Page 8 of Untaming Lady Violet
“I’ve crushed you, haven’t I? Is it your arm? A rib? Tell me… what is broken? Perhaps you’ve suffered a head injury.”
“A head injury?” With a grimace, Tristan pulled himself into a sitting position.
“Oh, dear. You do not remember a shoe landing on your head? This may be more serious than either of us realize. I shall seek help, but I cannot go in my bare feet. Speaking of my slipper, I do believe you are, um… sitting on it now.”
Tristan sucked in another breath, willing the fuzziness in his head to dissipate. “It’s neither my ribs nor my arm, for God’s sake. And it’s not a head injury, although not for lack of trying. You—”
He abruptly clamped his mouth shut. How did one inform a well-bred young lady that she’d kneed him in the ballocks? One couldn’t, of course. Even if he’d licked the coppery-sweet tang of her blood from the tip of his finger just mere seconds ago, for God knew what reason, he couldn’t be that bold.
Had he really done that? Tasted her as if he were some sort of animal and she were his latest catch?
St. Simon’s Cross… what the hell am I thinking? She’s my sister’s dearest friend. I’ve known her since she was just a girl.His teeth ground.“An elbow to my stomach is the only damage. I’m fine.”
Violet looked unconvinced, flushing such an alarming shade of pink, that Tristan worried she might actually faint.
“My slipper…” she squeaked out.
Rolling to his feet in one smooth motion, Tristan grasped Violet’s elbow, steadying her when she swayed in alarm at his quickness. Eyes wide, she touched the center of his chest, the palm of her hand flat against his skin.
Imagining all the things he could do with Violet Everstone was turning him inside out. He sucked in a breath, his heart racing beneath her palm.
“You’ve turned a peculiar shade,” Violet whispered, peeking up at him. “Greenish. Like a gooseberry. I don’t know what to do to help you.”
“I’m quite all right, Lady Violet. Do not concern yourself.”
“It is hardly inconsequential to have someone of my size land on you. You have my sincerest apologies.” Her hand clenched his shirt as she regarded him anxiously. “Can you walk? Or should I return to the house and arrange for a cart to help in transporting you across the meadow?”
“Your size—” Tristan stared in astonishment, suddenly realizing Violet thought herself to be overweight.
Nothing could be further from the truth. While softly rounded in all the best places, those places a man expected to feel plump flesh between his fingers and beneath his palms, Violet hardly needed to worry about an overabundance of figure.
She was lush and feminine, the top of her head barely reaching the center of his chest. Everything about her made him feel strangely more masculine. Dear God, she even smelled delicious. Like lavender mixed with something delicately earthy. Vanilla, perhaps. Or bergamot.
Tristan frowned. “Rest assured, your sizeisnotan issue. I daresay you weigh no more than a dormouse.”
Violet’s eyes lowered. Again, she licked her bottom lip. It was still bleeding, but just barely. Tristan reminded himself shehadfallen from the tree. And the devil take it, now he knew how she tasted.
Easily holding her captive with a hand on her elbow, he asked, “Are you injured anywhere on your person?”
“Injured?” She repeated his question breathlessly. “No. I don’t believe so.”
Tristan ran his palms down her arms.
How lovely she would be captured on canvas. Damn if I wouldn’t pay a king’s ransom for the privilege of painting her.
An ordinary man might overlook the details his artist’s heart and eye greedily noted. Devouring her features, he took in the heart-shaped face and daintily upturned nose. Eyebrows of dark auburn arched above thickly lashed, violet-hued eyes, giving her the appearance of a gentle doe. High cheekbones sat in pleasing proportion with the rest of her features, and a tiny dimple graced her right cheek whenever she smiled.
As far as Tristan could see, Violet possessed not a single freckle, unusual given the shade of her dark red hair. Smooth and unblemished, her skin was the color of ivory. And warm. So damned warm she didn’t feel real. He half believed she would feel like cool marble beneath his hands.
Tristan abruptly sank to the ground. Delving beneath her skirts, he traced her ankles with gentle fingers. There were no swollen or tender areas, but she was now missing both slippers. He quickly assessed her tiny toes through silk stockings, smiling when a mortified gasp escaped her.
Violet stumbled back as far as he would allow.
Tristan’s fingers circled around one trim ankle and tightened, keeping her prisoner.
“Lord Longleigh! This is completely unnecessary!”
Tristan chuckled. His hand lingered, brushing the fine bones in exploration. “I disagree. You appear quite shaken. How else should I determine your injuries?”
