Page 17 of Between a Duke and a Hard Place (The Honeywells #1)

Chapter Sixteen

T he brandy in Max’s glass gleamed amber, catching the low flicker of the study’s firelight as he swirled it absently. The warmth of the hearth should have been a comfort, the solitude of his sanctuary a welcome reprieve. Yet neither did anything to ease the tension coiling sotightly inside him.

He had always prided himself on being a rational man, a man who considered every angle before taking action, and who never allowed his emotions to rule him. But tonight, his thoughts were a tangled mess of frustration, fury, and something else—something far more dangerous.

Violet.

She was at the heart of it all.

From the moment she had arrived on his doorstep, soaked from the rain and radiating both defiance and desperation, she had upended everything. It should have been simple: protect her from Eddington, marry her to ensure that protection, and keep their union nothing more than a matter of convenience.

But nothing had been simple since Violet had walked into his home the other night and confessed the terrible truth about her relatives plotting against her. Now, their enemies were circling. Ethella. Nigel. And, worst of all, Eddington.

Max clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening around the glass. The very thought of that lecherous bastard was enough to make his blood boil.

He had known men like Eddington before—men who thrived on their ability to manipulate, to destroy, to take without consequence. A duel would be an easy solution. Tempting, even. It would take only a single well-placed bullet to rid the world of him.

And yet, Max knew it would not be that simple.

Eddington was many things—vain, power-hungry, depraved—but he was not a man of honor. He would not stand on a field at dawn and allow the matter to be decided with fairness. No, he would cheat. He would bring seconds who had no qualms about interfering. Or worse, he would refuse to meet him at all and find another, more underhanded way to strike, especially if he believed that he was in danger.

Max exhaled sharply, tipping back the rest of his brandy before setting the glass down with a hard clink. No, a duel was not the answer. It was too great a risk. If he failed, it would be Violet who paid the cost. She would be alone, unprotected, and vulnerable in ways he could not bear to think of.

She was still so unaware of the depths of Ethella’s and Nigel’s schemes, of just how far Eddington would go to possess her. And despite everything—despite their constant battles, their infuriating banter, the way she seemed to find every possible way to needle him—he could not stomach the thought of losing her.

As much as he tried to convince himself otherwise, as much as he told himself that this marriage had been purely practical, he knew the truth. He had never truly been indifferent to her. And the tension building inside him was both part anticipation and part fear. Fear that whatever decision Violet reached, it would alter everything between them. It would alter him in some indefinable way. Because if he made love to her, he would not be able to deny his feelings for her any longer. He would never again be able to simply lock them away as though they did not exist. The idea was both freeing and terrifying.

A knock at the study door pulled him from his thoughts.

He barely looked up, assuming it was the butler, no doubt checking if required anything before the last of the household retired for the evening. “You may enter,” he called distractedly.

The door creaked open. And every thought in his mind ground to a halt. It was not the butler at all, but Violet.

She stepped inside, her posture straight, her expression carefully composed. But it was not the determination in her eyes that sent a sharp jolt through him—it was the sight of her.

Her normal armor of sensible day dresses had been discarded in favor of a paisley silk wrapper, tied at the waist with a loose knot. Beneath it, the delicate embroidery of her shift’s hem brushed against her ankles, barely visible in the dim glow of the fire.

She should have looked soft. Vulnerable. And she might have but for the firm set of her jaw, the stubborn jut of her chin. She had the look of a woman who had made up her mind.

Max forced himself to sit back in his chair, keeping his expression neutral even as his pulse thundered in his ears.

“I have made my decision,” she said, her voice steady. THe only sign of her nerves was the twitching of her fingers where they clutched at the edge of her wrapper.

Max studied her carefully, fighting to keep his tone casual. “Have you?”

A single nod. Then, with all the poise and confidence of a woman who had just signed his death warrant, she met his gaze and said: “I will be in my bedchamber… and the door will be unlocked should you decide to join me there.”

Max stilled. The words landed like a blow, striking him in a way he had not been prepared for. Of all the things she could have said… He hadn’t really let himself think, hadn’t let himself hope for that outcome. In his heart of hearts, he’d expected her to just wish the lot of them to the devil while telling him, in no uncertain terms, that she would not invite him to her bed even if he was the last man on earth.

Before he could gather his wits to speak, before he could form a single coherent thought, she turned and walked away, the door closing softly behind her.

Her hands trembled as she closed the door behind her.

She had done it. She had spoken the words. And now, it was his decision. Her consent, her willingness to alter their arrangement had been voiced, and now it was on him to take the next step.

Violet stood in the center of her chamber, the fire crackling in the hearth, its warmth doing little to soothe her jangled nerves. For the longest time, she stood there, oblivious to the passage of time until the clock on the mantel chimed. It was midnight. And when she’d walked into his study it had been only been half past. Thirty minutes. An entire half hour had passed. And he had not come.

Shaking off the stillness—the stupor that she had fallen into—Violet moved like an automaton toward the bed. She’d offered herself only to be rejected. Tears burned her eyes.

Suddenly it felt as if the thick plait of her hair was too tight, the weight of her wrapper too heavy. Shrugging out of it, she let it fall to the floor and then tugged at the ribbon tying her hair. She swallowed hard, pacing to the window and gazing out into the darkness beyond the estate’s manicured gardens as she tugged her hair free from the braid.

Had she misjudged everything? What if he found the very idea repellent? But he’d kissed her. He’d kissed her as if he truly desired her.

She had spent so long convincing herself that she did not care for Max, that her feelings for him had long since withered into nothing but annoyance. But if that were true, then why did the thought of his rejection sting so acutely? Why did the thought of him choosing to stay away feel so much like heartbreak?

The minutes dragged on, and with every passing second, her humiliation bloomed inside her, overwhelming her.

It had been the very height of foolishness to hope. Max had never wanted their marriage, after all. He’d offered it only to save her. What more could she truly ask of him? It had only ever been intended as a temporary solution, a desperate effort to outmaneuver Eddington and her scheming relatives. He had made it abundantly clear that their union would be one of convenience, nothing more.

The animosity between them over the last years, mostly incited by her, had been too much to overcome. Any notion that he could set aside their past differences had been nothing but foolish optimism on her part.

The silence of the house pressed in around her.

He was not coming. She could wait all night, and it wouldn’t change that very real fact. Disgusted with herself, with the tears that threatened, Violet moved toward the lamp beside her bed, intending to extinguish it and slip beneath the covers to lick her wounds.

And then?—

A knock.

Violet froze, her heart stuttering in her chest.

The sound was soft, barely audible, and yet it might as well have been a thunderclap.

For a long moment, she could do nothing. Because whatever happened next would change everything.

Irrevocably.