Untaming Lady Violet by April Moran
Chapter 30
Inside Tristan’s head, tiny devils bashed and clanged with gleeful amusement. They showed no signs of stopping.
Persistent.
Explosive
Merciless.
Perhaps if I open my eyes, they will cease.
Or if he rolled over, shoved his head under the pillow, and ignored the excruciating pain, they might magically go away.
The banging noises increased.
Fuck.
Perhaps he deserved it. Yes, he deserved it. Every last bit of the agony ripping him apart from the moment Violet left was truly earned.
With a groan, Tristan flopped onto his back, flinging an arm over his eyes to block out the sliver of sunlight piercing the crack in the drapes. That sunbeam was as sharp as a fisherman’s spear, and it stabbed him where he lay on his bed.
“Tristan?” The doorknob rattled, the key holding in the lock despite the fierce shaking it received. “Tristan?”
The devils had a voice. Verging on the hysterical, but a voice nonetheless. How interesting for the devils.
“Oh, God, please. Please open the door.” A slight hesitation, then increased battering followed. “Are you there?”
The devils in his head sounded just like his sister. But that couldn’t be right.
Celia pounded the door again. “Tristan!”
There was a desperate shrillness in her tone. Why? And why did his heart seize up with the immediate thought something was wrong with Violet?
Rolling from the bed onto the floor, Tristan landed in a half-drunken heap on his rear-end.
“Shit,” he mumbled, giving an angry swipe at an empty decanter beside him. It once held a full measure of whiskey. Now, he watched it spin in a lazy half-circle on the hardwood floor before it stopped, the mouth facing him in an accusing manner.
With a growl, Tristan kicked it away so it joined the other one. The clatter of glass hitting glass was unnaturally loud in the quiet of the room.
Well, not so quiet. Celia still banged her fists on the door in a most impolite fashion.
Didn’t she know he was nursing a heartache? And a headache to boot? Wasn’t it obvious he should be left alone in his cave? Permitted to lick his wounds with no interference?
Getting up from the floor, he automatically reached for a robe before realizing the clothing from the night before was still draped over his body. The trousers were unbuttoned, his shirt hanging open haphazardly. He was without his shoes; however, they were nowhere to be seen. A vague remembrance of picking them up and throwing them in a rage at some insignificant painting inside his studio flitted across his consciousness.
“Tristan. I know you are there; I can hear you. For the love of God, please open the door. You must hurry before it’s too late.”
Too late? Too late for what? Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters anymore. Not now…
He buttoned his pants while stepping over the bottles, giving the ruined interior of his room a cursory glance. He was obviously in quite a state the previous night if the wreckage surrounding him now was any indication. Destroying his own personal belongings was incredibly immature, certainly, but it must have satiated some deep need within him.
Flinging open the door, he glared at Celia with a scowl so dark, so fierce, she actually stumbled back a step.
“What do you want?”
His voice sounded as though it had been keelhauled across the bow of an ancient pirate ship several times over. It was rough, raspy. Shredded from emotions he never thought he would experience. Raw with regret from the injury he had inflicted on a person so dear to his heart. He was exhausted following his attempts at drowning the pain that crushed him after she left.
It hadn’t worked.
Celia stared, her eyes big and round and so similar to his own, it was like gazing into a mirror.
“Will you save her?” Tears streaked her cheeks; her eyes were red and puffy. She was garbed in an afternoon riding habit, a jaunty hat still fixed to her windblown curls. Mud splattered her boots. Celia would never traipse through the house with boots in that condition. “Can you save her?”
“What the devil are you talking about?”
“Violet …” Her voice trembled.
Tristan grasped his sister by the shoulders, nearly lifting her off her feet. “What about her?”
Celia had never seemed so small, so defeated before. Her heart was breaking for some unknown reason.
Tristan’s own heart began pounding with uneasy fear.
What the hell is going on?
“They will force her to wed,” Celia sobbed. Damn if she wasn’t making any sense.
Tristan’s frown darkened his eyes to a shade nearly ebony in color. “Who is forcing her? Wed to whom?”
