Untaming Lady Violet by April Moran

Chapter 3

Afeminine cry of alarm was Tristan’s only warning of impending disaster.

He spun just in time, dropping the slipper and catching Violet as she plummeted like a stone. Well, in truth, he only partially caught her. Mostly, he served as a breakpoint for her fall.

With a muffled “Oof!” they landed on the ground, cushioned by lush grass and loamy earth. By twisting his shoulders just so, Tristan maneuvered them so he absorbed the brunt of the crash.

Violet wound up sprawled across his stomach with her hips, her plush, graspable hips, nestled between his legs.

Indecently nestled between his legs.

Pressed intimately against his groin.

Grinding. There.

A rush of blood, hot and fluid, surged to that precise area. Tristan let out a tortured groan, and along with it came unmistakable panic.

His panic, not hers.

Lady Violet’s gaze locked with his. Her eyes were wide. Shocked. And such an impossible shade of blue, they appeared stained purple. Tristan never realized that her eyes were such an intense color. They sparkled like precious jewels as she gaped unblinking at him. Thick and surprisingly dark eyelashes framed the crystal-clear depths.

Rare amethysts. The rarest shade of the deepest violet.

Her tongue darted out, bringing attention immediately to a spot of blood in the center of her lower lip. She licked the crimson drop away, and before he could help himself, another groan, this one constructed of pure lust, escaped him.

It was quickly buried beneath a layer of concern.

“You are hurt.”

The words emerged as a growl, but it couldn’t be helped. An abrupt desire to protect this delicately plump female overwhelmed Tristan.

Primal. Heated. Surprising.

And completely unwelcome.

Violet stared as though he uttered nothing but sheer gibberish. Well, in all fairness, maybe he had. His head felt scrambled enough.

“Your lip… it’s cut,” Tristan prompted. Fascinated, he watched the milky hue of her cheeks turn a shade of scarlet that almost eclipsed the color of her hair.

Speaking of which… Tendrils escaped what was probably once a tidy bun arranged by her maid that very morning. Now, it was a glorious mess. Curling wisps of rich, glossy, burnished red. A bright green oak leaf accented one upswept curl still held haphazardly within the hairpins.

Another rumble issued from deep in Tristan’s throat. Violet had been Celia’s friend for years, and he was just now seeing her. Really seeing her.

When the hell did she grow up?

“Oh.” Violet touched a fingertip to the injury. “Is it? That-that was from before. Not from falling. I bit it, I think.”

Her voice was so soft, so… so lyrical. And so different from moments ago when a bit of feistiness laced her words. This hesitancy he heard now? Tristan did not like it at all.

“You were far more impudent up in the tree.” The corner of his lips twitched with a grin as he teased her. “Testing those claws from a safe distance, it seems. Now that has been erased, what shall the kitten do?”

A lacy scrap of a handkerchief was shoved between her breasts. It was a tempting valley, created by the modest neckline of the deep green dress she wore. Tristan considered taking the cloth and dabbing her lip, but in a flash of utter weakness, he did something entirely unexpected.

His index finger gently skated over the tiny wound in a soothing fashion until Violet’s eyes fluttered half-shut. A new blood droplet swept across the plump flesh of her lip, staining it. Dazed, she watched as he slowly brought his finger to his own mouth and sucked it clean.

Electrifying jolts of abrupt awareness coursed between them. This—this was an awakening. An unfurling. A violent spring storm rolling over the meadows and everything in its path.

She was the thunder, low and distant while he was the lightning, intense and blinding. And this attraction between them roiled immediately to life.

Sweet. Heady. Dangerous.

With a strangled squeak, Violet scrambled away in a flurry of green velvet, hampered by the tangle of her skirts.

Knife-sharp pain lanced through Tristan, sizzling nerve endings and a few he never realized existed. Dislodging Violet’s knee from his groin, he half rolled onto his side, hands fisted so he wouldn’t clutch those parts now furiously throbbing.

On her feet at last, Violet stood just out of reach. His obvious distress concerned her, evidenced by the frantic wringing of her hands.

“I’ve crushed you, haven’t I? Is it your arm? A rib? Tell me… what is broken? Perhaps you’ve suffered a head injury.”

“A head injury?” With a grimace, Tristan pulled himself into a sitting position.

