Untaming Lady Violet by April Moran
Chapter 23
Henry Bowman twirled Violet around in a lively Scottish reel, passing her off occasionally to one of the Buchanan cousins.
Tristan leaned a shoulder against the parlor’s doorjamb. A scowl darkened his face as he watched young Lawrence swing her around until her laughter rang out above that of the other girls. When Lawrence let her go, Henry caught her back up again, her hands clasped tight in his.
It was damned hard not to stalk into the middle of the swirling couples and snatch Violet from their grasps. And while he stood sulking, contemplating this unreasonable fit of possessiveness for a woman he had no claim over, the duke took up a stance beside him.
The way Violet left him in the forest the day before still rankled a bit, although he wasn’t sure why. The confidence in her words, in her very essence, should have thrilled him. And while it did on some level, on another he could not dismiss how easily she walked away from him.
“Longleigh, the fierceness of your gaze is enough to strike fear in a man, even those unaware of the danger,” Richeforte said with a smile coloring his voice. “Why not just toss the lady over your shoulder, carry her out of here, and be done with it?”
“What the devil are you talking about, Richeforte?” Tristan spared the man an aggravated glance as he leaned against the wall beside him.
“The Everstone girl, of course. I simply wonder why you do not take matters into your own hands.”
Tristan said nothing, even when Nicholas chuckled.
“Ah! I am correct then, despite what my dear wife told me. You and Lady Violet have formed an attachment. I wanted to make mention of it earlier, but was unsure if your father is aware of matters. How long has this been going on?”
Tristan’s scowl grew even more savage. “Nothing is going on.”
Nicholas’s arms crossed over his chest. “Those heated glares of yours indicate otherwise. And do you see the unintended consequences? The gossips believe they are witnessing some type of quarrel between you and me.” The duke laughed beneath his breath. He then executed a slight bow for the benefit of two ladies whispering behind their fans while staring at them. “If you would only claim the lady, you can avoid all those unnecessary rumors.”
“Damn you, Richeforte. I’ve no intention of claiming any woman.” He’d already been forced to make that clear to Fiona Blackerby. The lady was more persistent than he’d given her credit. Earlier, he abruptly, but politely, left her in an alcove while she detailed how they might meet for a private rendezvous in the conservatory.
“Neither did I before Grace Willsdown decided differently. It’s no use denying it, for I recognize your expression. I wore the same not too long ago.” Nicholas’s emerald gaze swept the large parlor, softening when he spied his wife near the terrace doors. “Damnation, if I don’t wear it still. My sweet duchess bedevils me every moment. And how I adore her because of it.”
A reluctant smile eased Tristan’s frown. “That is understandable. Her Grace is an exceptional woman of great beauty and kindness. You are lucky to have won her. I say to devil with the gossips if they cannot comprehend my genuine happiness for you.”
“I know, my friend.” Nicholas rested a hand on Tristan’s shoulder. “I’m grateful we put that disagreement to rest.” His expression was somber. “Grace says Lady Violet has captured your heart, and I find myself in complete accord. I anticipate you will offer for her hand soon?”
“You are as bad as my own father,” Tristan grumbled. “Indeed, my entire family has conspired together in this effort to push me into marriage. I think it is an obsessive sickness with them, to be honest.”
“Happens to all of us, eventually. And in your case, Lady Violet is an excellent choice to spend the rest of your life with. Lady Celia adores her. She meets your parents’ approval, which is always a massive advantage. She’s gentle and sweet. It appears she’s as infatuated with you as you are with her. And her very nature screams for someone to take care of her. To take her in hand and offer protection. Which compliments your own desire to become a lady’s veritable knight in shining armor. Symbolically, of course. No one expects that you will begin jousting simply to win the lady’s hand.”
“And you’ve discovered all this in the short time you’ve been here at Darby Meadows?” Tristan could not help the mocking tone in his voice. It was troubling that Nicholas could see through him so clearly. Was he so transparent in his dealings with women? No doubt he enjoyed a good romp as well as any other man, but deep inside his soul, Tristan found Nicholas’s words frighteningly accurate.
Nicholas’s eyebrow arched. “It’s quite noticeable, really. Even now, while disparaging of the very idea you and Violet have formed a connection, you can scarcely take your eyes off her.
