Page 59 of These Violet Delights
“I know.”
“How will we resolve it?” he asked, watching her, enjoying her playful distress. He took one of her dark curls with his forefinger and wound it around his knuckle, letting it bounce back and sway in the blue light.
“We are doomed, I think, to never see you on canvas. Not by my hand, anyway. Perhaps I could paint your horse instead, or your dog. Do you have a dog?”
“I had one, yes, a faithful lad called Barry, but he died two winters ago. I shall have to get another to give you something to paint.”
Violet snorted, viewing him askance. “Maggie will want this for her book—the woman who painted dogs and never a man.”
“Mr. Lavin will still get my fifty pounds, but I will be disappointed.”
She shrugged, leaning toward his touch as he caressed another curl of her hair. “Mm. And I am sorry for that, but one must never break a promise to oneself; those are the most sacred of all.”
“I agree. What if you made another promise to yourself? Something like: I shall only paint a man if he proves himself worthy of the honor.”
The lady considered it for a long moment, bobbing side toside. “That is a promise I would make myself, but I fear it would not solve our current dilemma.”
Alasdair joined in with her sudden laughter, surprising her by leaning forward and taking her in his arms. Smoothly, he pulled her down to the back of the sofa until they were reclining, the cold of the windows a bracing shield against the tops of their heads. When he brought her face to his this time, she did not resist with any outbursts, and he was grateful for it. He kissed her, softly at first, searching for permission she gave with a swift little bite to his lip. He nipped her back and deepened the embrace, crushing her against his body until he felt the sweet pressure of her leg sliding over his, holding him to her.
Violet leaned back, pausing just to remove his spectacles and set them aside. One metal rim had left an impression on her cheek, and Alasdair tried to smooth it away with his thumb.
“I promise,” she murmured, half against his lips as they returned greedily for more. “I promise I shall only paint a man worthy of me.”
Whatever quip he might have returned with was forgotten in his urgency to have her. Grabbing her outer thighs, he pulled until she was completely on top of him, straddling his thighs. They both heard a tear in the fabric of her skirts, but neither of them paused to inspect the damage. He would buy her a hundred dresses, whatever her heart desired, when they were married. His hands sought the tempting curves of her legs and hips and waist, drawing the most irresistible sounds from her as he did so, his lips similarly seeking down her neck and along her collarbone. She seemed to like it best when he swept his nose into the hollow of her lightly perspiring throat; he smelled the touches of perfume rising from behind her ear—linden blossom, elderflower, primrose. Her fingernailsclawed into his hair and down his neck, shoving his head into her until he was certain the scratch of his regrown whiskers would leave a passionate red trail.
He groaned at that thought, of marking her, having her, keeping her with him always, carrying her back to Clafton to be flung down on every obliging surface and ravished until they were both too exhausted to go on.
Someone stumbled against the door, whooping with laughter, their companions shushing them before they all went on their way. Violet froze above him, rigid.
“The doors, my God,” she mumbled, tumbling off of his lap and grabbing her head with both hands. “Anyone could have seen us!”
Alasdair cleared his throat and sat up, fetching his spectacles and putting them back on before adjusting the neckline of her gown, restoring her modesty. “Forgive me, Violet. Hardly gallant, as you earlier accused me of being.”
She stood on shaky legs, rotating slowly to face him. Her cheeks, throat, and the tops of her breasts were a heavenly shade of rosy pink. “Youaregallant,” she assured him, taking a step back to curtsy. “Shall we meet again in the afternoon, to begin your portrait?”
He stood and took her hand, pressing a firm kiss to the back of it as he bowed. “Worthy, then, Miss Arden?”
“Undeniably so.”
21
Her passions are made of
nothing but the finest part of pure love.
Antony and Cleopatra—Act 1, Scene 2
The merrymakers of Pressmore woke to a blazing, sunny St. Stephen’s Day; the light blasted off the newly fallen snow, bathing the world in white fire. Violet pulled the pillow over her head and ignored the stirring noises of the house and her sisters until Maggie hauled her out of bed by one foot, dragging her onto the carpet with a triumphant little wheeze.
“Good morning, sleepyhead. Did you go to bed in the punch bowl? I’ve never known you to doze this late.” Maggie herself yawned and went to the window, ripping open the curtains as the final death blow to Violet’s rest. Her sister turned Violet over onto her back, prodding with her toes, then stood over her, knuckles on hips. “Or did you fall asleep outside? What happened to your neck, dearest? It looks like you danced the night away with one of the spruce boughs.”
Violet became horribly awake. She covered her neck withboth hands, feeling for herself the tiny bumps of irritation that had jumped up from Alasdair rubbing his face all over her.
Above her, Maggie’s smile turned smug. “Ordid you already begin your portrait sitting with the solicitous Mr. Kerr? Tsk, tsk, Violet, you really shouldn’t try to paint someone in the dark.”
“Leave me be,” Violet moaned, turning back onto her stomach and shielding her face from the windows. More footsteps shuffled across the carpet. Winny.
“Look at her,” Maggie said with a laugh. “She went to sleep in her party dress.”
