Page 22 of Untaming Lady Violet
“Will you ride this morning?”
Her lips firmed. “I will not.”
“I’ll accompany you, if you do not wish to take a groom. I’m going anyway, so— “
“I do not ride, my lord.”
“Of course, you do,” Tristan insisted.
“I haven’t ridden in a long while.” Violet shot him a faintly accusing look, as though he was expected to know this bit of information. “There was an… incident, you see. Horses frighten me.”
Tristan stared at her. He and Celia were expert riders; he couldn’t imagine anyone being afraid of a horse.
“Oh? What happened?”
He knew by the way her chin tilted Violet would not share that information.
“It is of no matter now.” Her steps quickened.
Changing tactics, Tristan motioned at the cloth in her hand. “What do you have there?”
Her eyes shyly darted to meet his. “You’re quite curious this morning.”
“Some say inquisitiveness is one of my finest qualities,” he smirked. “My persistence even more so.”
“Surpassed only by your vanity, apparently,” Violet huffed and resumed marching briskly.
Tristan grinned and, with a shrug of his shoulders, fell into step beside her. Silently, they continued until they reached the stables. A few stable boys bustled about the dim interior, gathering items for their morning chores.
“Enjoy your ride, my lord.” Violet nodded in dismissal as she moved down an aisle leading toward the rear of the building.
Where the devil is she going?
Tristan watched her hurry away, torn between letting her go or following so his curiosity could be satisfied.
Stepping to the stall of a gelding he often rode when he did not bring his own to Darby Meadows, he stroked the bay’s muzzle, deep in thought.
What business did Violet have here in the stables of all places, this early in the morning? And what did she have wrapped so tightly in that piece of cloth? A treat for one of the horses? One of the groomsmen or a stable boy? If she didn’t ride, there was no reason she should be here.
Why was she being so secretive?
More importantly, why did he care?
With a sigh, Tristan straightened his coat.
“Well, there’s nothing for it. I’m off to pursue a vexing redhead.” He smoothed a hand over the gelding’s neck in an apologetic farewell. “Perhaps we’ll get that ride in later, boy.”
In a matter of moments, he caught up with his selected prey. There was a small courtyard at the back of the stable building and upon reaching the doors, Tristan slammed to a halt.
He couldn’t be sure what he was witnessing. Neither could Violet, for she stood immobile, the morning sun creating a halo around her.
They both stared at the scene before them.
“You’re goin’ in this bloody bucket if it’s the last thing I do on this earth, you spawn of Satan.Owww!You blasted creature!”
Mister Pope, Darby Meadows’ head groomsman, sat on a low bench, a metal pail between his knees. His shirtsleeves were rolled up and towels lay spread around haphazardly. Latched onto his forearm, claws digging deep into the flesh, was a dark grey bundle of fur roughly the size of a lady’s slipper. It snarled and hissed, and each time Mister Pope unlatched its claws from one area of skin, it found another unprotected patch to attack.
Mister Pope screeched again. “Bloody hell!In you go, with my arm or not!”
