limb, she froze in position like a circus performer toeing a tightwire.

Well, I would be very foolish to climb down now. And as long as I don’t make the mistake of looking directly at the ground, I’ll be fine.

Violet glanced down.

Her stomach flip-flopped as oxygen was suddenly in short supply. Deep, desperate gulps of air became essential to maintain her balance.

The ground could not possibly be so far away.

Or was it?

Oh, goodness. It truly was.

Her insides tumbled as if caught up in a maelstrom.

Violet carefully inched her feet sideways. When the thick trunk loomed before her, she embraced its solidness but found her arms would not wrap completely around its ancient girth.

That wasn’t surprising as this particular oak was likely one of the largest at Darby Meadows. A perfect specimen of a climbing tree, it possessed numerous crooks and forks for one’s feet and hands. Gnarled arms jutted in every direction, twisting upon themselves where they swept low along the ground. Bright with spring greenery, the thick foliage provided excellent concealment for curious squirrels and frantic mother robins.

And foolish girls such as herself.

It was from this vantage point that Violet accidentally discovered the ideal perspective for a commissioned painting of the Earl of Darby’s sprawling manor house. Off in the distance, framed by forests and open green fields, it was a pastoral scene worthy of display in the Royal Gallery.

If only the earl’s son would join her. He would certainly appreciate the stunning view and commit it to canvas.

But she wouldn’t dare do something so imprudent as drawing his attention. He must never know she hovered in the branches high above him. If fortune were in her favor, that blasted errant slipper would remain undiscovered. The same went for the books stacked rather messily near the oak’s base. And the woven basket containing grapes and cheese the cook so thoughtfully packed in case she grew hungry.

Watching the man emerge from the grove, Violet fervently swore she would never, ever climb anything higher than the steps to her own bed.

He halted where the widespread branches of the surrounding trees cast an edge of shadows on the ground. Violet wondered what he might do next. There was no reason for stopping here while tramping through the forest.

Why did he not continue on his way?

Thwap. Thwap. Thwap.

What a strangenoise. Intermittent. Muffled. Out of place amongst the singing birds and the leaves which rustled every time the breeze picked up. Seconds ticked by until inquisitiveness got the better of Violet.

Her neck stretched as she tried for a better view through the canopy of leaves.

Is that a riding crop?

Crudely fashioned and thick as his wrist, it certainly resembled a crop. Violet frowned, having just watched him stalk across the meadows with no horse in tow and nothing in his hands.

In obvious agitation, the man slapped the object harder against his thigh. The noise rang even sharper. Violet winced.

Thwap!

Why, it wasn’t a crop at all, but a stick. Something he must have picked up upon entering the strand of trees.

“Hell and damnation… If he thinks I’ll be guilted or bullied into marriage, he’ll find it a wasted effort.”

The words were not muttered. They were forceful and clearly stated.

For eight long years, Violet had hung on this man’s every utterance, lived for every careless smile, and the roughness of his tone was unfamiliar. It was a bit frightening if she were being honest, and Violet believed very much in honesty.

Shrinking back against the tree trunk, she frowned again while his words sunk in.

Marriage.

Concern chilled Violet’s bones.

Had his father summoned him to Darby Meadows to issue that abhorrent ultimatum?

The earl must realize marriage was impossible for his only son, at least in the near future. After all, it was common knowledge the viscount currently suffered from a melancholy of rejection. An unfortunate by-blow of Grace Willsdown’s marriage to Nicholas March, the Duke of Richeforte.

How could anyone believe the handsome viscount pacing so restlessly below might forget his broken heart so quickly?

Or so easily?

When he leveled a baleful glare back in the direction of the manor house, Violet sucked in a low breath. Tearing her gaze away from the hardened planes of the viscount’s face was too difficult, so she settled herself against the trunk of the tree, content with observing him from this safe distance.

Her fingers twitched as they dug into the oak’s bark.

Even angry, the man was incredibly handsome. Perhaps more so because of it. Violet could imagine the rich, chocolate-colored waves of his hair spilling over her palms, like reams of rough silk if she were to tug his head close to hers for a kiss.

It was one of her favorite fantasies.

“I can’t believe Mother is pushing this issue. And Celia, the meddling traitor...”

The viscount again swatted the branch against his thigh.

Violet’s gaze drifted helplessly over his impressive form as he turned the stick over and over in his palms. The viscount was an amazingly gifted artist, and his hands fascinated her. She couldn’t stop looking at them. They were large and strong and so incredibly talented.

That gift was rarely shared with those outside his family. Violet counted herself lucky to be among the few to see his canvases.

The pieces he created were breathtaking slices of his inner thoughts. Violet felt voyeuristic gazing at them, wondering if it was a violation of his privacy the first time Celia showed her his studio.

Now, she dreamily wondered how it might feel to have the viscount’s touch brush her skin. Would his fingers be warm and calloused from holding paintbrushes and bridle reins? Or cool and unblemished like Lord Gadley’s?

Lord Gadley.

A fine tremor of distaste shimmied down Violet’s spine. The man her parents would have her wed shared little in common with the viscount. Other than being of the male species and born of nobility, the two men were as different as night and day. Unfortunately, her parents had decided all solutions to their financial woes rested at Lord Gadley’s feet.

Violet recalled her father’s admonishment the morning she headed for Darby Meadows without them.

