Page 12 of Between a Duke and a Hard Place (The Honeywells #1)

Chapter Eleven

L ord Eddington had never been a patient man.

Patience, after all, was the virtue of men who lacked the power to take what they wanted. And he had never been such a man.

So when his carriage thundered up the drive to Wellston Hall, his fury was a tangible thing, coiled tight in his gut, seething like a snake ready to strike.

Inside the grand hall, Ethella was already waiting. She sat serenely, hands folded elegantly in her lap, her expression one of infuriating calmness. As though her son wasn’t deeper in debt than he ever had hope of paying himself out of! As though they weren’t hovering on the brink of utter ruin.

Eddington stormed in, his boots pounding against the floor, his cravat askew from the force of his own temper. “The bishop declined?” he demanded, voice shaking the very walls.

Ethella merely lifted a delicate brow.

“Indeed.”

Eddington turned sharply, pacing the room like a caged animal. “That is all you have to say? Indeed? Mrs. Cavender, my patience is at an end! You told me she would be here. That she would be mine. I arrived to find nothing of the sort! Then you prattle on about an annulment which is now not going to happen.”

Ethella sighed, smoothing an invisible wrinkle from her gown. “I miscalculated.”

Eddington whirled on her, eyes blazing. “Miscalculated?! I invested a fortune in this scheme, woman! I expect returns.”

“Then I suggest,” she said, voice velvet-soft, “that you reconsider your expectations.”

Eddington’s jaw ticked dangerously. “Return the funds.”

Ethella smiled, slow and dangerous. “There is another way.”

Nigel, who had been nursing a brandy in the corner, visibly paled. “Mother?—”

Ethella ignored him, turning her full attention to Eddington.

“The duke,” she said smoothly, “is an obstacle.”

Eddington smirked. “He is.”

“He is a man,” she continued, “and men—especially men like Alstead—are not invincible.”

Understanding dawned in Eddington’s eyes, slow and calculating.

“And should he suffer some… misfortune?”

Ethella’s lips curved into a slow, indulgent smile.

“Then his widow, the Duchess of Alstead, would require protection.”

“This could take months,” Eddingotn said. “Months of him rutting on her. I don’t want her when she’s fat with another man’s child!”

Ethella tilted her head. “I have it on good authority that they have not yet consummated their union. I bribed a housemaid to tell me everything. He slept on the floor on their wedding night. And has not been to her chamber since… but there are benefits to people not knowing that, and to people thinking Violet could already be carrying Alstead’s heir.”

“What benefits?”

“The child would inherit the dukedom.”

Eddington exhaled, a cruel grin spreading across his face. “And how, if he’s not tupping her, do we get an heir?”

Ethella’s brows lifted. “You’ve housemaids a plenty. Many of whom have already warmed your bed… get a bastard on one of them, my lord, and when the time is right, we shall act. And your son shall be passed off as Violet’s—poor Violet, driven mad with grief and locked in her chambers for her own safety. Chambers, my lord, that you may visit whenever you desire.”

Nigel set down his brandy with a sharp clink. “This is madness.”

Ethella’s eyes glittered. “No, my dear.”

She smoothed the lace at her wrist, voice silk-wrapped steel.

“This is strategy.”

Eddington laughed, low and dark.

And Nigel, for the first time in his miserable life, felt truly afraid.

The afternoon air was crisp, scented with damp earth and the lingering chill of dawn, yet Violet barely noticed as she urged her mare forward, faster and faster, across the dew-laden fields. Her heart thumped heavily in her chest—not from exertion, but from something far more irritating.

She was angry.

Furious, in fact.

But the worst part was that she wasn’t even sure at whom.

Max, for choosing the damned floor rather than sharing the bed? Herself, for caring? For waking up, heart pounding, expecting him to be beside her, expecting something—anything —and instead finding herself achingly alone? Or was it Nigel, Ethella and Eddington for putting her in this mess to start?

Regardless, she was in a foul mood and needed a bit of solitude to sort herself out. Riding had always been her outlet, the thing that calmed her nerves and soothed her spirit. It wasn’t working so far.

Violet scowled, pressing her knees into her horse’s sides, urging the mare into a gallop. She told herself she’d gone riding simply to clear her head, that it had nothing at all to do with Max, and that she certainly wasn’t obsessing over the implications of his actions.

The man had made his position perfectly clear, had he not?

A marriage of convenience.

A union of practicality.

The only thing between them was necessity.

And yet?—

Her stomach twisted.

That could not explain the way he had looked at her at breakfast, as if his every muscle was coiled, as if he were at war with himself. It could not explain the tension that had crackled between them, invisible but undeniable, like the air before a storm.

And it certainly did not explain why she felt this ridiculous, stinging rejection, as though she had been cast aside.

She was not some lovesick fool, pining over her husband’s disinterest.

Except, a small, traitorous voice whispered—wasn’t she?

Violet gritted her teeth.

It did not matter.

She had never needed anyone before, and she certainly did not need Max now.

So why did it feel as though her chest was tightening with every breath?

The wind whipped through her hair, snatching at the loose tendrils that had come free from her braid as she thundered across the open field. The estate stretched wide around her, the distant tree line marking the edges of Alstead’s land, a great, untamed expanse that felt both freeing and isolating all at once.

She did not slow until she reached the small clearing near the old hunting lodge, a place she had visited countless times as a girl, always trailing after James and Max, much to their exasperation.

Pulling up her horse, she swung down from the saddle, tossing the reins over a low-hanging branch. She took a deep breath, pressing her hands to her temples.

This was not about Max, she told herself again.

This was about escape.

About control.

About—

“Dammit, Violet! Have you completely lost your senses?”

Violet whipped around, her breath catching as Max stalked toward her, his coat billowing behind him, his expression a storm of fury and something darker still.

Her stomach dropped.

Oh, hell.