Page 5 of Between a Duke and a Hard Place (The Honeywells #1)

Chapter Four

The Road to York

I f one wished to make a lengthy journey particularly excruciating, there was no better companion than Violet. Max had known this, of course. He had been aware of it for years. But the full weight of his decision to marry her—to bind himself to this maddening woman for what might be the remainder of his days—was sinking in with every mile of the journey to York.

The carriage rocked slightly over the uneven road, the early morning mist still clinging to the trees, and beside him, the thorn in his side sat, arms crossed, looking utterly unimpressed with his existence.

He had been prepared for resistance. He had expected irritation. But he had not expected silence. Violet had not spoken a word since they had left Alstead Manor. Not a single one. And it was driving him mad. Was it fear? Was the idea of being his wife so thoroughly distasteful to her that she was truly debating which fate was worse: him or Eddington? That was an unbearable thought.

She had stared broodingly out of the carriage window for nearly an hour, her brow furrowed, her mouth set in a firm line, as if she were contemplating whether she ought to leap from the moving vehicle and take her chances with the muddy road.

Max exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"If you are going to attempt to throw yourself into a ditch," he drawled, "might I suggest you wait until the next coaching inn? Less risk of snapping your neck on a tree root that way."

Violet turned slowly, her green eyes flashing.

"You would like that, wouldn’t you?"

Max feigned a thoughtful expression. "A sudden, tragic accident would spare us both from this loathsome silence. If you won’t even speak to me, Violet, this is sure to be an excruciatingly tedious marriage. So yes, I might be inclined to allow it."

"Do not tempt me, Your Grace,” she scoffed, lifting up the too-long sleeve of his coat which engulfed her petite frame. “If only for the satisfaction of ruining your best coat with my untimely demise."

His lips twitched, but he schooled his expression into a mask of practiced disinterest. He would not let her know how much she amused him. Encouraging her would be an error of grand proportion.

"I have spent the last seven years convincing myself that we mutually loathed one another,” she said.

A ridiculous statement, of course. A lie, surely. Because what kind of woman wasted her energy loathing a man she barely tolerated to begin with?

He should not care. And yet, it unsettled him. “Why would you do that?”

“We cannot speak to one another without sparring like pugilists,” she said simply. “What else was I supposed to think? That you were harboring some secret tendre for me that you hid behind barbs and not so thinly veiled insults? What a ridiculous notion! Also, I never aspired to be a duchess. In truth, it’s the last thing I ever wanted.”

He adjusted his cuffs, clearing his throat. "Perhaps you ought to be grateful, Violet. There are women who would be thrilled to find themselves in your position."

Violet snorted in a most unladylike manner.

"Oh, forgive me, Your Grace. Am I not adequately overwhelmed with gratitude?"

Max leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. "Not even a little."

She turned fully toward him now, her glare sharp enough to cut glass.

"Let us be perfectly clear about something, Alstead," she said. "I am only agreeing to this absurd arrangement because you are correct—Eddington is a repugnant creature, and I have no desire to be tied to him for eternity. However, do not mistake my acceptance of your solution to my problem as some starry-eyed joy at the prospect of being the Duchess of Alstead."

Max smirked. "Oh, I assure you, the very notion of you being starry-eyed over anything is inconceivable."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "I would rather wed an ill-tempered goat."

Max lifted a brow. "I am flattered to have edged out the goat in your considerations."

She exhaled sharply, rubbing her temple. "You are impossible."

"And you," he said, with far too much satisfaction, "are predictable."

"Predictable?"

"Yes." He adjusted his cravat, settling back into the seat. "Whenever you are confronted with an inconvenient reality, you react precisely the same way—you argue, you glare, you insult, and then you resign yourself to the inevitable with all the grace of a cat being forcibly dunked into a basin of water."

She blinked at him.

Once.

Twice.

And then—to his utter horror—she laughed.

Not a polite, delicate chuckle.

No, Violet Honeywell never laughed in the polite and controlled manner most ladies did. She threw her head back and laughed—a deep, full-throated sound that filled the carriage and sent something very dangerous and completely forbidden curling through Max’s chest.

He scowled. "Stop that."

She bit her lip, attempting—and failing—to suppress another giggle. "I’m sorry. Have I wounded your fragile pride?”

He leveled her with a flat look. "I simply refuse to engage in any conversation where you are amused at my expense."

She sniffed, dabbing at the corners of her eyes. “Then this will be a terribly silent marriage, Your Grace."

Max sighed, staring out the window, wondering if he could survive the next several hours of travel without attempting to throw himself from the moving carriage.

As if reading his mind, Violet tilted her head. "Do not look so put out. You were the one who insisted we wed. That means you shall have the honor of enduring my company forever."

Max's jaw tightened.

Forever.

The word sent an odd thrill of discomfort—and something else he refused to name—down his spine.

"Do not remind me," he muttered.

“We shall both be reminded. Every single day,” she said sweetly.

Good God.

What had he done?

By the time they reached York, the sky had clouded over again, heavy and leaden. But the rain was holding off, so the streets were still bustling with activity. The carriage rolled through the narrow lanes, past vendors shouting their wares and children darting between carts.

Violet peered out the window, her expression decidedly unimpressed. "So," she said dryly. "Are we to conduct this solemn affair in an alleyway, or have you secured a church with at least one candle to light the occasion on this dreary day?"

Max exhaled sharply through his nose.

"St. Michael’s," he said, motioning to the modest stone church ahead. "It is discreet, efficient, and blessedly quick with its ceremonies."

Violet smirked. "How romantic."

He shot her a withering glare.

They stepped out of the carriage, making their way toward the entrance, where the vicar—a mild-looking man with thinning hair and an unfortunate nose—greeted them with a polite but confused expression.

"Your Grace," the vicar said, bowing slightly. “How may I be of assistance.”

Violet watched as Max removed the recently procured license from his pocket and passed it to the vicar, whose eyes widened with alarm.

“I was not aware that you and Miss Honeywell were betrothed!”

"Nor was I," Max muttered under his breath.

Violet elbowed him in the ribs.

The vicar, having caught the minor act of violence, flicked his gaze to and fro between them. "Do you… require a moment to reflect upon this decision?"

Violet offered him her most winning smile. "I require nothing more than for you to perform the ceremony as swiftly as possible before my future husband or I lose our nerve."

Max clenched his jaw. He looked as though he planned to murder her before their wedding night even arrived. With an exasperated sigh, he turned to the vicar. "Proceed."

And, before either of them could reconsider every decision that had led them to that pivotal moment, the ceremony began.