Page 21 of Between a Duke and a Hard Place (The Honeywells #1)
Chapter Twenty
T he bells of St. Dunstan’s Church rang out over the quiet village, their clear, solemn tones marking the beginning of the Sunday service. The sky was a brilliant blue, the morning air crisp with the lingering chill of autumn, and the village bustled with the usual throng of parishioners making their way toward the church doors. Limited as country society was, the church was the center of it all.
And entering the churchyard where everyone was gathered prior to the service—the newly wedded Duke and Duchess of Alstead had all eyes upon them. While Max and Violet, by mutual agreement, had chosen to attend, it had not been their decision to be tardy. Not by design, they had arrived fashionably late. Their journey from the manor had been slowed by every farmer, merchant, and washerwoman who wished to congratulate them on their marriage.
“Well, well, well! I thought I’d not live to see the day His Grace would remarry. And not to some London miss this time, but one of our very own,” called out Old Mr. Dobbins, the village cobbler, his beady eyes twinkling beneath the brim of his battered hat. “And a right fine match it is, too!”
Violet, who had long ago perfected the art of polite smiling, nodded graciously. “Thank you, Mr. Dobbins. I do hope my husband proves a worthy investment.”
Max, standing beside her, leaned down slightly and murmured against her ear, “I should think the more pressing concern is whether my investment proves a wise one.”
Violet shot him a warning look, though the slight upturn of her lips betrayed her amusement. “You should be grateful, Your Grace, that my temper is too fine to cause a scene in front of the vicar.”
“Your temper has been sufficiently cooled by our morning activities,” he whispered against her ear.
Violet blushed hotly, her cheeks flaming beet red, just as the vicar emerged from the church, his rosy-cheeked, genial countenance beaming with barely suppressed disappointment.
“Ah, Your Graces! I am ever so disappointed that I did not get to perform the wedding myself,” he said, adjusting his gold-rimmed spectacles with an air of mild reproach. “It is quite the slight, I must say, that you ran off to York instead!”
Violet pressed a gloved hand to her lips, feigning contrition. “Forgive us, Vicar. It was all quite sudden, and I fear that in our... enthusiasm, we did not wish to wait.”
Beside her, Max coughed slightly to camouflage his mused laughter. “Do forgive us, Reverend. We were most eager to be wed before an argument would likely change our minds again.”
“Well,” the vicar huffed, clearly placated by the notion of romantic folly, “so long as you do your duty as husband and wife and attend services faithfully, I shall overlook the offense.”
“I’m not certain?—”
“Anything could keep us away,” Violet interjected. She knew Max was not one to attend with great regularity. But given those plotting against them, keeping an eye on things and an ear open for any gossip about their actions was the wise course. And, whether the vicar liked it or not, the Sunday service was always a hotbed of gossip.
The vicar chuckled, pleased, while Max merely arched a brow. “When the wife speaks, the husband listens. Eh, your grace?”
Max’s eyes gleamed as he shot her an annoyed look. “That remains to be seen.”
Before she could formulate a sharp response, a hush fell over the crowd. Violet didn’t have to wonder at the cause. She could feel the daggers being glared at them. A glance over her shoulder confirmed it. Ethella, Nigel, and standing with them, Lord Eddington— the small, venomous trio standing by the church entrance, watched them with unrelenting fury.
Max felt Violet go rigid beside him, her fingers tightening imperceptibly around his sleeve. He did not have to glance over to know that Ethella’s gaze was colder than the grave, Nigel looked thoroughly miserable, and Eddington—Eddington’s expression was the most dangerous of them all. It was more than anger and resentment. It was filled with entitlement. He truly felt that because he wanted Violet, she was his for the taking. The man had heard the word ‘no’ countless times his life, but he’d never heeded it.
As the man’s dark, gleaming gaze focused on Violet. As if evaluating her. Assessing her the way one might assess a horse or piece of livestock they meant to purchase. It was proprietary and dehumanizing. Like she was little more than a piece of property to be squabbled over. And he bloody well didn’t like it.
Then the whispered remarks began amongst the gathered congregation. A soft hum grew to a roar as a chorus of echoing sentiments reached his ears.
“Gracious, I do not believe I have ever seen anyone look so murderous in a house of worship.”
“Who is that dreadful-looking man?”
“I believe it is Lord Eddington.”
“The one rumored to?—?”
“Yes, that one.”
Max ignored them, his own expression remaining cool, indifferent as he gently placed his hand over Violet’s, steadying her. “Smile,” he murmured softly, “as though you haven’t a care in the world.”
Violet tilted her chin up, forcing a serene, unaffected expression onto her face. “I shall endeavor to look positively radiant with wedded bliss.”
Max’s lips twitched. “Aren’t you? Perhaps when the church services are over we shall return home and I will give you something else to repent for.”
Violet nearly tripped over a stone in the churchyard as she giggled behind her hand. It was a carefree sound, one slightly wicked—filled with naughty delight. And it would only serve to infuriate Eddington further. Max knew that. But he had been counting on it, after all. Their best chance of stopping Eddington would be to goad him into rash and reckless behavior.
Together, they strode into the church, passing their would-be enemies without so much as a glance in their direction.