Untaming Lady Violet by April Moran

Chapter 8

After Celia interrupted their peculiar conversation, Violet wasted little time in retreating. Murmuring a rather paltry excuse, she fled the parlor, leaving Tristan to dodge Celia’s pointed questions. Questions he had no intention of answering.

Tristan rose early the next morning, determined to put the previous evening behind him. Determined he would keep his distance from Violet for the remainder of his time at Darby Meadows.

As soon as the May Day Affair is over, I’m off to Longleigh Woods. Staying here is a recipe for disaster.

Stalking down the path leading to the stables, he recalled Violet’s agitation the night before. During her escape, she’d not spared him a second glance and Tristan couldn’t blame her. He’d made a terrible mess of things.

Thinking which of his father’s geldings he would saddle, he rounded a bend in the path and found the object of his dreams striding along the same walkway.

“Of all the damned luck…” Tristan bit off the curse.

There was the hope she never caught sight of him, but the crunch of his boots on the path’s gravel alerted her of his presence.

Violet glanced over her shoulder, a small sound of distress escaping at the sight of him. But she halted, waiting on the path until he caught up.

“Good morning, Lord Longleigh.” Her smile was wan and somewhat exasperated.

Tristan fought back a surge of arousal.

I nearly devoured you last night. Your hips were against mine yesterday afternoon. I woke at dawn with your name on my lips, my own hand gripping my cock. Fantasizing that it was your innocent fingers stroking me. And still, you call me by my formal title?

How could she look so beautiful this early in the morning? It wasn’t fair she appeared somewhat well-rested when he’d tossed and turned all night, mind overflowing with all manner of debauched plans for the lovely Lady Violet.

And it wasn’t fair there was no chance a single one of those would ever come true.

She must have forgone the services of her maid and dressed herself. Her morning gown was a lovely peach moiré silk, simple in design with delicate ivory buttons pulling the bodice closed. Left unbound, her hair was a banner of dark auburn flames, the soft waves reaching the curve of her waist. A matching silk ribbon pulled it all away from her face.

Tristan could hardly tear his gaze away from the beauty of those tresses. He wanted a chunk of it wrapped tight around his fist while he brought their mouths together for a scorching kiss. He’d use those soft curls as a silken tether. Tug them until her spine formed a lovely arch, and with one hand spanning her perfect heart-shaped buttocks, he’d anchor her in place while he slid inside her…

“Good morning, Violet.”

She frowned, obviously dismayed he was using her given name.

Turning toward the stables, Violet began walking once more, the delicate scent of her lavender and vanilla perfume drifting on the morning air. She seemed determined to place some distance between them, as was he. He just couldn’t let her go so soon.

“What are you doing up and about so early?” He noticed she carried a bit of cloth but couldn’t see what it contained.

“I’ve business in the stables.” Seeing where his gaze drifted, Violet clutched the tiny bundle tighter.

“Will you ride this morning?”

Her lips firmed. “I will not.”

“I’ll accompany you, if you do not wish to take a groom. I’m going anyway, so— “

“I do not ride, my lord.”

“Of course, you do,” Tristan insisted.

“I haven’t ridden in a long while.” Violet shot him a faintly accusing look, as though he was expected to know this bit of information. “There was an… incident, you see. Horses frighten me.”

Tristan stared at her. He and Celia were expert riders; he couldn’t imagine anyone being afraid of a horse.

“Oh? What happened?”

He knew by the way her chin tilted Violet would not share that information.

“It is of no matter now.” Her steps quickened.

Changing tactics, Tristan motioned at the cloth in her hand. “What do you have there?”

Her eyes shyly darted to meet his. “You’re quite curious this morning.”

“Some say inquisitiveness is one of my finest qualities,” he smirked. “My persistence even more so.”

“Surpassed only by your vanity, apparently,” Violet huffed and resumed marching briskly.

Tristan grinned and, with a shrug of his shoulders, fell into step beside her. Silently, they continued until they reached the stables. A few stable boys bustled about the dim interior, gathering items for their morning chores.

“Enjoy your ride, my lord.” Violet nodded in dismissal as she moved down an aisle leading toward the rear of the building.

Where the devil is she going?

Tristan watched her hurry away, torn between letting her go or following so his curiosity could be satisfied.

