Page 16 of Between a Duke and a Hard Place (The Honeywells #1)

Chapter Fifteen

D inner had begun in relative peace, which was an astonishing feat, considering the nature of their marriage. Violet had arrived at the dining table bracing herself for another evening of strained silence, barbed remarks, and the occasional forced politeness when one of the footmen lingered too close. Instead, there had been something decidedly… different about the atmosphere between them.

Perhaps it was the sheer exhaustion of fighting constantly, or perhaps it was the presence of others in the household who assumed them to be happily wed, but for once, she and Max managed to share a meal without metaphorically stabbing one another with their cutlery.

Which was progress.

The roasted pheasant was perfectly cooked, the wine was pleasantly mellow, and though they had not engaged in any meaningful conversation, there had been something oddly comfortable about the quiet between them. But of course, peace never lasted long where they were concerned.

The footman entered midway through the meal, a folded letter balanced neatly on a silver salver, his expression neutral, but expectant.

“Your Grace,” he murmured, extending the tray toward Max.

Violet watched as Max took the letter, broke the seal, and unfolded the parchment. She had expected him to glance at it with disinterest and set it aside, as he so often did with correspondence he deemed unworthy of immediate attention.

But instead, his jaw tightened.

The muscles in his forearm flexed as he gripped the letter just a fraction too tightly.

Violet’s brow furrowed. “What is it?”

Max did not immediately answer. He read the letter twice, his expression darkening with each pass of his eyes over the words.

“Max?” she pressed, more firmly now.

At last, he set the letter down, lifted his wine glass, and took a slow sip—as though whatever he had just read had left a foul taste in his mouth. Then, he met her gaze with a look so even, so deceptively composed, that it sent a shiver down her spine. “The Bishop of York has written to us,” he said simply.

Violet blinked. “The bishop?”

“Yes.” Max tilted his head slightly, his voice carrying the unmistakable edge of amusement, laced with irritation. “It seems your dear, devoted relations have taken it upon themselves to petition the Ecclesiastical Court for an annulment.”

Violet’s stomach dropped. Her fingers tightened around the stem of her glass, her grip so firm that she feared the delicate crystal might shatter.

“An annulment,” she repeated, her voice deadly quiet.

Max inclined his head. “Yes.”

She let out a sharp breath, a humorless laugh bubbling to the surface. “And on what grounds do they seek to undo my marriage?”

Max lifted the letter once more, reading with mock disinterest. “They claim that you entered into matrimony without the consent of your family?—”

Violet let out a disbelieving scoff. “That is preposterous. I am well past the age of consent, and they are hardly my guardians.”

Max nodded. “Indeed. That argument holds no weight. However…” He set the letter aside again, his expression shifting into something more deliberate. “They are also attempting to claim that fraud may have been committed in the execution of our vows.”

Violet frowned. “Fraud? What sort of fraud?”

Max took another sip of his wine before answering, his voice perfectly casual.

“That, my dear wife, is the rather interesting part.” He set down his glass and leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. “They wish to argue that our marriage was obtained under false pretenses. That it was not entered into in good faith, and that, should an inquiry be made, it may be deemed… invalid.”

Violet went very still.

“Invalid,” she echoed.

Max nodded once. “Yes.”

“How can they claim it is invalid?”

“It seems,” Max said, the words bitten off with quiet fury, “that Mrs. Cavender was deeply interested in the possibility that our union had not been consummated.”

She exhaled sharply, setting her own glass down with far more force than necessary. “And how do you propose we remedy this grave accusation?”

Max watched her, his gaze steady, unreadable. Then, ever so smoothly, he said?—

“There is a very simple solution.”

Violet arched a brow. “Oh? Do tell.”

Max’s lips curved slightly—not quite a smirk, not quite a smile.“We must simply consummate the marriage.”

The words hit her like a blow.

Her spine straightened. Her fingers dug into the linen of the tablecloth with such force that the heavy centerpiece in the middle of the table rocked back and forth.

Max appeared utterly unaffected.

“You say that as though it is akin to merely signing a piece of paper,” she said, her tone flat, wary.

Max shrugged. “It is the most practical and expedient solution.”

Violet’s breath caught. She could not have misheard him. Her husband—the man who had spent the entirety of their acquaintance mocking her, arguing with her, driving her to the edge of madness with his insufferable arrogance—was now suggesting, in the most matter-of-fact tone imaginable, that they ought to simply tumble into bed together for the sake of legal security.

And worse… The idea did not horrify her as it ought to have. She swallowed hard, forcing her expression into neutrality.

“And what if I refuse?” she asked, her voice tighter than she would have liked.

Max sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Then we shall have to endure weeks, possibly months, of tedious legal proceedings, wherein your aunt and cousin shall revel in their attempts to have our marriage dissolved, while Lord Eddington lingers in the background, waiting for an opportunity to pounce.” He gestured lazily. “But by all means, if that is preferable?—”

Violet gritted her teeth.

Max smirked. “No response? I must confess that I expected at least a few more colorful insults before you stormed from the room.”

She inhaled slowly. Then, as calmly as she could manage, she pushed back from the table.

“I shall consider it,” she said stiffly.

Max inclined his head. “Of course. Do take your time.”

His voice was infuriatingly pleasant.

Violet bit back the urge to throw something at him and stalked from the room.

The fire in the hearth cast flickering shadows against the walls, its warmth doing little to thaw the cold weight in her chest. Violet had dismissed her maid nearly an hour ago, leaving her alone with her thoughts—a decision she was rapidly regretting.

She paced, hands twisting in the silk of her wrapper. The implications of Max’s words were inescapable. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t known that this moment might come eventually, that the precarious nature of their arrangement would inevitably be tested. But the reality of it was far more daunting than she had anticipated.

It wasn’t the act itself that terrified her. It was what would come after.

For years, she had fought against her feelings for him, burying them beneath layers of sarcasm and pointed barbs, convincing herself that indifference was the safest path. But if she gave in to this—if she let him touch her, kiss her, claim her as his in truth—what would be left of her carefully constructed defenses?

Could she truly risk her heart, knowing full well that he would never truly be hers?

And yet, the alternative was unthinkable.

A life spent looking over her shoulder, waiting for Ethella and Nigel to find another way to tear her world apart. The ever-present shadow of Eddington, lurking, watching, waiting.

She exhaled sharply.

She could survive a broken heart.

She wasn’t sure she could survive the rest.

Squaring her shoulders, Violet reached for the door.

And stepped out into the corridor.