“Her parents… they arrived this morning. Someone accused Violet of spending her nights in Lord Gadley’s rooms. This person claims they caught Violet and Gadley in a romantic liaison in the conservatory. And that you, you saw them together, too.”
She rubbed her arms when Tristan set her down, eyes panicked with concern and puzzled that her brother was in such a state of dishabille.
The entire day had passed while he rolled about in a drunken stupor. Who knew what hell Violet had faced during that time?
Rubbing a hand over his throbbing forehead, Tristan barked, “Christ! What time is it now?”
“Just after four o’clock. They’ve been in Father’s study for over an hour. Setting terms for her marriage to Gadley. It was thought you were with us during our afternoon ride, but when Father discovered you had not gone, he sent me to find you right away. It can’t be too late to save her. I refuse to believe it’s too late. Until they take her away from Darby Meadows, there is still a chance, Tristan.”
Tristan buttoned his shirt, raking a hand through his tumble of hair to bring it to some order. Turning his back on his sister, he quickly tucked the shirt into his trousers.
Realizing what those actions meant, Celia jumped to help.
Pouring water in the washbasin, she wet a cloth so he could wipe his face down, and put toothpowder on the brush. She then ran to the armoire and dragged out a pair of boots.
“These are lies, Tristan. Violet despises William Gadley. There is only one person she loves, and I do not need to say aloud who that man is…” Celia’s voice trailed off, unsure what else to say on the subject. Then she shook herself. “Hurry, Tristan. Hurry!”
In less than two minutes, Tristan was ready. For what, he wasn’t precisely sure, but quite possibly his task would be saving the fair maiden from the clutches of a villain. Violet should be free to choose her own husband. Not forced into marriage as a result of falsehoods and the greed of her parents.
He didn’t know how he could save her without risking his own neck, but he would try his damnedest.
* * *
Tristan was shockedto find Nicholas sprawled in a chair outside his father’s study.
The duke watched his approach with hooded, green eyes, his manner languid and deceptively relaxed. But that was all for show. Tristan knew his friend possessed the instinct and quick reactions of a feral wolf.
When Tristan reached him, Nicholas unfurled himself. He used his body as a means of blocking the door while gripping Tristan’s shoulder with one hand. He squeezed it tight with warning.
“Nothing inside that room is your concern, Longleigh.”
“What do you mean? Of course, it is—” Tristan replied, tersely.
Nicholas’s advice was genuine. “As a man avoiding the state of matrimony, you should tread lightly before placing yourself in the midst of these particular negotiations.”
Raised voices came from inside the room. A woman began crying, the sobs seeping through the oak door.
Both men tensed. Then Tristan shoved the duke’s hand aside. “Get out of my way, Richeforte.”
Nicholas regarded Tristan for a moment, his thoughts unreadable. Together, the two men had cut quite a swath through London, enjoying actresses and dancers and mistresses aplenty until Nicholas fell for his duchess. The duke had always been an expert at concealing his inner emotions with icy control while Tristan perfected the art of the carefree bachelor, hiding behind the lighthearted façade.
Tristan wondered if he could keep that same lifestyle now. He didn’t think he could. It would be so much harder to hide now.
Concern for Violet’s wellbeing etched his features.
“She needs me, Richeforte.”
Nicholas’s lip twitched with a ghost of a smile.
“I’ve no doubt about that.” The duke stepped aside with a slight bow. “Fair warning, however. Should you go in, do not expect to come out without a wife.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Tristan snapped, his hand on the doorknob of his father’s study. “This is likely a misunderstanding easily explained.”
Pushing through the door on that statement, he shoved it shut behind him with more force than was necessary. His gaze immediately sought out Violet as the occupants of the room collectively turned his way.
Violet was seated near the large windows on a settee upholstered in dark blue brocade. She was a ray of sunshine despite eyes swollen from crying and a face so pale she appeared ill. Her curvy form was immaculately clothed in a gown of periwinkle blue, all that glorious flame-sparked hair he’d run his fingers through just the night before now scraped into a bun so severe not a single tendril escaped.