“Pardon my bluntness, but you are wrong, Richeforte,” Tristan retorted with a slight grimace. He forced himself to look away each time Violet spun past in another man’s arms. “Lady Violet is not the meek young lady she appears, and I’ve no interest in having her as a wife. Any perceived affection between us is simply for the purpose of dissuading Lord Gadley from taking her as a wife. You see, she and I have an agreement of sort. I am assisting her in avoiding marriage to the man.”
The stare Nicholas leveled on him was unflinching. “And what do you gain from such an unusual arrangement?” In a tone suddenly cold as ice, the duke murmured, “Answer carefully, Longleigh. Very carefully.”
“Do you think I would debauch an innocent?” Tristan demanded, then quickly added, “Do not respond to that. It is simply a ploy, Richeforte. That’s all. One devised for her sake only.”
“Then you are doing a poor job of it. Not once have you claimed Lady Violet for a dance. Or even procured a glass of lemonade for her. All you’ve done is stand and glare at the gentlemen pursuing her favor. How precisely will this work to dissuade Gadley from wanting to wed the girl?”
“You are a meddlesome bastard, Richeforte,” Tristan growled.
No one needed to know just how far he’d gone in debauching Violet, the liberties he’d taken. Scanning the crowd to hide his unease, Tristan caught his mother’s eye where she stood beside the earl.
Tristan forced himself to return her happy smile. The countess did adore Violet, to the point she regarded her as another daughter. That attention was the reason behind Violet’s many visits to Darby Meadows, her closeness with his family. Lord and Lady Everstone believed their only child safe from scandal while in Lady Darby’s care. She stood as chaperone in their absence. Indeed, much of the credit for Violet’s unsullied reputation was because of his mother’s influence.
A reputation he seemed destined to destroy simply because of his irrational desire for the girl.
Unexpected nausea roiled inside Tristan’s stomach, lurching high in his throat. The memory of everything he’d done choked him with guilt. Acrid bitterness washed through his mouth in a fleeting instant.
What he had done was monstrous. What he would do if given another chance was far worse.
When the musicians shifted from the liveliness of the reel to the haunting lilt of a waltz, Tristan shoved off from his stance against the doorjamb, intent on exiting the parlor. He must make his escape before Violet’s eyes found his. Before she questioned his failure to pull her into his arms for the dance. He had, after all, promised her he would.
Instead of fleeing, however, he found himself inexplicably looking for her amongst the swirl of pretty velvet and silk gowns.
His sharp gaze located her near the entrance to the terrace, Lawrence Buchanan bent over her hand. The young man pled his case for the honor of sweeping her into the dance. Violet only laughed, shaking her head in denial while attempting to separate herself from the other couples selecting their partners for the waltz.
A crushing weight suffocated Tristan. An overwhelming need to prove Richeforte wrong drove his next actions. Averting his eyes, he ignored the possessiveness stabbing his insides. A possessiveness that demanded he snatch Violet away from the crowd so he would not have to share her.
Nicholas’s low chuckle reeked of understanding pity. “It appears your fall shall be harder and far beyond my own, Longleigh. You should prepare yourself for the consequences of the aftermath.”
“Your advice is unnecessary. There will be no consequences to face. Why should I shackle myself to one woman when there are so many who desire my company? I can think of no reason to throw myself into that prison. Bachelor life is surprisingly carefree.”
The duke shook his head at the display of stubbornness, but Tristan vowed it would not dissuade him. Abruptly sketching a bow to the duke, he turned his back on the gaiety.
“If you will excuse me, I’ve developed a sudden thirst, and it seems only whiskey will suffice.”
As he made his way down the hall, his lips twisted at the idea Violet would make an excellent wife.
My wild Violet possesses the capability of driving a man quite mad. How is it possible to defend one’s heart against all that hidden fierceness coated in sugar candy sweetness?
And as for his own inner craving to rescue the damsel in distress?
It was a defect in his character that must be cured. Quickly, before something inevitable happened to them both.
* * *
Violet strainedher neck looking over Lawrence’s shoulder.
Where is Tristan? Just a moment ago, he stood in the doorway with the Duke of Richeforte, and now he’s vanished.
