Page 34 of Untaming Lady Violet
“Forget our wager if you wish but I’ll have your promise I may paint that little beast.” His murmur tickled her ear. “Consider it a gift.”
“I don’t think it is wise…”
“Promise me, Violet,” he cut her off, his arm tightening while his other hand drifted down until it rested lightly on the curve of her hip. “It will please me to do this for you.”
Violet knew the rejection of his apology disturbed him more than he wanted her to know. Nodding her consent, she saw relief flash in his eyes before his dark lashes swept down. That unexpected glimpse of vulnerability lurking inside Tristan Buchanan twisted her heart.
But far worse, it made resisting him nearly impossible.
Chapter 13
Tristan rested his shoulders against the wall and rubbed his eyes.
What madness possessed him to go to her room? Worse, what insanity made him enter?
“You’re a fool. That’s what you are. A fool,” he mumbled angrily.
“Agreed, dear brother.”
Tristan’s head came up with a snap.
Celia stood outside her own doorway just down the hall, dressed for an early morning ride. Her maroon riding habit with gold trim was flattering, but the frown directed toward him was disapproving.
“Nothing untoward happened,” Tristan said flatly.
“How can one be sure?”
“Because I said so.”
Celia waved a hand. “Not good enough. Tristan, you simply cannot trifle with Violet in the manner you do other women. Don’t you understand?” Fierce protectiveness loomed in her tone. “You may be experiencing a temporary fascination, but she will soon be engaged to another and your actions are bound to be considered scandalous. If Father knew what I just witnessed, he would—”
“Don’t remind me. I know how eager he is to see me wed. He’d welcome any chance to tie me to a suitable bride.” Tristan almost snarled the words then was immediately sorry when Celia bit her lip.
“He really has been ill, Tristan. And he has decided marriage is what you need to find contentment. After the situation with Grace, can’t you see why he hopes you will find love?”
Tristan sighed. With an arm around his sister’s shoulder, he gave a little squeeze and smiled apologetically. “I do understand. And I’m sorry for my tone, Celia. Only, I’ve no wish to be forced into marriage any more than you do. Father is concerned for his legacy, but my life should not be sacrificed for that.” He kissed her temple. “I’ll marry when I please. Whom I please. At this moment, that does not include anyone on the list you and Mother have concocted. And it does not involve Violet Everstone. Oddly enough, I hope I may help her avoid the state of matrimony as well. I cannot think of a more unsuitable husband than Lord Gadley. Other than myself, of course.”
“Lord Ghastly,” Celia corrected automatically.
“What’s that?”
“Oh.” Celia shook her head. “Just something of a joke between myself and Violet. Forget I said that.”
Tristan’s head tilted, but he allowed her comment to pass. “I’d appreciate if you kept this incident to yourself, but if you must know, I was merely apologizing for something I said last night. While renewing my offer of painting her cat, the beast tried escaping her room.”
“I believe you, Tristan.” Celia glanced toward Violet’s door, a sad smile curving her lips. “Just remember, brother. Violet’s heart is a tender one. If you have no intention of offering for her, then you must keep your distance. She wouldn’t survive you, and you know that.”
* * *
Later that morning,Tristan pondered Celia’s words upon returning to the third-floor salon. It was the space used for his artwork when he was in residence at Darby Meadows, and his parents agreeably kept it looked after.
With a corner location, it nearly always had perfect lighting; the soft magic of early morning, the sunshine-bright clarity of mid-afternoon, and the dreamy glow of dusk. It was such a special space he always had some project in progress whenever he visited. True, there was a large, well-appointed studio in his own home at Longleigh Woods, but for some reason, it could never match the magic of his childhood one.
He studied the canvas he’d started two days before. It was a rough outline of a massive oak with a stack of books and a picnic basket at its base. A horizon of rolling fields and fences was already sketched in; those details he would concentrate on at a later date. Right now, he wanted to put to canvas the figure of the woman who disrupted his sleep and possessed eyes the color of violets.
Celia’s admonishment that he should keep his distance stung him more than he expected. Did she honestly think he would intentionally hurt Violet? He would never do such a thing. Cruelty was not one of his pleasures, after all. It was easier avoiding entanglement in the first place, his droll humor easing the pains a lady might experience from rejection.
Picking up a bit of charcoal, Tristan thoughtfully brushed lines onto the taut canvas. A lush, womanly form quickly emerged, and from there, he drew the pert upturn of his muse’s nose in profile. He imagined her locks unbound, flowing over her shoulder as she slumped against the oak, a kitten in her lap and her attention fixed on the horizon. The scene flowed from the window inside his mind to the medium’s surface.
