Untaming Lady Violet by April Moran

Chapter 32

Nerves jangling with anxiety, Violet entered the dining room once the majority of guests had already taken their seats.

Tristan and Lord Everstone were not in attendance. Lady Fiona and Violet’s own mother were also conspicuously missing, although Lady Blackerby was there. The older woman gave Violet a tiny, apologetic nod before glancing away in quiet shame. No doubt her daughter’s actions had caused much consternation.

Violet fully expected Fiona would be present. If nothing else, the other girl could gloat over Violet’s disgrace.

The meal’s seating arrangements would surely result in further gossip. It was certainly a dramatic statement, and with it, there could be no doubt as to Violet’s acceptance into the Buchanan family.

“Here you are, my dear,” Lord Darby said in a jovial manner over the chatter of guests. “Here is your seat.”

It was one of honor, her placement to the right of Lord Darby’s at the head of the table. Celia was seated beside her while Grace occupied the chair on Lord Darby’s left.

Violet gave Lady Darby a tremulous smile. Gratitude filled her heart until it actually ached as she slid into the chair the elderly lord indicated.

From his own seat beside Lady Darby at the opposite end, Richeforte gave Violet a pleased nod of approval. For Grace, he had a wicked smile. A slight bruise shadowed the duke’s jawline, but it did not detract from his darkly golden handsomeness.

Violet wondered if Tristan’s own bruises might be oddly attractive. Not that she should care, but it remained a source of contemplation as the servants carried in the first course.

Between the two table ends, guests resumed conversations, and somehow, the atmosphere was both light and lively. Henry Bowman regarded her from where he sat across the table and a few seats away. The puppy-like sadness of his gaze was so pronounced, Violet squirmed in discomfort.

“Poor Lord Bowman,” Celia said with a low laugh. “Someone should blot away the drool on his chin if he intends on staring at you like that all evening. He is elated over the news you are no longer marrying Lord Gadley but devastated you are also off the marriage mart. He won’t dare approach you, though. Not with Tristan laying claim to you like a medieval warlord.”

Violet speculated if avoidance of that afternoon’s scandal resulted from Tristan’s willingness to settle insults with his fists, Lady Darby’s skill as a hostess, or Richeforte’s incredible sphere of influence amongst the ton.

Perhaps it was a combination of all three.

Celia leaned closer, whispering from behind a glass of wine, “Your father is still making quite the fuss behind those library doors. I can’t imagine Tristan will allow it to go on much longer. He is exhibiting an unusual amount of patience.”

Violet’s fingers tensed, gripping the stem of her goblet before relaxing. “It is of no concern to me.”

The exasperated noise Celia made in the back of her throat was covered by a sip of wine. “We both know that’s not true. Grace told me you refused Tristan’s proposal. Why, Violet? It’s what you’ve wanted for so very long.” The look she gave her friend was puzzled. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“It is what I wanted,” Violet admitted. Glancing around the table, she hoped others did not pay close attention to their conversation. “But it is not what Tristan wanted. And I’ll not be bound for life to a man who—”

The doors to the dining room suddenly flew open as though buffeted by the winds of a cyclone.

A cacophony of voices lifted in excitement, and shock filled the room. All attention turned to the man who paused in the doorway. A stern, yet determined expression contorted his features as he sought Violet out amongst the dinner guests.

When he found her bracketed by Lord Darby and Celia, his dark eyes softened.

And Violet realized her earlier speculation was correct.

Sporting his own bruised jawline and a small cut above one eye, which had escaped her notice earlier that day, Tristan was rakishly, dangerously attractive. Donned in a suit coat the color of dark coal, and a snowy white shirt and cravat, he had obviously found time to clean himself up following their last, brief conversation

The entire room became glaringly silent as Tristan stalked toward Violet. He came to a halt, standing between her and Lord Darby.

“Father.” Tristan’s head bowed in respect. Bending slightly at the waist, he then acknowledged Lady Darby at the opposite end of the impossibly long table. “Mother. If you will pardon my intrusion, it is imperative I speak privately with Lady Violet.”

Lord Darby harrumphed. Catching Violet’s eye, he gave her a wink while still cutting through a slice of roasted pheasant. “Won’t you have a bite of dinner first?”

Violet’s hands twisted in her lap. Beneath the table’s edge where no one could see, she had practically destroyed a lovely, delicately embroidered napkin.

Forcing her hands to still themselves, she congratulated herself when she reached for her wine goblet and there was no sign of anxiety. Taking a deliberate sip, she did not look at him. How could she when his very presence was a manifestation of shattered hopes, romantic dreams, and unrequited love?

How she managed to appear so coolly unaffected was a mystery even to herself.

