Untaming Lady Violet by April Moran

Chapter 11

Violet did not care it was rude. She strode ahead of the viscount as fast as her skirts allowed.

Oh! If this insufferable man does not cease referring to me as a… as a kitten…I may slap any sense he possesses clean out of his egotistical head!

She did not stop until she reached the furthest end of the terrace where wide stone steps led down to the crisply manicured hedge garden. Gravel paths spread like tentacles through the boxwood evergreens, punctuated by iron lampposts flickering with oil-fueled flames and carved marble benches. The Chinese lanterns were unlit tonight, leaving the garden in a mysterious blend of dark shadows and pools of light.

The angles of the house concealed this portion of the terrace from view should anyone venture outside, and there were no windows here. It was an unexpected spot of privacy, and Violet gratefully took advantage of it.

Setting her ruined fan and shawl down on the terrace wall’s broad, waist-high surface, she leaned over the edge and sucked in a deep breath. But it did not help calm her volatile emotions.

Different noises permeated the evening. Crickets chirping merrily under the cover of darkness. The cry of a bird in a nearby tree, confused by the inky black sky, and the breeze ruffling the leaves of nearby trees. The faint sounds of music and guests enjoying themselves in the Earl of Darby’s elegant parlor.

But the one sound assailing her ears, the one sending shivers of apprehension up her spine and turning her mouth dry, was that of Tristan’s measured footsteps as he unhurriedly stalked her.

And, dear God, was the man actually whistling?

Whirling, she faced him, hands clenched tight at her sides.

Tristan stood within arm’s length of her, hands tucked in his coat pockets. He let out a low, admiring whistle before those full, pillowy-soft and somehow hard at the same time lips—damn her own memory of their exact, confusing texture—curved upward in a wicked grin.

“Go away,” Violet demanded. An irrational order, considering this was his family’s home.

“Sorry. Can’t do that.”

She nearly stomped a foot at his softly drawled refusal, then blurted, “Why are you following me?”

“Why are you so angry? Is it because you want me to paint you instead of that damned cat?”

“You are insufferable,” Violet shot back. “Egotistical. Unmannerly. And obtuse.”

“Don’t forget talented.”

She stared at him in stunned disbelief. “What?”

Tristan moved closer, trailing a forefinger along her arm until it reached the upper edge of her glove. A galaxy of stars swirled in the depths of his glittering eyes. His teeth flashed white again. “You said I possessed talents as an artist, so obviously, you have some admiration for my skill.” His dark gaze captured hers. “Now, tell me why you are truly angry.”

“You—you cannot continue referring to me as a kitten. It’s scandalous,” she finally managed. “You must stop.”

Tristan appeared vastly entertained by her demand. “You are a kitten. Scratching, hissing, and clawing. I mean it as a compliment.”

“Do. Not. Call me that again. I’m warning you.”

“Warning me?” Genuinely amused, Tristan chuckled. “Eventually, you will learn to get what you want in a more subtle manner, but right now, you are nothing more than a feisty, snarling kitten.”

Violet’s hand flew before she could stop it. The loud crack of her palm connecting with his cheek joined the other nighttime noises. She gasped in shock at the boldness of her own actions, then cried out in alarm when Tristan’s arm snaked about her waist and hauled her up against him.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Didn’t that feel good?” His breath landed hot on her face, laced with mint and the sweet sharpness of the whiskey he sipped while playing whist. He smelled like a man. Like arousal, traces of leather and bergamot and spicy things shy, inexperienced wallflowers like herself could not possibly understand.

“Slap me again,” he urged in a husky murmur, watching her closely. “Put me in my place because I’ve dared touch you. My arm shouldn’t be around you like this. I shouldn’t have you molded to my body. You’re so sweet and warm. Goddamn, Violet… I feel you in ways you can’t begin to fathom. Your breasts rising and falling against my chest as you struggle to catch your breath. The heat of you scorching me through our clothes.”

He brushed his nose alongside hers and breathed deep. “Your pulse thumping against my fingertips wherever I touch you. The silky smoothness of your skin. I smell your perfume, and I know what florals created it. I see your mouth trembling in terror because you want my kiss but think it’s wrong that you do. I see and feel everything about you, Violet Everstone. Everything. And I’m telling you to slap me again because I do not possess the right to know these things.”

“I don’t understand!” Violet shuddered within the circle of his arms. “Why do you antagonize me so cruelly, then demand such things? I’m sorry I struck you. I’m sorry— “

“Christ above,” Tristan swore under his breath. His expression turned so fierce he looked like a marauding pirate intent on ravishing her. “I’ll untame you if it’s the last thing I do. If it ruins me or both of us, I don’t care. For your own good, I’m giving you a reason to do as I say.”

“Untame me?” she whispered in confusion. “What are you talking about? “

Tristan’s mouth swooped down, covering hers. Cutting off words and breath and rational thinking. This kiss wasn’t gentle, or hesitant, or patient. It was soul-stealing. Hard. Demanding. Consuming.

Glorious.

Violet moaned into his mouth as the pressure increased. His tongue delved past the barrier of her teeth. Like a flame, it whipped the inside of her mouth, tangling with her own tongue, branding and igniting every bit of her until Violet felt like a flame, too. Tristan did not just kiss her. He devoured her. And she let him feast because she was starving for him as well.

No longer content with being stationary, his hands roamed her restrained curves as if on a treasure hunt. From the indentation of her waist, up her sides to the ticklish hollow under her arms, then around to her shoulder blades and the curve of her spine. He explored every fabric-covered inch with greedy fingers before moving back to the delicate framework of her exposed collarbone.