She was not crying at the moment. At the sight of him, her gaze lit up with an undisguised joy before it hardened and grew distant. Tilting her chin higher, blood red lips in a tight line, she simply glared as though he were the reason behind this madness.
It was Violet’s mother who wept. Lady Everstone wrung her hands in distress, occasionally blotting her cheeks with a silk handkerchief. Lord Everstone, standing beside the chair his wife currently occupied, wore a thunderous expression directed at his daughter and no one else.
William Gadley stood with an arm propped nonchalantly on the fireplace mantle. A sharpness glinted in his eyes for a moment, but then a sigh of bored elegance masked any irritation at Tristan’s intrusion.
Tristan’s mother, Lady Darby, was perched on the settee beside Violet, close enough that their skirts touched. She held the girl’s hand as though offering some manner of support, while his father, seated at the massive desk from which he ran his earldom, rubbed his forehead.
Tristan recognized the gesture as one of frustration.
“How fortuitous that you’ve finally arrived, Longleigh,” William said with a cold smile. “You are the additional witness required to put this matter to rest.”
“Witness?” Tristan’s eyebrow arched high. Glancing again at Violet, he was disturbed by the fact her stare did not soften even the slightest.
“Yes, witness,” Lord Everstone boomed. Directing his ire toward Violet, he swore, “Damnation, girl. Must we bring forth every person on this estate with evidence of your inappropriate behavior? There are surely more than the two we know of.”
His enraged blustering had no effect on his daughter. She simply refused to look at him, her gaze remaining locked on Tristan. Tristan’s mother, bottom lip caught between her teeth to stop its trembling, glared at Lord Everstone in disgust, then patted Violet’s hand as though it would soothe away the older man’s harshness.
“What a piece of baggage you are! My own daughter! I’ve raised you up a proper young lady, and just see the gratitude you show. That you are capable of such outrageous behavior with this man is a scandal we shall never live down.” Violet’s mother sobbed into her handkerchief.
Tristan froze in place. Have we been found out? Is that why they rush to marry her off to Gadley, so scandal may be avoided?
“You will marry Lord Gadley, or by God, I’ll disown you,” her father threatened.
Violet’s eyes shifted away from Tristan at that. She stared at her father as though she were sizing him up for battle, before shrugging her shoulders.
“What coin shall I bring to your empty pocket then, Father? Not a farthing, I’m afraid.”
William laughed. “You’re not without some value, my dear. There is the ungodly amount of funds already paid to Lord Everstone which grants me the pleasure of claiming you as my bride. Come now, Violet. Admit what we’ve done. There is no sense in fighting the inevitable.”
Violet’s stormy gaze settled on William. “I’ll not begin a marriage on a lie, my lord. We both know we’ve not shared intimacies in any form.”
“And how do you explain my possession of these very distinct hairpins, sweetling? You watched me pick them up in the conservatory.” With a grin, he reached into his coat pocket.
Two glittery hairpins decorated with paste-jeweled violets lay in his extended palm.
Tristan could not believe what he was hearing. Did they honestly believe Violet had slept with this man?
“Son? I hesitate asking this of you, knowing what the answer will likely be.” Lord Darby waved a hand at Tristan. “Can you collaborate Lady Fiona Blackerby’s account? Tell us what you saw in the conservatory last night.”
“Lady Fiona…” Tristan could not conceal his confusion. “What the devil does she have to do with any of this?”
Lady Darby’s frown was compiled of great disappointment and sadness. “She has personally witnessed Violet leaving Lord Gadley’s room late at night on several occasions since his arrival. He does have Violet’s hairpins, which her mother confirms as hers. And last night, Lady Fiona revealed you and she entered the conservatory together where you encountered Violet and Lord Gadley in a… compromising situation.”
Tristan glanced at the man, fists clenching tight to see his smirk of victory.
It was true Violet lost some of her hairpins inside the conservatory. Tristan scooped two of them up himself; they were in his studio along with the others.
