Page 82 of Untaming Lady Violet
“Here you are, my dear,” Lord Darby said in a jovial manner over the chatter of guests. “Here is your seat.”
It was one of honor, her placement to the right of Lord Darby’s at the head of the table. Celia was seated beside her while Grace occupied the chair on Lord Darby’s left.
Violet gave Lady Darby a tremulous smile. Gratitude filled her heart until it actually ached as she slid into the chair the elderly lord indicated.
From his own seat beside Lady Darby at the opposite end, Richeforte gave Violet a pleased nod of approval. For Grace, he had a wicked smile. A slight bruise shadowed the duke’s jawline, but it did not detract from his darkly golden handsomeness.
Violet wondered if Tristan’s own bruises might be oddly attractive. Not that she should care, but it remained a source of contemplation as the servants carried in the first course.
Between the two table ends, guests resumed conversations, and somehow, the atmosphere was both light and lively. Henry Bowman regarded her from where he sat across the table and a few seats away. The puppy-like sadness of his gaze was so pronounced, Violet squirmed in discomfort.
“Poor Lord Bowman,” Celia said with a low laugh. “Someone should blot away the drool on his chin if he intends on staring at you like that all evening. He is elated over the news you are no longer marrying Lord Gadley but devastated you are also off the marriage mart. He won’t dare approach you, though. Not with Tristan laying claim to you like a medieval warlord.”
Violet speculated if avoidance of that afternoon’s scandal resulted from Tristan’s willingness to settle insults with his fists, Lady Darby’s skill as a hostess, or Richeforte’s incredible sphere of influence amongst theton.
Perhaps it was a combination of all three.
Celia leaned closer, whispering from behind a glass of wine, “Your father is still making quite the fuss behind those library doors. I can’t imagine Tristan will allow it to go on much longer. He is exhibiting an unusual amount of patience.”
Violet’s fingers tensed, gripping the stem of her goblet before relaxing. “It is of no concern to me.”
The exasperated noise Celia made in the back of her throat was covered by a sip of wine. “We both know that’s not true. Grace told me you refused Tristan’s proposal. Why, Violet? It’s what you’ve wanted for so very long.” The look she gave her friend was puzzled. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“It is what I wanted,” Violet admitted. Glancing around the table, she hoped others did not pay close attention to their conversation. “But it is not what Tristan wanted. And I’ll not be bound for life to a man who—”
The doors to the dining room suddenly flew open as though buffeted by the winds of a cyclone.
A cacophony of voices lifted in excitement, and shock filled the room. All attention turned to the man who paused in the doorway. A stern, yet determined expression contorted his features as he sought Violet out amongst the dinner guests.
When he found her bracketed by Lord Darby and Celia, his dark eyes softened.
And Violet realized her earlier speculation was correct.
Sporting his own bruised jawline and a small cut above one eye, which had escaped her notice earlier that day, Tristan was rakishly, dangerously attractive. Donned in a suit coat the color of dark coal, and a snowy white shirt and cravat, he had obviously found time to clean himself up following their last, brief conversation
The entire room became glaringly silent as Tristan stalked toward Violet. He came to a halt, standing between her and Lord Darby.
“Father.” Tristan’s head bowed in respect. Bending slightly at the waist, he then acknowledged Lady Darby at the opposite end of the impossibly long table. “Mother. If you will pardon my intrusion, it is imperative I speak privately with Lady Violet.”
Lord Darby harrumphed. Catching Violet’s eye, he gave her a wink while still cutting through a slice of roasted pheasant. “Won’t you have a bite of dinner first?”
Violet’s hands twisted in her lap. Beneath the table’s edge where no one could see, she had practically destroyed a lovely, delicately embroidered napkin.
Forcing her hands to still themselves, she congratulated herself when she reached for her wine goblet and there was no sign of anxiety. Taking a deliberate sip, she did not look at him. How could she when his very presence was a manifestation of shattered hopes, romantic dreams, and unrequited love?
How she managed to appear so coolly unaffected was a mystery even to herself.
His cologne, subtle and yet so frankly masculine it could be an aphrodisiac, tickled Violet’s nose. She remembered pressing her face against his bare chest and breathing deep of his scent only hours ago. Remembered despising the fact her skin smelled of him when she returned to her room earlier that very morning.
Setting the wine glass down, she was dismayed that her hand shook a little. When she quickly returned it to her lap, Celia reached over and gave Violet’s fingers an encouraging squeeze.
“No, thank you, Father.” Tristan shifted closer. “This conversation with Lady Violet cannot wait.”
Before Violet could draw a steady breath, his large, warm hand cupped her elbow. The crackle of energy when he touched her was nearly palpable.
“My apologies, Your Grace. Ladies. Gentlemen. Mother.” Then with the slightest amount of pressure, Tristan tugged Violet until she had little choice but to rise from her chair. It was either go willingly or be dragged.
“Come with me, Violet.”
