Page 74 of Untaming Lady Violet
“I’m sorry. Did I pull too hard?” Tristan’s lips hovered over the curve of her neck. With the corset strings loose in his fingers, he waited for an answer, his breath warm and still carrying a tinge of whiskey.
The anguish devouring Violet made speech difficult; she shook her head.
Tristan’s movements gentled just the same, his knuckles grazing her skin with such reverence she thought she might scream with the unfairness of it all. Her dress was settled over her head, twitched into place by his capable hands, and buttoned with lingering fingers.
My heart and virginity… all lost within the confines of this room. But I’ll take this memory to keep me warm during a lifetime of frost in another man’s bed. This was my choice. My choice, one I’ll never regret—
Violet stilled. Her gaze widened, her pulse thumping with alarming force as she tried making sense of what she saw across the room.
“Kitten? Are you all right?” Tristan inquired in a soothing manner, taking her by the shoulders and turning her toward him. He frowned at her distant stare, clucking his tongue. “Perhaps you require a brandy. Maybe something stronger. I have whiskey here some—”
Perplexed by the continued silence, he followed her gaze then stiffened. His fingers curled around her shoulders, then realizing he might be hurting her, he let go.
“What is that, Tristan?” Violet brushed past him, moving so slowly and deliberately it felt she was part of a strange dream.
“It’s nothing,” he replied with deceptive calm. No attempt was made at stopping her, but a quick glance over her shoulder revealed the tightness of Tristan’s jaw. His eyes glittered with an emotion Violet could not identify.
She halted in front of the canvas propped on the biggest of the three easels. This painting was the largest, with the details just beginning to sharpen under the artist’s brush.
But Violet recognized herself.
It washer, as Tristan had pointedly described his fantasy only weeks before. It was her, splayed on the table and naked. A sketched outline of a wine goblet and the almost transparent rendition of a crystal bowl concealed the small swell of a stomach and the junction of her thighs. An arm crossed over her breasts, and her head was propped in the opposite hand. Auburn red hair tumbled over ivory-hued shoulders, and her face —
Oh, God. Her face… A tiny smile redolent with lust illuminated that portion of the canvas. Mysterious and maddening, full lips tilted at the corner though reluctant to share a scandalous secret. And for her eyes, he’d given her dark amethyst jewels so deep and rich a man could drown in them.
A dizzying blend of love and lust shaped the delicate brushstrokes he’d lain. Possession tinged the colors. Denial honed the lines.
It was a masterpiece no one would ever lay eyes on.
In the real world, she was a timid, insecure wallflower.
But on Tristan’s canvas, she was transformed.
She was a goddess of wildflowers, blooming where she pleased.
Violet touched her lips with trembling fingers. Were they truly that full and stained with blood? “Is this how you see me?”
For a long moment, she wasn’t sure he would answer, but then Tristan sighed heavily.
“I told you once before, Violet. I seeyou.”
He sounded almost weary, maintaining the distance between them as Violet’s attention turned to the second painting.
This one was breezily innocent and closer to completion. It depicted her stretched on the green grass with her back against the trunk of a huge oak. Scattered about was a stack of books, an open basket with grapes spilling from it, and sleeping in her lap was a tiny orange kitten. A bird’s nest was barely visible, almost hidden in the foliage of one high, sweeping oak branch. And beside it, a lovely, little red-breasted robin gazing down at the girl below.
The third painting was the forfeit from their wager.
It was Carrot by the Rose Garden fountain, the sunlight setting his fur aglow, a mischievous glint in his wide, green eyes. The fountain sparkled behind him, red roses tumbling everywhere. Her dear, little kitten sat posed with a sort of regal grandeur that reminded Violet of a lion surveying his kingdom. It was magnificent and whimsical, and it shattered her heart into a million pieces.
“Why?” Her voice cracked with the question. “Why have you painted me? I don’t understand…”
Her heart thumped faster, waiting for his answer.
Waiting…
“I’m a painter,” he replied at last in a voice cool and detached. “It’s what I do for amusement. I paint all manner of subjects. Hell, whatever catches my attention at the moment might end up on a bit of canvas.”
Violet whirled on him, choking back a sob at the subtle note of cruelty in his tone.
