Page 75 of Untaming Lady Violet
“And I… I caught your attention for the moment.”I will not cry in front of this man. I will not. I cannot.
A strange, almost pained expression crossed Tristan’s features before his shoulders lifted in a shrug. He had yet to don his shirt, and the movement made his bare chest ripple with muscles. “Of course. You are a beautiful woman. Why wouldn’t I immortalize you on canvas?”
Violet’s chin lifted. “Is that all you can say to me? Is that all there is to it? I interested you for a brief time because you thought I was beautiful. Temporary, but beautiful.”
He scowled. “Should there be more to it than that? For God’s sake. This—” He waved a hand toward the easels. “This is nothing. Do not look for hidden meanings behind a few brushstrokes, Violet. I painted a meadow full of lovely, but rather ordinary sheep once. Doesn’t mean I formed a lasting affection for sheep.”
Had he stabbed her with a hunting knife, slipped it right between her ribs while twisting the blade, he could not have hurt her more.
Head held high, Violet stalked past him to the settee and scooped up her shoes and gloves. She debated taking the time to don them, not relishing the idea of traversing the manor’s halls in her stockinged feet. A sobering realization struck her; she could not spend a minute longer in this man’s presence. There was the very real threat of bursting into sobs if she so much as glanced his way.
Making it to the door without a single teardrop sliding onto her cheeks was an accomplishment of massive proportions. Pride that she could restrain her emotions fought against the despair welling within her. If she could maintain her composure for a few seconds more, that pride would triumph and she could escape. Tristan would never know how badly he had sliced her with his derisive comments.
The doorknob rotated in her hand. She needed solitude to cry every bit of the pain out of her soul. She needed to hide from the world until she gathered the tattered pieces of herself back together.
But… Violet hesitated.
She turned, expecting Tristan watched her departure with an air of relief. Instead, resignation stamped his features into harsh lines. A hint of sorrow, possibly imagined by her broken heart, darkened his eyes as he stared at her.
“I wish I didn’t love you, Tristan. I wish I hadn’t told you that I do,” she choked out. “It is an emotion wasted on you. I only realize now that it has been that way for a long time. Of course, that is my fault, not yours. You did nothing to encourage my feelings for you in the beginning.”
Her head tilted as she regarded him. Her voice, so tortured at first, became stronger. Invincible. Brave. “You should know that I feel sorry for you, Tristan. Because you believe you see people. That you see me, but that’s not true. You cannot see what blinds you. And you waste precious time ignoring what is right before your eyes. I have the awful feeling you will spend the rest of your life in the dark. Surrounded by light and love and happiness but too afraid to share your own with someone.”
Glancing about the room one last time, Violet gave Tristan a wobbly smile. Tears stung her eyes, despite her best efforts at keeping them contained.
“Goodbye, Tristan. I do hope you remember me fondly, when you remember me at all.”
Slipping through the door, she closed it with a finality that crushed her heart.
Desperate to escape the terrible weight of her crumbling dreams, Violet broke into a run once she was in the corridor. Tears held back so bravely, now streamed in tiny rivers down her cheeks, forcing her to dash them away with the back of her hand.
She did not turn back, not even when a faint crashing sound echoed from behind Tristan’s studio door.
Shecouldn’tturn back. Not now.
After all, there was no longer anything or anyone in that room worth turning back for.
Chapter 30
Inside Tristan’s head, tiny devils bashed and clanged with gleeful amusement. They showed no signs of stopping.
Persistent.
Explosive
Merciless.
Perhaps if I open my eyes, they will cease.
Or if he rolled over, shoved his head under the pillow, and ignored the excruciating pain, they might magically go away.
The banging noises increased.
Fuck.
Perhaps he deserved it. Yes, he deserved it. Every last bit of the agony ripping him apart from the moment Violet left was truly earned.
With a groan, Tristan flopped onto his back, flinging an arm over his eyes to block out the sliver of sunlight piercing the crack in the drapes. That sunbeam was as sharp as a fisherman’s spear, and it stabbed him where he lay on his bed.
