Untaming Lady Violet by April Moran
Chapter 13
Tristan rested his shoulders against the wall and rubbed his eyes.
What madness possessed him to go to her room? Worse, what insanity made him enter?
“You’re a fool. That’s what you are. A fool,” he mumbled angrily.
“Agreed, dear brother.”
Tristan’s head came up with a snap.
Celia stood outside her own doorway just down the hall, dressed for an early morning ride. Her maroon riding habit with gold trim was flattering, but the frown directed toward him was disapproving.
“Nothing untoward happened,” Tristan said flatly.
“How can one be sure?”
“Because I said so.”
Celia waved a hand. “Not good enough. Tristan, you simply cannot trifle with Violet in the manner you do other women. Don’t you understand?” Fierce protectiveness loomed in her tone. “You may be experiencing a temporary fascination, but she will soon be engaged to another and your actions are bound to be considered scandalous. If Father knew what I just witnessed, he would—”
“Don’t remind me. I know how eager he is to see me wed. He’d welcome any chance to tie me to a suitable bride.” Tristan almost snarled the words then was immediately sorry when Celia bit her lip.
“He really has been ill, Tristan. And he has decided marriage is what you need to find contentment. After the situation with Grace, can’t you see why he hopes you will find love?”
Tristan sighed. With an arm around his sister’s shoulder, he gave a little squeeze and smiled apologetically. “I do understand. And I’m sorry for my tone, Celia. Only, I’ve no wish to be forced into marriage any more than you do. Father is concerned for his legacy, but my life should not be sacrificed for that.” He kissed her temple. “I’ll marry when I please. Whom I please. At this moment, that does not include anyone on the list you and Mother have concocted. And it does not involve Violet Everstone. Oddly enough, I hope I may help her avoid the state of matrimony as well. I cannot think of a more unsuitable husband than Lord Gadley. Other than myself, of course.”
“Lord Ghastly,” Celia corrected automatically.
“What’s that?”
“Oh.” Celia shook her head. “Just something of a joke between myself and Violet. Forget I said that.”
Tristan’s head tilted, but he allowed her comment to pass. “I’d appreciate if you kept this incident to yourself, but if you must know, I was merely apologizing for something I said last night. While renewing my offer of painting her cat, the beast tried escaping her room.”
“I believe you, Tristan.” Celia glanced toward Violet’s door, a sad smile curving her lips. “Just remember, brother. Violet’s heart is a tender one. If you have no intention of offering for her, then you must keep your distance. She wouldn’t survive you, and you know that.”
* * *
Later that morning,Tristan pondered Celia’s words upon returning to the third-floor salon. It was the space used for his artwork when he was in residence at Darby Meadows, and his parents agreeably kept it looked after.
With a corner location, it nearly always had perfect lighting; the soft magic of early morning, the sunshine-bright clarity of mid-afternoon, and the dreamy glow of dusk. It was such a special space he always had some project in progress whenever he visited. True, there was a large, well-appointed studio in his own home at Longleigh Woods, but for some reason, it could never match the magic of his childhood one.
He studied the canvas he’d started two days before. It was a rough outline of a massive oak with a stack of books and a picnic basket at its base. A horizon of rolling fields and fences was already sketched in; those details he would concentrate on at a later date. Right now, he wanted to put to canvas the figure of the woman who disrupted his sleep and possessed eyes the color of violets.
Celia’s admonishment that he should keep his distance stung him more than he expected. Did she honestly think he would intentionally hurt Violet? He would never do such a thing. Cruelty was not one of his pleasures, after all. It was easier avoiding entanglement in the first place, his droll humor easing the pains a lady might experience from rejection.
Picking up a bit of charcoal, Tristan thoughtfully brushed lines onto the taut canvas. A lush, womanly form quickly emerged, and from there, he drew the pert upturn of his muse’s nose in profile. He imagined her locks unbound, flowing over her shoulder as she slumped against the oak, a kitten in her lap and her attention fixed on the horizon. The scene flowed from the window inside his mind to the medium’s surface.
And while he sketched, Tristan considered if he should try harder to stay away from Violet or continue the unorthodox plan of gently pushing her to discover her own strength. It was encouraging she’d bantered with him that very morning, her initial apprehension melting away as he carefully teased her. She forgot her shyness when he pushed and prodded her, and Tristan liked the bit of fire sparking her amethyst-colored eyes to life.
The morning slid into afternoon, but instead of joining the other guests, Tristan enjoyed a glass of brandy and continued working. The piece was coming together rather quickly, which he attributed to sheer inspiration.
When a knock sounded on the salon door, Tristan threw an oilcloth over the canvas. He wasn’t ready for anyone to see his work, at least not yet. And besides, he wasn’t really sure what he would do with it once it was finished. It might find a home in his private collection, or he could gift it to Violet as a gesture of goodwill. He just wasn’t sure at the moment.