“I say, Lady Violet, are my skills lacking so completely?”
“What?” Violet murmured, preoccupied by the sight of Richeforte uncrossing his arms and sauntering in the direction of his wife.
“You seem distracted,” Lawrence explained. “To the point I fear my waltzing abilities must be deficient.”
Violet dragged her gaze back to the young man. “Of course, they are not.”
“But you are distracted.” The young man’s chiseled features were enhanced by a breaking smile. “I swear I will not be crushed to learn you are searching for Longleigh.”
“Don’t be silly, Mister Buchanan. Why ever would you think I have the slightest interest in your cousin’s whereabouts?”
“Don’t you?” Lawrence tilted his head. “Have an interest, that is?”
“No, I don’t,” Violet stammered as the waltz slowed, drawing to an end.
Her cheeks flushed pink with the lie. She had too much interest in Longleigh. Damn her curiosity, but she wondered if his disappearance was tied with what she’d witnessed earlier in the evening.
Violet had spied Tristan cozied up with Lady Fiona Blackerby in an alcove earlier. He had been smiling, those full, sensual lips twisted in the attractively sardonic manner he was infamous for. The one that playfully teased with darkness and hints of wickedness until a girl wasn’t sure if she straddled the edge of being kissed into oblivion or carefully strangled and caressed by the viscount’s large, capable hands.
Either option was intriguing
“Blast it all. Here comes Lord Gadley,” Lawrence huffed in exasperation as the waltz ended on a final flourish. Sketching a bow, he then straightened, intentionally towering over Violet. “If I miss my guess, I suspect you’ve no wish to have the man claim your next dance.”
She shivered. “You would be correct, Mister Buchanan.”
“Then there is only one thing for it. Follow me, staying as close as you can. I believe I can at least get you to the terrace unseen. You may then do whatever mysterious thing it is that ladies do when they disappear during balls. It’s the perfect solution for avoiding Gadley.”
Lawrence was already moving while he spoke, weaving through the crowd with Violet’s hand clasped in his. She fell into step behind him, grateful for his assistance, although he marched at a speed much faster than her legs could match.
But the ploy worked. In the bustling cluster of guests, Lawrence successfully led her to the outer terrace without Gadley witnessing their escape.
“There. That was a bit of sport, wasn’t it?” Lawrence crowed, his chest puffing out slightly with his success.
“Most certainly. How clever you are, Mister Buchanan,” Violet replied, catching her breath. “I may make use of your skills for the rest of the evening.”
“At your service, my lady.” Lawrence swept a deep bow, giving her a grin before pressing a kiss to the top of her gloved hand. “Now, to avoid talk of impropriety, I shall return to the parlor. You recall how to reenter the house, correct? Go down these steps toward the rose garden path, and the main hall entrance is just beyond the conservatory. You may slip back into the house and return to the dance with no one the wiser. And if you don’t return, I’ll simply relay to my aunt that you were not feeling well after our waltz and retired for the evening.”
“You are exceedingly kind,” Violet said in earnest.
Lawrence laughed and gave her a wink. “Longleigh would have my head if I treated you in any other fashion.”
Once Lawrence left her on the terrace, Violet stood for several moments, debating what to do next. The sounds of the gala were still discernible, courtesy of the terrace doors being flung open. That no other guests ventured out to enjoy the pleasant night air was somewhat surprising. The far-reaching glow of the moon was bright, so bright one could easily make out the tall hedges of the rose garden in the distance, the gravel stone pathways bathed in ghostly white.
Would it be so terrible not to return to the gaiety of the dance? She could stroll through the garden. See the fountain sparkle in the moonlight. Listen to the crickets and attempt to solve their mysterious message. Stare at the stars while tracing their pattern with a forefinger. All could be done before retiring to her room.
And accomplished in the most solitary fashion. Which made Violet unaccountably sad.
What enjoyment could be found looking at stars, or strolling garden paths if one did so alone?
Feminine voices interrupted her thoughts. On another portion of the terrace where the open doors created a rather private alcove, two young women stood with their backs to the gardens. Side-by-side, they watched the dancing while sipping lemonade.
