Page 2 of Untaming Lady Violet
Or was it?
Oh, goodness. It truly was.
Her insides tumbled as if caught up in a maelstrom.
Violet carefully inched her feet sideways. When the thick trunk loomed before her, she embraced its solidness but found her arms would not wrap completely around its ancient girth.
That wasn’t surprising as this particular oak was likely one of the largest at Darby Meadows. A perfect specimen of a climbing tree, it possessed numerous crooks and forks for one’s feet and hands. Gnarled arms jutted in every direction, twisting upon themselves where they swept low along the ground. Bright with spring greenery, the thick foliage provided excellent concealment for curious squirrels and frantic mother robins.
And foolish girls such as herself.
It was from this vantage point that Violet accidentally discovered the ideal perspective for a commissioned painting of the Earl of Darby’s sprawling manor house. Off in the distance, framed by forests and open green fields, it was a pastoral scene worthy of display in the Royal Gallery.
If only the earl’s son would join her. He would certainly appreciate the stunning view and commit it to canvas.
But she wouldn’t dare do something so imprudent as drawing his attention. He must never know she hovered in the branches high above him. If fortune were in her favor, that blasted errant slipper would remain undiscovered. The same went for the books stacked rather messily near the oak’s base. And the woven basket containing grapes and cheese the cook so thoughtfully packed in case she grew hungry.
Watching the man emerge from the grove, Violet fervently swore she would never,everclimb anything higher than the steps to her own bed.
He halted where the widespread branches of the surrounding trees cast an edge of shadows on the ground. Violet wondered what he might do next. There was no reason for stopping here while tramping through the forest.
Why did he not continue on his way?
Thwap. Thwap. Thwap.
What a strangenoise. Intermittent. Muffled. Out of place amongst the singing birds and the leaves which rustled every time the breeze picked up. Seconds ticked by until inquisitiveness got the better of Violet.
Her neck stretched as she tried for a better view through the canopy of leaves.
Is that a riding crop?
Crudely fashioned and thick as his wrist, it certainly resembled a crop. Violet frowned, having just watched him stalk across the meadows with no horse in tow and nothing in his hands.
In obvious agitation, the man slapped the object harder against his thigh. The noise rang even sharper. Violet winced.
Thwap!
Why, it wasn’t a crop at all, but a stick. Something he must have picked up upon entering the strand of trees.
“Hell and damnation… If he thinks I’ll be guilted or bullied into marriage, he’ll find it a wasted effort.”
The words were not muttered. They were forceful and clearly stated.
For eight long years, Violet had hung on this man’s every utterance, lived for every careless smile, and the roughness of his tone was unfamiliar. It was a bit frightening if she were being honest, and Violet believed very much in honesty.
Shrinking back against the tree trunk, she frowned again while his words sunk in.
Marriage.
Concern chilled Violet’s bones.
Had his father summoned him to Darby Meadows to issue that abhorrent ultimatum?
The earl must realize marriage was impossible for his only son, at least in the near future. After all, it was common knowledge the viscount currently suffered from a melancholy of rejection. An unfortunate by-blow of Grace Willsdown’s marriage to Nicholas March, the Duke of Richeforte.
How could anyone believe the handsome viscount pacing so restlessly below might forget his broken heart so quickly?
Or so easily?