“Oh, dear. You do not remember a shoe landing on your head? This may be more serious than either of us realize. I shall seek help, but I cannot go in my bare feet. Speaking of my slipper, I do believe you are, um… sitting on it now.”

Tristan sucked in another breath, willing the fuzziness in his head to dissipate. “It’s neither my ribs nor my arm, for God’s sake. And it’s not a head injury, although not for lack of trying. You—”

He abruptly clamped his mouth shut. How did one inform a well-bred young lady that she’d kneed him in the ballocks? One couldn’t, of course. Even if he’d licked the coppery-sweet tang of her blood from the tip of his finger just mere seconds ago, for God knew what reason, he couldn’t be that bold.

Had he really done that? Tasted her as if he were some sort of animal and she were his latest catch?

St. Simon’s Cross… what the hell am I thinking? She’s my sister’s dearest friend. I’ve known her since she was just a girl. His teeth ground. “An elbow to my stomach is the only damage. I’m fine.”

Violet looked unconvinced, flushing such an alarming shade of pink, that Tristan worried she might actually faint.

“My slipper…” she squeaked out.

Rolling to his feet in one smooth motion, Tristan grasped Violet’s elbow, steadying her when she swayed in alarm at his quickness. Eyes wide, she touched the center of his chest, the palm of her hand flat against his skin.

Imagining all the things he could do with Violet Everstone was turning him inside out. He sucked in a breath, his heart racing beneath her palm.

“You’ve turned a peculiar shade,” Violet whispered, peeking up at him. “Greenish. Like a gooseberry. I don’t know what to do to help you.”

“I’m quite all right, Lady Violet. Do not concern yourself.”

“It is hardly inconsequential to have someone of my size land on you. You have my sincerest apologies.” Her hand clenched his shirt as she regarded him anxiously. “Can you walk? Or should I return to the house and arrange for a cart to help in transporting you across the meadow?”

“Your size—” Tristan stared in astonishment, suddenly realizing Violet thought herself to be overweight.

Nothing could be further from the truth. While softly rounded in all the best places, those places a man expected to feel plump flesh between his fingers and beneath his palms, Violet hardly needed to worry about an overabundance of figure.

She was lush and feminine, the top of her head barely reaching the center of his chest. Everything about her made him feel strangely more masculine. Dear God, she even smelled delicious. Like lavender mixed with something delicately earthy. Vanilla, perhaps. Or bergamot.

Tristan frowned. “Rest assured, your sizeis not an issue. I daresay you weigh no more than a dormouse.”

Violet’s eyes lowered. Again, she licked her bottom lip. It was still bleeding, but just barely. Tristan reminded himself she had fallen from the tree. And the devil take it, now he knew how she tasted.

Easily holding her captive with a hand on her elbow, he asked, “Are you injured anywhere on your person?”

“Injured?” She repeated his question breathlessly. “No. I don’t believe so.”

Tristan ran his palms down her arms.

How lovely she would be captured on canvas. Damn if I wouldn’t pay a king’s ransom for the privilege of painting her.

An ordinary man might overlook the details his artist’s heart and eye greedily noted. Devouring her features, he took in the heart-shaped face and daintily upturned nose. Eyebrows of dark auburn arched above thickly lashed, violet-hued eyes, giving her the appearance of a gentle doe. High cheekbones sat in pleasing proportion with the rest of her features, and a tiny dimple graced her right cheek whenever she smiled.

As far as Tristan could see, Violet possessed not a single freckle, unusual given the shade of her dark red hair. Smooth and unblemished, her skin was the color of ivory. And warm. So damned warm she didn’t feel real. He half believed she would feel like cool marble beneath his hands.

Tristan abruptly sank to the ground. Delving beneath her skirts, he traced her ankles with gentle fingers. There were no swollen or tender areas, but she was now missing both slippers. He quickly assessed her tiny toes through silk stockings, smiling when a mortified gasp escaped her.

Violet stumbled back as far as he would allow.

Tristan’s fingers circled around one trim ankle and tightened, keeping her prisoner.

“Lord Longleigh! This is completely unnecessary!”

Tristan chuckled. His hand lingered, brushing the fine bones in exploration. “I disagree. You appear quite shaken. How else should I determine your injuries?”

“I’ve no injuries!”

“I must make sure. After all, it’s the very least I can do for such a dear friend of the family.”

