Page 59 of Untaming Lady Violet
It can’t be true…
Wrapping her arms around her waist, Violet let out a little hiccup of despair and began walking in the direction Lawrence indicated.
She knew every entry into the manor house. Knew every path and corridor as intimately as if they belonged to her. She’d practically grown up at Darby Meadows, and for Violet, that was both a curse and a blessing. The close proximity afforded the opportunity to adore Tristan while at the same time she suffered the acute agony of longing for him.
Yes, she knew this house. Knew its secrets and its charms. And out of all the nooks and crannies, the open corridors, the elegant parlors and stately public areas, the massive Darby conservatory held a distinct place in her heart.
She adored it even more than the secluded third-floor studio where a dark-eyed, deceptively complex, outwardly light-hearted artist created beauty on swaths of canvas.
The conservatory was a special place, infused with magic and the heady scent of foreign flowers and earthy soil. Here, beneath a sky made of glass and darkened by rainclouds, Violet fell in love.
Violet remembered that day well. Remembered Tristan rising with a scowl, irritated by the interruption. She would never forget how her heart nearly stopped at the fierce beauty of his features, his chocolate brown hair tumbling over his brow before it was pushed into unruly obedience with a quick thrust of his fingers. His scowl melted into a smile at the sight of his sister.
When the young viscount bowed over Violet’s hand as Celia made the introductions, she had cursed the blasted shyness striking her mute. The rain drumming against the glass walls and ceiling echoed the pounding of her young heart until Violet wondered if she would faint for the first time ever.
And Tristan, dark eyes full of mischief, well accustomed to female adoration in all forms, had merely winked in acknowledgment of her speechlessness.
Yes, the conservatory was a special place indeed.
Melancholy for silly, childish dreams and memories of visits over the years called Violet there now. As if pulled along on a silken thread, she glided forward. The night whispered in approval, enveloping her in velvety darkness until the magnificent iron and glass structure loomed ahead.
The outer doors hung slightly ajar, emitting a sliver of light. The head gardener was meticulously fussy regarding such matters; few braved his wrath when it came to the care lavished on the fragile specimens within. These doors were never left open.
Slightly fogged glass windows glowed with lamplight. There was the faint outline of numerous plants and exotic trees, but it was impossible to determine if anyone had actually slipped inside or if a servant left the doors cracked open by mistake.
Violet pushed past the large, double doors, breathing deeply of the richly scented air. Mindful of the need to retain the warmth and humidity, she tugged at the heavy portals until they shut behind her with a low clang.
I should continue on my way to the main house.
And she would, too. In a moment.
There was a quiet hush inside the cavernous space. Leaves rustled slightly as an unseen breeze from an unknown source swirled the air with a feather’s touch. An occasional chirp came from tiny sparrows that found their way inside the glass sanctuary and built nests within the branches of lemon and orange trees. The musical tinkling sound of the water fountain, dripping and splashing over the basin’s confines, was broken occasionally by the appreciative croaking of a frog.
It seemed she was alone inside the conservatory.
Violet sighed, her tension easing away. She dearly loved this place. More than the Everstone manor house tucked away in Derbyshire or her parents’ spacious townhome in London. She suspected both residences were likely levied to the hilt, and their continued ownership rested on her future marriage.
But those problems were easily forgotten here. This would be one of the last times she could enjoy the quiet solitude of the conservatory. Here, she could nurse her heart.
Crushed stone pathways meandered through vine-covered arbors and past secret niches inhabited by Greek statuaries. The jungle-like greenery and lush blooms were crafted so the pathways ended at a central water feature and the benches surrounding it. Decorative lanterns composed of glass and set on stakes at shoulder height illuminated Violet’s way.
She would gather her thoughts here and summon her strength. Reflect on what she’d overheard on the terrace. More importantly, she could determine how to survive marriage to any man who had the misfortune to be someone other than the viscount.
The sound of ice clinking against glass alerted Violet that she was not alone. She froze, mindful she could be intruding upon someone’s stolen moments.
But curiosity strained against the boundaries of decency.
Who is there? Do I want to know? Do I dare find out? Please don’t let it be Tristan and Lady Fiona. I will simply die. From embarrassment. From heartache...
She could turn around this very moment.Shouldturn around. Should leave before she ever laid eyes on whoever was by the fountain; leave before that person or personssawher.
Her hesitation was futile. Her chest tightened, her throat closing up and preventing speech.
Tristan sauntered into the middle of the pathway ahead of her. A tumbler containing some sort of liquor dangled loosely from his hand.
Their eyes locked. Darkest blue held hostage by deep, wicked sable.
A shiver of unadulterated excitement wracked Violet. It was useless to even attempt hiding it when it possessed the strength to buckle her knees.