Violet immediately recognized one as Lady Fiona by her profile and the upsweep of gleaming blonde hair. The other, a Miss Patricia Clipperson, had arrived just that afternoon with her widowed mother. Violet was only marginally acquainted with the young lady.
“Well, he certainly seems to be over the duchess. He’s hardly given her a moment’s notice tonight, other than accepting that little peck on the cheek she gave him. Did you see how fiercely Richeforte glared? However, when he shook Longleigh’s hand afterward, I think he almost looked apologetic.”
“Of course, he’s over her. Longleigh was never in love with her,” Fiona huffed, snapping her fan shut with a flick of her wrist. “That was simply a momentary infatuation, its ending hastened when Richeforte stole Her Grace for himself. Longleigh was over her in less time than it takes to snap one’s fingers. Now, his attention is centered elsewhere.”
“Obviously,” Patricia laughed. “It has been placed square on Lady Violet.”
“Don’t be absurd. The viscount is completely enamored with me. Although we must keep our love secret,” Fiona countered, her tone tight with annoyance.
“Truly?” Patricia’s skepticism was obvious. “Longleigh appears fascinated by the Everstone girl. Which is quite odd, considering she always appears as if she might faint dead away if anyone so much as winks in her direction.”
“Don’t be fooled by our little façade, dear.” Fiona’s laugh was shrill. “That wallflower is simply a convenient ruse to keep attention off us.”
When Fiona gripped the other girl’s forearm, Violet’s own hands clenched into fists. Her fingernails dug through the gloves until half-moon imprints were left on her palms.
“Longleigh pleaded that I go along with this little deception. At least until our parents finalize the details of our engagement. It’s all so very complicated, you see. I only agreed because his sister despises me, despite my efforts to befriend her. Celia will do anything to keep us apart, so secrecy is a must. She’s held such high hopes that Lady Violet would become Viscountess Longleigh, and eventually, the Countess of Darby. But rest assured, any attention he shows that insipid girl is to satisfy his sister. Nothing more.”
Violet bit back a moan. Whatever Fiona says can’t possibly be true. It can’t be.
“Your subterfuge is working, then. But, Fiona, I’ve only witnessed Richeforte, and perhaps the Earl of Ravenswood, regard a woman with the same intensity as Longleigh exhibits while watching Lady Violet. He stares at her as if he might devour her at any moment. Or drag her off to his bed. I’ve never really noticed before because, I mean, she’s such a shy thing, but she really is very lovely.” Patricia took a contemplative sip of lemonade. “Several of the gentlemen seem rather taken with her.”
A sound of complete aggravation escaped Fiona.
“Well, that shows how much you know, Patricia. Longleigh can barely stand that quiet, plump mouse, but he does what is necessary for our future together. I can depend on you to keep our secret, can I not?”
As the music changed to a fast-paced polka, the women began moving away.
“I won’t tell a soul. But still, I can hardly believe it…” Patricia shrugged, her words trailing off.
Could Tristan and Fiona really be in love?
A feeling of numbness settled over Violet. It wasn’t true. Not after everything Tristan had said to her. Had done with her willing participation. Not when he kissed her with such desperate sweetness.
He could not be that duplicitous.
She refused to believe it.
It can’t be true…
Wrapping her arms around her waist, Violet let out a little hiccup of despair and began walking in the direction Lawrence indicated.
She knew every entry into the manor house. Knew every path and corridor as intimately as if they belonged to her. She’d practically grown up at Darby Meadows, and for Violet, that was both a curse and a blessing. The close proximity afforded the opportunity to adore Tristan while at the same time she suffered the acute agony of longing for him.
Yes, she knew this house. Knew its secrets and its charms. And out of all the nooks and crannies, the open corridors, the elegant parlors and stately public areas, the massive Darby conservatory held a distinct place in her heart.
She adored it even more than the secluded third-floor studio where a dark-eyed, deceptively complex, outwardly light-hearted artist created beauty on swaths of canvas.
The conservatory was a special place, infused with magic and the heady scent of foreign flowers and earthy soil. Here, beneath a sky made of glass and darkened by rainclouds, Violet fell in love.