His cologne, subtle and yet so frankly masculine it could be an aphrodisiac, tickled Violet’s nose. She remembered pressing her face against his bare chest and breathing deep of his scent only hours ago. Remembered despising the fact her skin smelled of him when she returned to her room earlier that very morning.

Setting the wine glass down, she was dismayed that her hand shook a little. When she quickly returned it to her lap, Celia reached over and gave Violet’s fingers an encouraging squeeze.

“No, thank you, Father.” Tristan shifted closer. “This conversation with Lady Violet cannot wait.”

Before Violet could draw a steady breath, his large, warm hand cupped her elbow. The crackle of energy when he touched her was nearly palpable.

“My apologies, Your Grace. Ladies. Gentlemen. Mother.” Then with the slightest amount of pressure, Tristan tugged Violet until she had little choice but to rise from her chair. It was either go willingly or be dragged.

“Come with me, Violet.”

When Violet hesitated, prepared to dig in her heels, the only word Tristan uttered was almost contrite, although laced with a touch of steel.

“Please.”

* * *

Tristan heldViolet’s hand as he led her down the corridor until they reached the library.

Ushered into the room first, Violet’s body tightened with apprehension. Were her parents waiting there? Ready to force her into marriage against her will? Perhaps Tristan had reached an agreement with Father, one where restitution for taking her virginity was secondary to the money Gadley had already put forth.

It would make sense… Tristan may turn his back with a clear conscience while Gadley retains his right to our family name. And Father emerges with more funds than he dreamed possible.

“They are not here, Violet.”

Tristan’s quiet statement accompanied the door closing with the weight of his back leaning against it. In the most casual manner, he crossed his arms and watched her reaction.

“You reached an agreement with Father?” Damn her own trepidation and the way it made her voice tremble.

Tristan’s eyes narrowed on her. “I have. It wasn’t easily done.”

Violet swallowed hard. “What I gave you freely last night must seem a terrible bargain today. I promised you no demands. No obligations. No responsibility. I never imagined our arrangement would come to light. Father has no right to make you pay for my stupidity.”

“I agreed to his demands, Violet.”

Her heart sank. No. More than that. It felt as though wolves were ripping her to pieces while her heart still beat inside her chest.

Violet briefly closed her eyes, praying she would not be ill.

“Oh? How much is a wallflower’s virginity worth these days?” Her demeanor was one of resignation. With Tristan’s payment to her father, she was well and truly trapped. “I ask out of simple curiosity.”

“Violet.” Tristan frowned at her question. “Seventy-five thousand pounds, if you must know. And payment of the note Gadley currently holds against the London townhome.”

Violet’s laugh was bitter. “My father should have shown a bit of mercy, considering I threw myself at your feet. He took advantage of you. You see, only my marriage to Gadley will release the sizeable lien against Everstone Hall. It will take the devil himself to erase that.” Squaring her shoulders as if preparing for battle, she said, “I should go now and pack my belongings. Father will want me delivered to Lord Gadley without delay.”

In less than five strides, Tristan crossed the room. Taking Violet by the shoulders, he forced her to face him.

“Unless you indicate otherwise, I won’t allow either of those two men anywhere near you. That goes for your mother, too, as much as I despise that being necessary,” he said fiercely, giving her a little shake as though it would make his point more effective. “And if I must pay more so that you are released from their schemes, I will.”

To Violet’s shame, tears clouded her vision. “This is impossible. When I am handed over, my role in all of this will be complete.”

“What the devil are you talking about? Hand you over—” Tristan swore beneath his breath. “I gave your father what he demanded. If the bastard wants more, I shall oblige him. Everstone will have no claim on you. Neither shall Gadley, even if he insists you still belong to him.”

“I belong to no one,” Violet said almost woodenly.

“Be that as it may, your parents will no longer control your future. Do you understand? You shall have your freedom.”

“At what price, Tristan? What shall I give you because of my father’s greed?”

Tristan’s jaw ticked with frustration. “I do not want anything that you are unwilling to give. And what I want most of all, you cannot give me. Will not give me.”

“What more do you want?” she cried.

“You. As my wife.”

“You will emerge empty-handed from this bargain,” Violet snapped.

“I would pay a thousand times more for the honor of untaming you, Violet. And I will pay any price to keep William Gadley from you.”

She stared up at him. This generosity was not because Tristan loved her; it was simply an instrument to be used against another man.

Violet’s knees wobbled with that realization. She sagged in his arms.

Tristan caught her easily, an arm snaking around her waist so she was kept aloft. He held her so tight Violet found it difficult to breathe.

But she didn’t want to breathe. She wanted to crawl away and nurse her wounded heart. She wanted to cry. And fight. And rage.

And she wanted more than life itself to hear this man admit that he loved her.