Untaming Lady Violet by April Moran

Chapter 14

Coming to Tristan’s salon was a mistake, but Violet could not keep away. Something about this man extinguished all the common sense she supposedly possessed.

And the punishment for that lack of self-control required she must listen while Tristan described painting his muse if given the chance. Of course, only a formal portraiture of the new duchess was possible now, and only with her husband’s permission.

No doubt Tristan was very disappointed by this.

Caught in the viscount’s grip, Violet’s fingers trembled. When he turned her so she faced the western bank of windows, her body trembled as well.

“First, I would position my subject so the softest light illuminated her. I’ve found dawn’s light and the hour before dusk to be the most flattering. It imparts a glow to the skin. Wait here, my dear.”

Tristan left for a moment, clearing the table behind her of objects until all that remained was the decanter of brandy, his glass, and a crystal bowl containing peaches, apples, and dark purple grapes. He then dragged the table into a pool of the late afternoon light.

Tugging Violet by the arm, he led her to the piece of furniture. His chocolate brown eyes were serious now, intense and dark and oddly mesmerizing as his palm smoothed its way down her shoulder to her elbow.

“I would arrange her hair. Her arms. Her legs. All so the beauty I see comes through in the brushstrokes on the canvas.” Tristan’s voice dropped low, his fingers closing around her wrist and lifting so her arm raised above her head. His other hand drifted up, a forefinger landing on the underside of her chin, tilting it until Violet had no choice but to meet his gaze. “I would uncover a light no one has ever seen. And I would guard it with a jealous passion. Because if I uncover it, it would belong only to me. Is my subject brave beneath her brittle façade? Brave enough to let me paint her as I wish?”

“Her husband would never allow it,” Violet whispered. That was true enough. She could not imagine the Duke of Richeforte would ever allow such a painting of Grace. Nicholas was outrageously possessive of his wife.

Tristan briefly smiled, leaving the impression he found Violet’s words an amusing challenge. Dropping his hands to her waist, he quickly lifted her up onto the table, ignoring her stifled gasp of surprise.

“This would be only for my eyes. To appease me during a lifetime of frustrated bachelorhood. Here, lie on your side, with this arm cradling your head and the other draped across your stomach.”

For some insane reason, Violet allowed herself to be positioned as he desired. Her heart raced like a thousand wild horses as Tristan moved her limbs. There would be consequences if someone saw her inside his studio, sprawled upon the table like a wanton creature. It was madness, for sure. And a recipe for disaster.

But there was magic in Tristan’s voice, and in his hands, too. He had her as he liked, across the furniture, the brandy glass near the hand on her belly, the decanter placed within reach of the arm propped beneath her head. The bowl of fruit hid the junction of her thighs, and Tristan silently encouraged her to shift until her hip and one leg exaggerated the pose into something unbearably seductive.

The reclining position made her breasts swell against the edges of her gown’s bodice. A sharp twinge of excitement electrified Violet when Tristan’s gaze lingered in that area before sliding over the rest of her body in a heated caress.

For a gut-wrenching moment, she worried of appearing overly plump. The wayward thought vanished as quickly as it appeared when Tristan reached out almost hesitantly.

With a hand that shook the tiniest bit, he slipped her shoes from her feet. He twitched her skirts into place. The thick braid of her hair was arranged, draped like a silken rope over her shoulder.

“Now, look straight at me, little kitten. And do not move.”

In a flash, Tristan had a sketch pad and charcoal in hand. His arm flew with almost maniacal energy while her image was committed to paper. As he worked, a simmering undercurrent swirled, a thunderstorm Violet was unsure either one of them could ignore.

She certainly could not ignore it. How could she when her breath was growing labored? Her breasts felt heavier, the tips incredibly sensitive where the chemise and corset rubbed the flesh almost painfully. Tristan studied her, eyes burning darker and becoming more dangerous by the second, his full, bottom lip captured between his teeth, and the space between her thighs tingled with bewitching awareness.