Was it possible Fiona went searching for him last night? If she visited the conservatory, she would have seen Tristan and Violet in their impassioned embrace. Perhaps she found the hairpins after they departed and then involved Gadley in this scheme. It was a plan ensuring they would both get what they wanted.
Violet shot daggers at him with her eyes, and Tristan immediately knew her thoughts.
Finding Violet there instead of Fiona, he had simply used the most convenient female.
“Not a word of that drivel is the truth,” Tristan said slowly, watching Violet’s reaction. “Violet was not in the conservatory with Gadley. And I assure you she never visited his room for any purpose, at any time of the day or night.”
“I’ve a witness who says otherwise, and Violet’s personal items that prove it,” Gadley scoffed. “I’m surprised at you, Longleigh. Lady Fiona looks so much like the Duchess of Richeforte and you seem well-suited. Why would you contradict the woman you really want? After all, there is your secret engagement, although it’s certainly not a secret now. I do hope you’ll do the honorable thing and marry the lady as quickly as I intend to marry Violet.”
Tristan’s blood boiled. Clearly, Gadley and Fiona cooked up this plot together. It was perfect, really. Marriage to Gadley meant a quick disposal of Violet while a path into Tristan’s bed was efficiently cleared for Fiona.
And he would be tricked into standing at the altar.
The scheming little bitch...
In three strides, Tristan crossed the room, seizing Violet’s hand from his mother’s. She did not resist when he hauled her up onto her feet.
Cupping her chin in his palm Tristan stared deep into her eyes.
“Who was with you in the conservatory, Violet?” He snarled the words, growing more furious when her mouth remained a line of stubbornness. “Tell them.”
“I was not in the conservatory last night, Lord Longleigh.” Her voice was cool, the denial as smooth as her brow. She hung limp in his grasp.
Tristan almost shook her in his frustration. “Damn you, Violet. Do you want to marry him? Do you?”
Fear of marriage to William sparked like distant lightning in her eyes before it was shuttered. “Of course not.”
“You will do as you’re told, Violet. Your failure will result in consequences you can’t possibly imagine,” Lord Everstone growled.
Lady Darby interjected softly, “Oh, my dear girl. You always have a home with us.” With a fierce glare for Violet’s mother, she added, “How can you allow your daughter to be bartered in such a manner, Eloise?”
Violet hung in Tristan’s grasp, giving no response to either her father’s threatening words or his mother’s sympathy.
Tristan understood at last. She would sacrifice herself, her reputation, and her honor rather than force Tristan into claiming her for his own. She’d made a promise she would never scheme nor lie to become part of his life. And that promise was kept by withholding the truth. If he only agreed with her statement, he would be free of her.
There was no doubt in Tristan’s mind that Violet’s parents would forcibly marry her to any man who paid their price.
“I say, Longleigh, I must object to you holding my fiancée in such a manner.” William pocketed the hairpins and withdrew a snuff box from the same pocket inside his coat.
After pinching a generous amount and inhaling it, he pointed an index finger at Violet. “Violet, once we are wed, this outrageous behavior will cease. I won’t have my wife whoring herself out to any man willing to fuck her beneath my very nose.”
With the roar of a furious lion, Tristan released Violet and lunged toward William, intent on destroying the man. Two quick jabs to the man’s face and one to his stomach occurred in a matter of seconds.
Somewhere in the room came the sound of his mother’s shocked cry, and Lord Darby’s chair scraping as he quickly stood. Lady Everstone let out an alarmed scream.
Violet’s moan of despair was the first sign of emotion she’d shown other than disgust.
“No, Tristan. Don’t. Please…”
But Tristan could not stop.
Holding the usually elegant man by the throat, his hands crushing the precise folds of his cravat, Tristan bit out, “I was the one kissing her, holding her, Gadley. I’ve caressed every inch of her soft skin. My lips discovered all her secrets and destroyed any resistance. And my hands sent those goddamn hairpins scattering everywhere by the conservatory fountain. I’ve taken everything, each little piece of her. Because she gave herself to me. Me. Not you. Anyone but you.”