Violet remembered that day well. Remembered Tristan rising with a scowl, irritated by the interruption. She would never forget how her heart nearly stopped at the fierce beauty of his features, his chocolate brown hair tumbling over his brow before it was pushed into unruly obedience with a quick thrust of his fingers. His scowl melted into a smile at the sight of his sister.
When the young viscount bowed over Violet’s hand as Celia made the introductions, she had cursed the blasted shyness striking her mute. The rain drumming against the glass walls and ceiling echoed the pounding of her young heart until Violet wondered if she would faint for the first time ever.
And Tristan, dark eyes full of mischief, well accustomed to female adoration in all forms, had merely winked in acknowledgment of her speechlessness.
Yes, the conservatory was a special place indeed.
Melancholy for silly, childish dreams and memories of visits over the years called Violet there now. As if pulled along on a silken thread, she glided forward. The night whispered in approval, enveloping her in velvety darkness until the magnificent iron and glass structure loomed ahead.
The outer doors hung slightly ajar, emitting a sliver of light. The head gardener was meticulously fussy regarding such matters; few braved his wrath when it came to the care lavished on the fragile specimens within. These doors were never left open.
Slightly fogged glass windows glowed with lamplight. There was the faint outline of numerous plants and exotic trees, but it was impossible to determine if anyone had actually slipped inside or if a servant left the doors cracked open by mistake.
Violet pushed past the large, double doors, breathing deeply of the richly scented air. Mindful of the need to retain the warmth and humidity, she tugged at the heavy portals until they shut behind her with a low clang.
I should continue on my way to the main house.
And she would, too. In a moment.
There was a quiet hush inside the cavernous space. Leaves rustled slightly as an unseen breeze from an unknown source swirled the air with a feather’s touch. An occasional chirp came from tiny sparrows that found their way inside the glass sanctuary and built nests within the branches of lemon and orange trees. The musical tinkling sound of the water fountain, dripping and splashing over the basin’s confines, was broken occasionally by the appreciative croaking of a frog.
It seemed she was alone inside the conservatory.
Violet sighed, her tension easing away. She dearly loved this place. More than the Everstone manor house tucked away in Derbyshire or her parents’ spacious townhome in London. She suspected both residences were likely levied to the hilt, and their continued ownership rested on her future marriage.
But those problems were easily forgotten here. This would be one of the last times she could enjoy the quiet solitude of the conservatory. Here, she could nurse her heart.
Crushed stone pathways meandered through vine-covered arbors and past secret niches inhabited by Greek statuaries. The jungle-like greenery and lush blooms were crafted so the pathways ended at a central water feature and the benches surrounding it. Decorative lanterns composed of glass and set on stakes at shoulder height illuminated Violet’s way.
She would gather her thoughts here and summon her strength. Reflect on what she’d overheard on the terrace. More importantly, she could determine how to survive marriage to any man who had the misfortune to be someone other than the viscount.
The sound of ice clinking against glass alerted Violet that she was not alone. She froze, mindful she could be intruding upon someone’s stolen moments.
But curiosity strained against the boundaries of decency.
Who is there? Do I want to know? Do I dare find out? Please don’t let it be Tristan and Lady Fiona. I will simply die. From embarrassment. From heartache...
She could turn around this very moment. Should turn around. Should leave before she ever laid eyes on whoever was by the fountain; leave before that person or persons saw her.
Her hesitation was futile. Her chest tightened, her throat closing up and preventing speech.
Tristan sauntered into the middle of the pathway ahead of her. A tumbler containing some sort of liquor dangled loosely from his hand.
Their eyes locked. Darkest blue held hostage by deep, wicked sable.
A shiver of unadulterated excitement wracked Violet. It was useless to even attempt hiding it when it possessed the strength to buckle her knees.
How glad she was that he was here.
How it frightened her that he was.
Tristan smiled, recognizing the effect he had on her. Just as he had all those years ago. Long before the devastation of his smile ever reached its full potency, he surely understood its capacity to destroy a woman’s willpower.
It had been honed, sharpened over time into a perfect weapon of destruction. Perhaps in preparation for this very moment. This moment when all of Violet’s defenses were slashed to ribbons. There was no hope for her, after all.
She would surrender everything to this man.
Even if meant her ruin.
His hand stretched toward her.
“I’ve been waiting for you, kitten.”