He expected that a servant would be standing in the hall, perhaps sent by his mother as a reminder he was missing afternoon tea, but Violet stood there instead.
Carrot was cuddled in her arms, and around his neck was the collar Tristan had given her that morning. The kitten’s demeanor was one of complacency; a long, braided strip of green velvet tethered him to Violet.
“I’ve come to apologize for my less than gracious acceptance of your gift this morning, and to show how well Carrot has taken to wearing his collar.” Violet’s smile was shy, her gaze darting past him as she looked around the salon.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” Tristan rumbled, then found himself wishing he could bite his own tongue off when her features registered disappointment.
“Of course, I shouldn’t have. You-you are right, Longleigh. I just wanted to properly thank you,” Violet turned to leave. “My pardons. I hope I haven’t disturbed you overmuch.”
Tristan touched her arm. “I did not mean you should go.” She tensed beneath his fingertips, but he knew it wasn’t from fear. “And I’m glad the collar fits so well.”
Violet’s grip tightened on Carrot’s makeshift leash. “He was not easily convinced he should wear it. An offering of smoked salmon was all that could sway him.” Again, she tried looking past him, her curiosity apparent.
“Would you like to look around?” Stepping back, Tristan swung the door wide. “I don’t mind.”
Violet’s eyes glowed in pleased surprise. “I’ve bothered you enough…”
“It is no bother at all, I assure you.”
She glided past, and Tristan’s heart clenched. Violet would never have exhibited such boldness in the past. Were his efforts already taking root? After all, she warned him about keeping his distance only now to seek him out. That surely accounted for something.
Keeping the kitten in her arms, she stopped in the center of the room by a large round table holding extra brushes, pigment powders in glass tubes, a decanter of brandy, and fruit. When she slowly rotated, it appeared all the light in the room gravitated to her instantly; the sunlight, the glow from a small lamp on the corner desk, the light coming from the sconces by the door. All of it seeking Violet.
“It is as I remember.”
Tristan’s eyebrow lifted. “You’ve been in here before?”
She set the kitten down. “Celia brought me. She said you’ve never minded family seeing your work. I suppose she thought I was included in that category.” Her cheeks flushed pink. “It was an invasion of your privacy, I know, but I could not resist even back then. Your paintings are so beautiful.”
Deliberately leaving the door open, Tristan came closer. Picking up a new palette knife, he ran a thumb over its flat surface. “When were you last in this salon? Was I here at Darby Meadows?”
It was difficult concealing his overwhelming interest in the answer. All he’d dreamed of the past few nights was Violet in this exact space. Posing for him. Her body ready for direction and placement. The rose-colored day gown sliding off bare, ivory-hued shoulders and pooling at her feet. Her hair spilling free of the simple braid she wore now to tumble in a heavy mass of auburn red he could wrap around his fist.
The blood in his veins churned like the sea in a storm, stirred by the mental images his brain conjured up.
Violet leaned over, examining the detail on a nearly finished painting of a group of last year’s foals. “It was just before Celia and I began our first season. Nearly three years ago.” She glanced in his direction, her expression indecipherable. “I believe at the time you were in London with the Duke of Richeforte. He was only an earl back then.”
That would have been around the time Grace’s mother passed away and she’d come to stay with them. Tristan had made a point of being at Darby Meadows quite frequently as a result, persistent in the foolish chase of his father’s new ward. He wished now he’d heeded Celia’s advice, listened when she warned that Grace’s fondness for him would never be more than sisterly.
Pursuing Grace meant Violet’s intentional absence from Darby Meadows, and that made Tristan irrationally sad.
“Did you have a favorite painting?” His voice was scratchy. A quick gulp of brandy remedied the condition, however.
Violet laughed softly as Carrot batted at dust motes floating in the sunshine. “You’ll find no critic in me, Longleigh. I’m woefully unsophisticated in such matters. Every painting of yours is my favorite.”
“You are to call me Tristan, remember?”
“I remember very well. It’s just things have… changed.”
“Have they?” Tristan countered, still holding the palette knife.
She moved on to peruse a different painting leaning against the wall but glancing at the one hidden under the oilcloth. “Do you have a favorite?”
Tristan shrugged, refusing to answer at the moment. It wouldn’t be wise to reveal that his current project, one he’d been working on since the day she’d fallen from the tree and into his lap, was his favorite. “Come closer, kitten.”
Violet regarded him as though debating the wisdom of obeying his directive, but in the end, she did as he asked.
Taking her by the hand, Tristan untangled the leash from her fingers so Carrot could roam free through the studio. The kitten gave an obligatory hiss before jumping onto one of the wide window sills. After a few moments of exploration, he stretched out in the streaming sunlight and dozed off.
“I haven’t painted my favorite yet,” Tristan finally answered. “The subject refused to sit for me.”
Violet’s head tilted. “How disappointing for you.”
“Very,” Tristan agreed, pulling her lush body to him with a crooked smile. “Perhaps I could change her mind with the right persuasion. Shall I show you?”