With the precision of a scalpel, Tristan’s fingers traced the line of bone from one side to the other. They dipped into the well of her throat and brushed over her rapid pulse, stroking softly as if painting her. Then those artist fingers drifted down. Down to the undercurve of her breasts where the flesh caught within the cage of the corset molded to the palm of his hand.

The manmade contraption yielded to force as Violet arched her back, desperately offering more if he would only take it.

So, he did. His fingers boldly dipped inside her bodice, breaching lace and silk and whalebone until they gained the prize. Bare skin. The upper swell of creamy flesh. Then… an aching, pebbled nipple squeezed between thumb and forefinger with such exquisite purpose that Violet’s entire being melted in astonished surrender.

Had he not braced her against the terrace wall, leaning her backward so her body was offered like a feast for the gods, she might have slipped to the floor. But Tristan had her skillfully trapped, one knee pressed between her legs, the other bracing her from the side. With a hand down the front of her dress, his other curved into a grip on her shoulder blade, providing support even as he made her tumble to pieces.

“Will you strike me now?” he breathed, tearing his mouth from hers finally, staring down at her as though she were the only creature worth seeing in the entire universe. His fingers pinched her again, twisting the hardened nub of her nipple until fireworks exploded somewhere inside her. “Will you make me stop?”

“I-I cannot.” Violet’s hands buried in the thick velvet of his hair. It was soft and luxurious, sliding through her fingers like sheaths of expensive fabric.

Tristan groaned in defeat. His head fell forward, his mouth latching onto her neck, kissing and biting the slender column until a blissful euphoria overtook Violet.

She couldn’t stop him. Didn’t want to stop him. Why would she when he was doing such marvelous things with his mouth and teeth? Why wouldn’t she want those lips of his exploring where he pleased? Nibbling and claiming the pieces already conquered with his fingers?

“You are a goddamn witch, Violet. And I’ll burn in hell because I can’t stop thinking about the things I’ll do to you,” Tristan murmured, blazing a trail of fiery kisses across the exposed expanse of her décolletage. “Even when you become another man’s wife, I’ll still remember how sweet you tasted on my lips.”

The words sliced through the hazy, dreamy web of desire drowning Violet.

Another man’s wife.

She shuddered. Bile rose and ebbed in her throat, evidence of her own disgust for her weakness.

Yes, one day she would belong to someone else. Not Tristan Buchanan, Viscount Longleigh. No, she would never be his. He didn’t care enough about any woman to attach himself for a lifetime of matrimony. The only exception being that of Grace Willsdown before Nicholas March snatched her away and claimed her as his.

Tristan certainly did not care about her. Violet served as a distraction. An amusement keeping his boredom at bay while he was trapped at his parents’ estate.

A chill washed over Violet, scattering goosebumps across her skin. Tristan kissed her neck, her chest, her shoulders, unaware she’d sobered with his muttered statement. He still believed she lay cradled within the palm of his hand, ready to grant him all he desired for the price of a kiss.

“Stop,” she said in a low voice.

She was nearly betrothed to another man, and yet, she kissed Tristan with fully engaged passion. What manner of woman was she? How could he make her abandon her own morals so easily? So quickly? This careless, heartless, cavalier man possessed a dangerous power.

He could make her forget who she was.

And who was she?

Quiet, sensible, rational Violet.

At least, that’s who she used to be… and it was who she could pretend to be if Viscount Longleigh would keep his distance.

“Convince me that I must,” he returned, biting her shoulder with sharp teeth before lavishing the spot with a hot, open-mouthed kiss.

Violet pushed his chest with balled fists, eyes swimming in tears. A desperate sob of humiliation escaped her throat when Tristan leaned back, sweeping her body head to toe with a scalding look. Then his face softened with something suspiciously tender, and his mouth lowered toward hers again.

This time, Violet delivered a slap so vicious her palm stung as if a bee had settled its stinger in its center. “Damn you, stop!”

His dark brown eyes widened. “You really mean that.” Immediately, he stepped back. Sliding his hand out from the bodice of her dress, he repaired her clothing with careful attention until she was decent once again.

Did he even notice how she trembled with his touch?

Perhaps her fury amused him.

The imprint of her hand on his cheek glowed in the moonlit darkness. Tristan rubbed it with a rueful grin. “My little wild Violet finally made an appearance. Thank God.”

Without his leg pressing intimately between her thighs, his hands no longer exploring her curves, and his mouth not ravishing hers, Violet could think clearly. Rationally. And what she realized was beyond disturbing.

“You play games, Longleigh. You toy with me because it amuses you, and this is how you keep women at a distance.” Her voice caught before she steeled herself. “I’ve allowed it because of my affection for you, but as you point out, I shall be someone’s wife one day. Not yours, but someone’s. For that fact alone, you will stay away from me.”

Pushing past him, Violet gathered her shawl and fan off the terrace wall. She was several paces away when a mocking whistle swung her around in disbelief.

Tristan whistled a second time. The low, incinerating sound made Violet’s blood heat slowly like a teapot set to boil. Her eyes narrowed.

Hands casually tucked into his coat pockets, grinning as if her fierce declaration merely served as the evening’s entertainment, Tristan rocked on his heels. “What of the wager? It was a game fairly played, and you were the victor, after all. I won’t be swayed from paying my debt.”

Violet’s teeth clenched, anger biting away the edges of her despair. “Don’t you realize I counted cards to win those games? Your portraiture be damned. I’d rather fingerpaint Carrot myself than subject him to your presence.”

Whirling on her heel, Violet left Tristan staring after her in astonishment at the admission of subterfuge. She half expected to feel his hard grip on her elbow before she escaped, but he allowed her to flee.

The pang of disappointment stabbing her heart when he let her go infuriated her more than it should have.