Page 9 of Untaming Lady Violet
“I’ve no injuries!”
“I must make sure. After all, it’s the very least I can do for such a dear friend of the family.”
Violet gave him such a look, one teetering between horror and elation, that Tristan hesitated. That one look slammed him back to awareness.
Toying with her was amusing, but this little flirtation might be considered cruel by some. And pointless.
“It’s turning cool, Lady Violet, and dusk approaches. You should return to the house.” Coming to his feet, he scooped up her slipper. Its mate was found along with other items at the base of the tree.
While she slid the shoes on, Tristan turned away. He refused to look at the dainty feet and fine-boned ankles his hands had roamed all over under the pretext of checking for injuries.
“You will forgive me if I do not escort you?” he said, staring at the canopy of glossy oak leaves above them. “It’s best not to court rumors.”
“Yes, of course.”
Her voice was hesitant again. Unsure and almost trembly.
Tristan hazarded a glance in her direction in time to catch her shaking out her skirts.
“There’s no need for formality at Darby Meadows, especially when our families have known one another for ages. You and Celia are like sisters to each other so you may call me Tristan, if you like. I would be honored to use yours in return, if you are so inclined to grant that permission.”
A flash of sadness lit Violet’s eyes, but her sweet smile had his heart stuttering in its beat.
It was difficult not to wonder how her pretty mouth would feel molded beneath his own.
“I’ve no objection to you using my given name, Tristan.” Violet took the picnic basket from his hands, nodding with approval when she saw he’d placed all of her books inside. “Will you attend supper tonight with everyone?”
“As I’ve only arrived, and with May Day festivities approaching, I won’t disappoint my mother so soon. So, the answer is yes. I shall.”
Tristan rarely disappointed his parents. Theirs was an uncommonly placid relationship, only recently marred by more recent disputes regarding his failure to pursue marriage.
“Surely, there are suitable women you could entertain as potential brides,” Father remarked earlier that afternoon. “You are turning twenty-seven years of age this year, Tristan, and it is high time you followed your friends’ examples. It is your duty to carry on the Buchannan bloodline and provide the next Earl of Darby. Knowing my poor health this past winter, it is imperative you address this matter soon.”
Tristan was admittedly concerned for Father’s health. Shortness of breath and troubling chest pains had laid the man low since the previous autumn. Now, feeling somewhat better with the warmer weather, the Earl’s attention re-focused on his legacy. Celia and Mother, curse them both, helpfully supplied a list of young women deemed eligible.
Privately, Tristan scoffed at his parents’ opinions on his avowed state of bachelorhood.
He did not suffer from a broken heart.
Nor melancholy. Or dejection. Nor was he drowning his sorrows in a string of mistresses and nights made hazy from alcohol, although he certainly enjoyed the delights of both.
Thetonwas frantic to turn his failure in marrying Grace into something worthy of a Shakespearean turn. Gossip mills insisted he still pined for the new duchess. That he drank and caroused so he might forget his stolen love.
No one realized more than Tristan himself that a union with Grace would have sputtered and burned to a quick death. They were too much alike, headstrong and impulsive. And while Grace amused him with her cleverness and wild spirit, he had regarded her as a possession kept out of his reach.
Grace recognized that from the very beginning. She never treated him as anything other than a sibling for which Tristan was eternally grateful. It made the swirling rumors of a bitter rift between himself and Nicholas easier to ignore. After all, any lingering resentment had been dissolved over a bottle of brandy before Nicholas and Grace’s nuptials even took place.
A carefree, pleasure-seeking bachelorhood where Tristan only worried for himself seemed the best path for him. He intended on keeping that status for as long as possible. Maybe even forever, regardless of his father’s wishes and pleas to find a suitable wife.
It was why rationalizing the words spilling from his mouth proved especially troublesome.
“I’ll have Mother seat me beside you for dinner. We’ll continue this discussion on tempting reluctant creatures from trees and what is best served as an incentive.”
Violet blushed but nodded in agreement. Before Tristan could utter another word, she turned and practically galloped down the hillside away from him.
The predator lurking within his soul reared its head.
What the devil was she running from?