Violet gave him such a look, one teetering between horror and elation, that Tristan hesitated. That one look slammed him back to awareness.

Toying with her was amusing, but this little flirtation might be considered cruel by some. And pointless.

“It’s turning cool, Lady Violet, and dusk approaches. You should return to the house.” Coming to his feet, he scooped up her slipper. Its mate was found along with other items at the base of the tree.

While she slid the shoes on, Tristan turned away. He refused to look at the dainty feet and fine-boned ankles his hands had roamed all over under the pretext of checking for injuries.

“You will forgive me if I do not escort you?” he said, staring at the canopy of glossy oak leaves above them. “It’s best not to court rumors.”

“Yes, of course.”

Her voice was hesitant again. Unsure and almost trembly.

Tristan hazarded a glance in her direction in time to catch her shaking out her skirts.

“There’s no need for formality at Darby Meadows, especially when our families have known one another for ages. You and Celia are like sisters to each other so you may call me Tristan, if you like. I would be honored to use yours in return, if you are so inclined to grant that permission.”

A flash of sadness lit Violet’s eyes, but her sweet smile had his heart stuttering in its beat.

It was difficult not to wonder how her pretty mouth would feel molded beneath his own.

“I’ve no objection to you using my given name, Tristan.” Violet took the picnic basket from his hands, nodding with approval when she saw he’d placed all of her books inside. “Will you attend supper tonight with everyone?”

“As I’ve only arrived, and with May Day festivities approaching, I won’t disappoint my mother so soon. So, the answer is yes. I shall.”

Tristan rarely disappointed his parents. Theirs was an uncommonly placid relationship, only recently marred by more recent disputes regarding his failure to pursue marriage.

“Surely, there are suitable women you could entertain as potential brides,” Father remarked earlier that afternoon. “You are turning twenty-seven years of age this year, Tristan, and it is high time you followed your friends’ examples. It is your duty to carry on the Buchannan bloodline and provide the next Earl of Darby. Knowing my poor health this past winter, it is imperative you address this matter soon.”

Tristan was admittedly concerned for Father’s health. Shortness of breath and troubling chest pains had laid the man low since the previous autumn. Now, feeling somewhat better with the warmer weather, the Earl’s attention re-focused on his legacy. Celia and Mother, curse them both, helpfully supplied a list of young women deemed eligible.

Privately, Tristan scoffed at his parents’ opinions on his avowed state of bachelorhood.

He did not suffer from a broken heart.

Nor melancholy. Or dejection. Nor was he drowning his sorrows in a string of mistresses and nights made hazy from alcohol, although he certainly enjoyed the delights of both.

The ton was frantic to turn his failure in marrying Grace into something worthy of a Shakespearean turn. Gossip mills insisted he still pined for the new duchess. That he drank and caroused so he might forget his stolen love.

No one realized more than Tristan himself that a union with Grace would have sputtered and burned to a quick death. They were too much alike, headstrong and impulsive. And while Grace amused him with her cleverness and wild spirit, he had regarded her as a possession kept out of his reach.

Grace recognized that from the very beginning. She never treated him as anything other than a sibling for which Tristan was eternally grateful. It made the swirling rumors of a bitter rift between himself and Nicholas easier to ignore. After all, any lingering resentment had been dissolved over a bottle of brandy before Nicholas and Grace’s nuptials even took place.

A carefree, pleasure-seeking bachelorhood where Tristan only worried for himself seemed the best path for him. He intended on keeping that status for as long as possible. Maybe even forever, regardless of his father’s wishes and pleas to find a suitable wife.

It was why rationalizing the words spilling from his mouth proved especially troublesome.

“I’ll have Mother seat me beside you for dinner. We’ll continue this discussion on tempting reluctant creatures from trees and what is best served as an incentive.”

Violet blushed but nodded in agreement. Before Tristan could utter another word, she turned and practically galloped down the hillside away from him.

The predator lurking within his soul reared its head.

What the devil was she running from?

Me?

Surely not.

She moved with such haste Tristan feared she might lose her slippers again and go tumbling head over heels down the gentle slope. Brow creased with perplexing interest, he watched until the green of her dress melted into the strand of woods beyond the open meadow.

What an odd little creature you are, Violet Everstone.

And if the lady wished to be chased…

He might change his mind and oblige her.