The silence stretched and swelled with a life of its own until Violet thought she might snap in two from the tension.

But she said not a word, afraid she would break the spell if she dared speak aloud. When a self-conscious twinge of doubt raised its head again, reminding her she was not the svelte, golden woman the viscount had pursued in the past, Violet closed her eyes and refused to listen.

“You are so goddamn beautiful, Violet. Do you even know that?” Tristan finally muttered. “Do you know what I would give to have you truly posing for me as I’ve dreamed? I would have you laid across this table without a stitch of clothing. Nothing to distract from the beauty of your skin and how it both reflects and absorbs the light. I’ve never seen anything like it. I’m obsessed with it, if you must know, and damned if I can determine a path to what I want without ruining you to obtain it.”

Violet’s eyes fluttered open. She stared at Tristan in surprise, as motionless as a deer caught by a panther and afraid of being ripped apart.

With a heavy sigh, he laid the sketch pad aside and leaned forward, trailing a finger over her cheek.

“If I painted you this way, just like this, I would name it ‘A Feast of Violets’. Do you know why?”

Violet shook her head, afraid to look away from the intensity of his stare, hypnotized by the dark, craven need she glimpsed inside him. Was that for her? Did the Viscount Longleigh really desire her? Or was she a convenient substitute for the woman he’d loved and lost to his closest friend?

“Because I would devour you. Completely. Unequivocally. Every piece of you, every morsel would belong to me.”

His finger left her cheek, traveling down the column of her neck to the line of her collarbone. With deceptive gentleness, he traced the fine bone.

“All of this beauty would be mine.” His hand moved lower, passing over the swell of her breast then down her side to the indentation of her waist.

Violet sucked in a hard breath. “I would be no one’s.”

“Stated with such conviction.” He laughed, slowly sweeping a hand over the lush curve of her hip. It was greatly exaggerated by her position, but when she attempted moving her leg, he immediately stopped her. “Stay as you are. I have not finished sketching.”

“I’m merely a test subject, Longleigh.” Her voice came out wobbly and unsure. What exactly was she? Even she couldn’t say for certain.

“You are so much more than that.” Tristan’s head tilted while his hand crept along the vicinity of her ankles and breached an unspoken boundary zone. “I’d say you are the epitome of a muse, my prickly little Violet.” A finger trailed higher, tracing the anatomy of a kneecap, burning her flesh and bone through the flimsy silk stocking.

Moving behind her, Tristan picked something up. There was a faint metallic ring as he tapped it against the table.

It was the palette knife he’d held earlier. Violet swallowed hard, wondering what in the world he might do.

While still leisurely exploring beneath her skirts, Tristan used the instrument to count the carved ivory rosebuds marching in a delicate line from the nape of her neck to her waist. He flicked each button as if in contemplation of slicing them free. Violet shuddered at the thought of being naked before him.

Naked and at his mercy.

“Does this alarm you, kitten?”

Honesty would serve her best. “A little.”

His hand slowed in stroking the back of her knee, and Violet was glad she could not see his countenance. Would there be pity in his eyes? Contempt for her lack of sophistication? He probably played these sorts of games with every silly woman who chased him.

Poor, shy Violet. So frightened of everything. Even the very person she wants more than anyone or anything in this world.

Clenching her teeth in a sudden burst of temper, she uttered very calmly, “I worry someone might see. We left the door open.”

Would Tristan snatch her up from the table, pat her on the head, and send her on her way? Her stomach actually clenched when his hand eased away from her leg. The palate knife pressed harder until she felt the dull, flat edge of the tool through the fabric of her dress.

The eddying coolness of air alerted her when Tristan stepped back. A quick glance over her shoulder revealed the viscount striding toward the open door. He toed it shut, an expression crossing his features one could only characterize as savage triumph.

Violet was truly worried then.

Because that look promised sinful pleasures beyond comprehension that both terrified and thrilled her.