Page 4 of Between a Duke and a Hard Place (The Honeywells #1)

Chapter Three

T here were three plagues in Max’s life.

Eddington was one. Waking up before dawn was another. And being forced to deal with Violet more than once in any given day was a firm third. Presently, he was suffering through two out of the three.

Outside, the storm kicked up as rain lashed at the windows. The howling wind seemed to mock his current predicament. He stood at the hearth, one hand gripping his brandy glass, the other curled into a fist as he faced a woman he most often thought of as an adversary. Not that they were enemies in any true sense of the word, but they clashed often.

She stood near his desk, her dark red hair still unruly from her mad dash through the rain, her green eyes flashing with a familiar, infuriating defiance. Her unannounced arrival, drenched and furious, had—in less than five minutes—managed to frustrate him more than Parliament had in the last five years. In truth, her ability to frustrate him was a rare talent. Most people regarded him as quite even-keeled. Only she seemed to bring out the absolute worst in him.

"Have you lost what little good sense you possess?" he demanded, his voice edged with frayed patience. "Riding alone in the dark, through storm and mud, to arrive at my home? Have you no notion what sort of danger you might have encountered?”

Violet lifted her chin, rainwater still clinging to her lashes. "I had no choice."

“There is always a choice, Violet. You could have sent for me.”

“Would you have come? Or would you have presumed that I was simply being a hysterical female and put me off till the morning with all your other tedious tasks?”

That accusation stung because there was some degree of truth in it. “You are the most maddening creature!”

She stomped a boot onto the rug, shaking off a fresh puddle of rainwater just to spite him. Max closed his eyes briefly, inhaling deeply. This woman would be the death of him.

When he reopened them, she had crossed her arms over her chest, her soaked riding habit clinging to her form in a way that he absolutely should not have noticed.

But he had. God help him. Try as he might to ignore it, more and more of late, he’d been unable to. She was maddening and infuriating and vexing… and beautiful. Desirable. And entirely off-limits to him.

Violet cleared her throat, shifting uncomfortably under his stare. "I overheard Nigel and my aunt plotting. They intend to hand me over to Eddington. The man is already on his way to Wellston."

Max’s grip on his brandy tightened. Eddington was an absolute snake. A snake that had been obsessed with Violet for many years. James had warned the man off her a decade ago when Violet had been far too young to understand exactly how dangerous he was. For the last six months, since James had left for Portugal, he’d kept tabs on Eddington, making certain that the man remained in London and far from Wellston. It appeared his informants had failed him.

“You’re certain?”

“They said if I didn’t go with him willingly, if I didn’t give myself to him, that he would find ways to persuade me,” she replied.

It was what he’d feared, what had been percolating in the back of his mind since she’d uttered his name. But hearing it aloud—from Violet’s own lips—set something dark and unforgiving ablaze in his chest.

“I promised your brother years ago that I would never let Eddington near you. I renewed that promise six months past. That leaves us with only one solution, Violet.”

“And what is that?”

He placed his drink down with deliberate care. "We must marry,” he said simply.

Violet’s sharply drawn breath was the only sound in the room beyond the crackling of the fire. For a long moment, she stared at him, her expression unreadable. Then—because of course she could never accept anything without a fight—she scoffed.

"Marry?" she repeated. As if the very notion were absurd beyond measure. "That is your grand solution? Have I suddenly found myself in a lurid gothic novel?"

Max did not smile. Did not soften.

"This is not an idle suggestion," he said, his voice steady.

She stilled, the jest dying on her lips.

"This is the only way," he continued. "Eddington is not a man who will simply go away. He is not a man who understands refusal. If you remain at Wellston, you are vulnerable. Even if you leave Wellston on your own, he will simply follow. You need the kind of protection, Violet, that can only be provided by being beyond his reach… and that means marriage and rank.”

Her fingers curled into the damp fabric of her skirts.

Max stepped closer, forcing her to look up at him. "I am the only man in this county who can protect you. And I am the only man Eddington hates more than he desires you.”

Violet’s silence was telling. There were no witty comments, no sarcastic banter, or flippant repartee. She knew he spoke the truth. He and Eddington had loathed each other for years—an enmity that went back to his first marriage. Katherine, his late wife, had not shared Violet’s aversion to Eddington. She’d been charmed by his wickedness, seduced by it. And ultimately, she had died because of it. He would not let Violet suffer a similar fate.

"Why?" she asked softly.

He frowned. "Why what?"

"Why are you willing to do this?"

Because I cannot bear the thought of him touching you.Because I have spent far too many years pretending I do not care for you. Because I should have married you long before I ever married another woman.

Max’s jaw tightened. Those reasons, truthful as they were, could never be uttered to her. Instead, he said, "Because I refuse to let that lecherous bastard think he can take whatever he wants… and because however much we might verbally spar with one another, I do consider you a friend, Violet, and friends look after one another.”

Violet let out a slow breath, her gaze searching his.

For a moment, he feared she might refuse—that her infuriating stubbornness would somehow outweigh her own well-being.

Then, reluctantly, she nodded.

"Fine."

Max did not allow himself to feel relief.

Instead, he merely inclined his head, as if they had just negotiated a particularly tedious land dispute.

"Good. We leave for York at first light. We will marry by common license before noon."

Violet exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over her face.

And then, in a rare moment of vulnerability, she muttered something under her breath that he almost didn’t catch.

Almost.

"I should have known it would come to this."

Max arched a brow. "Oh? Have you always imagined yourself a duchess, then?"

She shot him a glare so fierce it could have felled a lesser man.

"Absolutely not," she snapped. "I have, however, spent the last seven years convincing myself that I hated you."

Max stilled.

Seven years.

Seven years since he had married another woman.

Seven years since he’d taken to treating Violet Honeywell as if she had become nothing more than a thorn in his side—a woman he could not touch, could not claim, and had therefore kept at arm’s length with arguments and irritation. Seven years of this—this ridiculous, infuriating, unbearable dance. Because that was the only way he’d been able to hide the truth of his attraction for her—his best friend’s younger sister.

His throat felt suddenly dry.

"Well," he said after a long pause, his voice quieter now, "I hope the effort was worth it."

She let out a soft, humorless laugh. "It wasn’t."

And with that, she turned on her heel and strode toward the door.

Max watched her go, his fists clenching at his sides.

Tomorrow, she would be his wife.

And for the first time since proposing, he was terrified of what that truly meant.