“Violet, it will be a stroke of luck on your part should you land Gadley. And a stroke of genius on mine. Remember our situation, young lady.”

“Oh, do try harder, won’t you, Violet? Won’t you try to be charming and less like an overstuffed ottoman waiting for someone’s propped feet when next he sees you?” Her mother’s tone echoed her father’s long-suffering exasperation. “It’s said he prefers a girl with a bit of spirit, but your father has extolled the virtues of a quiet, dutiful wife. One must hope the lure of our family name overcomes the reality of gaining a pretty, but dull, wife in the bargain.

Violet could only nod, eyes prickling with tears. She was always obedient when following her parents’ wishes, although secretly she hoped Lord Gadley never offered for her hand. Her unsuitability on the Marriage Mart was a failing Violet faced daily. Landing a wealthy spouse was her responsibility. One her father reminded her of with increasing frequency over the last six months.

Only once did Violet dare question the need to marry at all.

Her mother’s lips thinned while waving herself in an agitated manner using a red Chinese silk fan. The earl’s face turned a shade identical to the fan. The awful color did not stop spreading until it reached the tips of his ears.

“It is what dutiful daughters do for their families.”Father’s manner was blustery and indignant. “To further social standings. To repair old feuds. To gain financial freedom and repay debts.”

Repay debts. That part worried Violet the most. Those two words caused a lack of sleep over too many nights and left her acutely aware of her worth as a daughter.

Whether love was part and parcel or not, Violet must marry. Whether she wished it or not, she was a sacrifice.

The fact she did not want the man her parents selected was inconsequential.

Questioning their choice required courage she did not possess. Their motives remained a murky unknown and Violet felt queasy gaining further insight into her parents’ actions. Perhaps her ignorance was for the better.

She’d not thought of Lord Gadley at all during this brief respite from London, at least until this very moment. Instead of worrying over unwanted engagements, she spent the past few days immersed in books, enjoying the springtime of the Kent countryside, and rising as early as she pleased for breakfast chocolate and crumpets.

How easy it was pretending her life was not on a collision course with fate. Until the viscount below her began cursing the institution of marriage, she had ignored it. His one-sided argument was a rude reminder that Violet’s idyllic escape would soon be over.

Yes. Over. Along with any illusions of freedom. Lord Gadley would arrive at Darby Meadows. Father and Mother would follow. And an engagement would likely be announced shortly thereafter, provided she charmed the man into offering for her.

“Damn it all!”

The viscount’s curse drew Violet’s attention away from her depressing thoughts. When he raked a hand through the thick strands of his hair, she nearly sighed aloud at the romantically tragic figure he cast.

But then his pacing moved him out of eyesight.

Heart thumping fast, Violet leaned away from the tree so she could keep him in view.

Dark of countenance, with lightly bronzed skin and richly colored hair, the viscount was devilishly attractive. Women, young and old, swooned over the fact his eyes gleamed like aged mahogany. Famously witty and possessing an affable nature, his firm mouth curved often in a smile.

Many inside their social circle, and even those outside it, considered him an important friend. An influential lord. Although Violet had never attended one, it was said he hosted fabulous parties, unrivaled in generosity and rumored to be quite scandalous.

The viscount was also very… fit. Broad shoulders strained the seams of his afternoon coat, while muscular legs and thighs spoke of a fondness for the outdoors and physical activity. He was an excellent rider, enjoying a hands-on approach with his horses. Such athleticism contradicted the artistic side of his nature.

Heavens, his chest is wider than the burlwood desk in Father’s study. And, oh yes, his hands…

Violet smiled dreamily at the wanton path her thoughts took. Should the viscount ever touch her, she imagined it would feel like raw silk brushing over her skin. Fine, but rough. Gentle, but sturdy. Those large hands of his would hold her firmly, and the viscount would…

“I’ll not marry simply because it fits Father’s vision for the future.”

The stick cracking in half punctuated the viscount’s fierce declaration. The pieces of wood were cast aside with a snarl of disgust and an oath so foul Violet let out a startled gasp.

She couldn’t help it, for it was a very wicked word, although she had no idea of its true meaning.

And because he’d not suffered a loss of hearing since she’d seen him last, the involuntary sound did not go unnoticed.

Violet’s heart pounded until she grew lightheaded.

Concealed by foliage, she pressed herself against the oak’s thick but her lone slipper suddenly snagged on the rough bark.

A bit desperate, she gave her foot a little shake, then watched the shoe fly off her foot. It tumbled through the canopy of leaves and bounced harmlessly off the top of the viscount’s head.

“Oh, no!”

Oh, no indeed.

Dark brown eyes, so dark with frustration and surprise they were nearly ebony in color, unerringly searched for the owner of that feminine voice. As if it might aid in concealment, Violet squeezed her own eyes shut, praying he could not see through the leaves where she cowered.

Another snarled oath slashed the air, and Violet’s pulse sprinted, slowed, then raced again.

“You, there. You! What is your business? State it quickly!” His command barked out in militant fashion.

Violet’s eyes flew open, clashing with the viscount’s as he bent and retrieved her shoe, his gaze never wavering.

A crisp breeze rustled the leaves but had little to do with the shiver rushing down her spine.

Lord Tristan Buchanan, Viscount Longleigh, had found her.