Page 17 of Untaming Lady Violet
The chorus of strident male disagreement brought Violet up short.
How… astonishing. She heard mention of Longleigh followed by a bit of laughter from the gentlemen. Looking about the room, she found several men rather blatantly appraising her form. Unconsciously, she sucked in a breath to flatten her stomach and straightened her spine then cursed herself for caring about their opinion.
“It’s past your bedtime, I’m sure,” Fiona urgently piped up.
“Oh, do hush, Fiona!” Celia snapped. “Your jealousy is most unbecoming.”
“Jealousy!” Fiona cried. “Many gentlemen seek me out. More than I can count. More than this wallflower…”
“Pity, that.” Violet’s head tilted as she regarded the other girl, her voice lowering into something husky and determined. “To be so desperate you would give up everything rather than hold close to something which should be fought hard to win. I cannot and will not offer myself so freely. A gentleman must prove himself worthy of a favor. And if I am a wallflower because of this, then I suppose it is what I am and I must bloom alone.”
Fiona scowled while Celia’s eyes glimmered with unmistakable pride. Others regarded Violet with a curious mixture of discomfort and interest. Bowman maneuvered through the field of gentlemen, steadily pressing closer until he stood directly behind her.
“You are a prude,” Fiona finally sputtered.
Violet’s lips tugged upward with a tiny smile, the dimple in her cheek peeking out.
“Perhaps I am.” Her voice still quavered the tiniest bit; anyone listening carefully would recognize her trepidation. “But that will not be decided by these games. Nor by men who have not earned the right to discover if true or not.”
* * *
Tristan stood quietly,having slipped into the parlor just a few moments before. He had no idea what the current disagreement between the two women consisted of but Violet just amplified the tension. She issued a direct challenge no man could possibly ignore. It was a blatant invitation for pursuit.
The girl was either truly, woefully innocent, or she was a consummate flirt intent on enticing every man in her orbit. Regardless, she would prove a popular mark for gentlemen seeking sport.
His fists clenched at the thought.
Tristan studied Lady Fiona Blackerby. Her name was recently deemed acceptable for inclusion on the list Mother and Celia had devised. Although she resembled Grace March in coloring, with her blonde hair and fair complexion, upon closer inspection, one could see how little the lady held in common with the new Duchess of Richeforte. Grace’s sweet spirit spilled out of every pore. Lady Fiona, in stark contrast, possessed a hollowness of character which could not be concealed.
She’d also earned herself a comparison with Violet. Fiona could never hope to overcome such a challenge. It was unfair to expect it. With her quiet loveliness and pureness of soul, Violet was a burning light in a cavern of unending darkness. Tristan did not understand why he was drawn to her, but there was no denying the pull he felt.
It almost explained his presence here now. He watched Violet from a distance, drinking in the very sight of a girl he’d never really thought much about before their chance encounter in the forest.
Annoyance tipped something dangerous inside Tristan when Bowman placed a solicitous hand on Violet’s elbow.
“Lady Violet, it would be a pleasure to offer my services as escort, should you truly intend on retiring for the evening.”
Flouncing away in a show of aggravated temper, Fiona caught sight of Tristan near the parlor entrance. Her delight had all eyes swiveling in his direction.
“Longleigh!” Fiona exclaimed in a breathless exhale of syrupy sweetness. “You came after all! How wonderful!” Hurrying across the room as quickly as her heeled slippers would allow, Fiona slipped her hand into the crook of Tristan’s arm, beaming up at him. “It’s so frightfully boring here. Have you come to take me for that stroll around the gardens?”
Celia crossed her arms in obvious irritation, but Violet’s reaction disturbed Tristan the most. A flash of something similar to betrayal bloomed in her eyes before it was quickly shuttered. Bending her head toward Bowman, she murmured something indistinct. The man’s eyes lit up like twin bonfires.
St. Simon’s Cross.
Tristan could not in all honesty dispute Fiona’s misinterpretation of his actions. He had encountered the young woman upon leaving Violet in the parlor the first time, and in a state of distraction, he mentioned returning at some point in the evening.
Was it his fault Fiona believed he’d come for her instead of the auburn-haired, violet-eyed little cat casting surreptitious glances at him that very moment?
Tristan allowed Fiona the claim of his arm until they reached the main group. Using a maneuver that the Duke of Richeforte had taught him long ago, he slipped from her grasp. Her pouting huff of dismay was ignored.
“I shall happily escort you to your quarters, Lady Violet,” Tristan said, giving Violet a hard, warning look. He didn’t trust Henry Bowman within five yards of her, and certainly not isolated from view in a darkened corridor.
Violet’s lips curved in that oddly endearing bow shape. For God’s sake, how he wanted to trace those lips with the tip of his tongue. He’d kiss her slowly at first. Learn everything about her. Her pressure points. The tender spots.
How would she respond when he pulled that plump bottom lip of hers between his teeth, tugging slightly before his tongue slid deep into the recess of her mouth?
She would taste like ripe fruit. Peaches, maybe. Or red, juicy grapes just off the vine and bursting…
