Page 77 of Untaming Lady Violet
She rubbed her arms when Tristan set her down, eyes panicked with concern and puzzled that her brother was in such a state of dishabille.
The entire day had passed while he rolled about in a drunken stupor. Who knew what hell Violet had faced during that time?
Rubbing a hand over his throbbing forehead, Tristan barked, “Christ! What time is it now?”
“Just after four o’clock. They’ve been in Father’s study for over an hour. Setting terms for her marriage to Gadley. It was thought you were with us during our afternoon ride, but when Father discovered you had not gone, he sent me to find you right away. It can’t be too late to save her. I refuse to believe it’s too late. Until they take her away from Darby Meadows, there is still a chance, Tristan.”
Tristan buttoned his shirt, raking a hand through his tumble of hair to bring it to some order. Turning his back on his sister, he quickly tucked the shirt into his trousers.
Realizing what those actions meant, Celia jumped to help.
Pouring water in the washbasin, she wet a cloth so he could wipe his face down, and put toothpowder on the brush. She then ran to the armoire and dragged out a pair of boots.
“These are lies, Tristan. Violet despises William Gadley. There is only one person she loves, and I do not need to say aloud who that man is…” Celia’s voice trailed off, unsure what else to say on the subject. Then she shook herself. “Hurry, Tristan.Hurry!”
In less than two minutes, Tristan was ready. For what, he wasn’t precisely sure, but quite possibly his task would be saving the fair maiden from the clutches of a villain. Violet should be free to choose her own husband. Not forced into marriage as a result of falsehoods and the greed of her parents.
He didn’t know how he could save her without risking his own neck, but he would try his damnedest.
* * *
Tristan was shockedto find Nicholas sprawled in a chair outside his father’s study.
The duke watched his approach with hooded, green eyes, his manner languid and deceptively relaxed. But that was all for show. Tristan knew his friend possessed the instinct and quick reactions of a feral wolf.
When Tristan reached him, Nicholas unfurled himself. He used his body as a means of blocking the door while gripping Tristan’s shoulder with one hand. He squeezed it tight with warning.
“Nothing inside that room is your concern, Longleigh.”
“What do you mean? Of course, it is—” Tristan replied, tersely.
Nicholas’s advice was genuine. “As a man avoiding the state of matrimony, you should tread lightly before placing yourself in the midst of these particular negotiations.”
Raised voices came from inside the room. A woman began crying, the sobs seeping through the oak door.
Both men tensed. Then Tristan shoved the duke’s hand aside. “Get out of my way, Richeforte.”
Nicholas regarded Tristan for a moment, his thoughts unreadable. Together, the two men had cut quite a swath through London, enjoying actresses and dancers and mistresses aplenty until Nicholas fell for his duchess. The duke had always been an expert at concealing his inner emotions with icy control while Tristan perfected the art of the carefree bachelor, hiding behind the lighthearted façade.
Tristan wondered if he could keep that same lifestyle now. He didn’t think he could. It would be so much harder to hide now.
Concern for Violet’s wellbeing etched his features.
“She needs me, Richeforte.”
Nicholas’s lip twitched with a ghost of a smile.
“I’ve no doubt about that.” The duke stepped aside with a slight bow. “Fair warning, however. Should you go in, do not expect to come out without a wife.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Tristan snapped, his hand on the doorknob of his father’s study. “This is likely a misunderstanding easily explained.”
Pushing through the door on that statement, he shoved it shut behind him with more force than was necessary. His gaze immediately sought out Violet as the occupants of the room collectively turned his way.
Violet was seated near the large windows on a settee upholstered in dark blue brocade. She was a ray of sunshine despite eyes swollen from crying and a face so pale she appeared ill. Her curvy form was immaculately clothed in a gown of periwinkle blue, all that glorious flame-sparked hair he’d run his fingers through just the night before now scraped into a bun so severe not a single tendril escaped.
She was not crying at the moment. At the sight of him, her gaze lit up with an undisguised joy before it hardened and grew distant. Tilting her chin higher, blood red lips in a tight line, she simply glared as though he were the reason behind this madness.
It was Violet’s mother who wept. Lady Everstone wrung her hands in distress, occasionally blotting her cheeks with a silk handkerchief. Lord Everstone, standing beside the chair his wife currently occupied, wore a thunderous expression directed at his daughter and no one else.