Stepping to the stall of a gelding he often rode when he did not bring his own to Darby Meadows, he stroked the bay’s muzzle, deep in thought.

What business did Violet have here in the stables of all places, this early in the morning? And what did she have wrapped so tightly in that piece of cloth? A treat for one of the horses? One of the groomsmen or a stable boy? If she didn’t ride, there was no reason she should be here.

Why was she being so secretive?

More importantly, why did he care?

With a sigh, Tristan straightened his coat.

“Well, there’s nothing for it. I’m off to pursue a vexing redhead.” He smoothed a hand over the gelding’s neck in an apologetic farewell. “Perhaps we’ll get that ride in later, boy.”

In a matter of moments, he caught up with his selected prey. There was a small courtyard at the back of the stable building and upon reaching the doors, Tristan slammed to a halt.

He couldn’t be sure what he was witnessing. Neither could Violet, for she stood immobile, the morning sun creating a halo around her.

They both stared at the scene before them.

“You’re goin’ in this bloody bucket if it’s the last thing I do on this earth, you spawn of Satan. Owww! You blasted creature!”

Mister Pope, Darby Meadows’ head groomsman, sat on a low bench, a metal pail between his knees. His shirtsleeves were rolled up and towels lay spread around haphazardly. Latched onto his forearm, claws digging deep into the flesh, was a dark grey bundle of fur roughly the size of a lady’s slipper. It snarled and hissed, and each time Mister Pope unlatched its claws from one area of skin, it found another unprotected patch to attack.

Mister Pope screeched again. “Bloody hell! In you go, with my arm or not!”

Before Tristan could demand what was going on, Violet took matters into her own hands.

In one smooth motion, she dropped the mysterious bundle and snatched up a pitchfork leaning against the last stall. Then, like an avenging angel of fire and brimstone, she rushed toward Mister Pope.

“Stop! Whatever you are doing to that poor kitten, stop! You’re killing it! Oh, you heartless monster!”

“Violet! Wait!” Tristan shook off his dazed astonishment. “Wait!”

Startled by the well-dressed young lady brandishing a pitchfork and crying murder, Mister Pope jumped up from the bench. The pail overturned, sending soapy water across the courtyard bricks.

Pope’s grip never loosened on the kitten. Or perhaps, its grasp never loosened on him.

“Violet!” Tristan reached her before the tines of the pitchfork found their mark. Wrapping an arm about her waist, he lifted Violet off her feet while ripping the weapon from her fists. It was tossed aside with a loud clatter.

“Mercy! Mercy, milady!” Pope scrambled back, knocking the bench over in the process. Ungodly caterwauling from the kitten accompanied his panicked pleas.

Slipping and sliding in the suds, the poor man tripped over the bench, falling with a thud on his backside.

“Let me go!” Violet wailed, grabbing Tristan’s hand where it pushed against her belly. She was crushed tight against him. “He means to drown the poor thing… Oh! He’s hurting it. Can’t you hear it screaming? Let me go, blast you!”

Tristan jerked her harder to him, his mouth against her ear as she struggled.

“Settle yourself, Violet. Right now. I’ll get to the bottom of this, but if you cannot calm yourself, I shall take you into an empty stall and do it for you the only way I know how. Do you understand?”

“Please, go help it…” In an absolute panic, she continued pushing at his hands until Tristan nipped her ear.

At her shocked gasp of breath, Tristan murmured low in the silence, “Settle. Down. Take a deep breath, now. That’s it. Easy. Shh. Easy, now. As long as I’m here, no one will dare hurt or kill anything. I swear to you. I swear. Do you believe me?” When Violet gave a slight nod, slumping almost defeatedly in his arms, Tristan’s lips brushed her temple in a fleeting caress. “Good girl. Now, I’m setting you down so we may determine what this is all about.”

Violet’s answer was a hiccup of a sob.

Tristan lowered her to the ground, curling his hand in hers. Pope watched warily, covered in soapy water and streaks of dirt. The kitten emitted a low, grumbling meow. It sounded as if it was in excruciating pain, but Tristan could see how carefully the man held the tiny thing.

“Mister Pope, explain yourself if you can. And for the moment, I’ll keep Lady Violet from running you through with a pitchfork.”