Page 6 of Between a Duke and a Hard Place (The Honeywells #1)

Chapter Five

T o say that Violet had never envisioned her wedding day quite like that would be a rather severe understatement. Not that she had spent much time envisioning a wedding at all—she was far too practical for such foolish daydreams—but if she had entertained the notion at some point in her youth, it certainly would not have included such a reluctant groom who regarded her as though she were a particularly nettlesome splinter lodged in his palm. Nor would it have included the vicar who kept darting suspicious glances between them, as if trying to determine whether this union was a legal requirement rather than a voluntary decision. And of rouse, the pair of witnesses who had been wrangled at the last minute—a butcher and his rather alarmed-looking wife—both of whom appeared deeply uncertain as to whether they were now accessories to a crime were certainly the final touches of farcical ridiculousness. It was like being in the middle of a lurid play, only she hadn’t the benefit of having read the script.

Yes. Altogether less than ideal, she thought, with a furtive glance toward Max.

The Duke of Alstead, her soon-to-be husband, stood beside her, looking as though he were bracing for the gallows rather than matrimony. His jaw was clenched, his gaze fixed on some distant, tragic point beyond the vicar’s shoulder, with his entire personage—posture, expression and long-suffering sighs, included—radiating reluctant obligation.

Violet resisted the urge to elbow him once more. It might, she thought, dislodge whatever was sticking in his craw at present.

The vicar cleared his throat.

"If there is any just cause or impediment why these two persons should not be joined in holy matrimony," he intoned, "speak now, or forever hold your peace."

There was a long, excruciating silence.

Violet held her breath, fully prepared for Max to raise a hand and say, Yes, actually. I do have an objection… This woman is insufferable, has the temperament of a rabid badger, and, in fact, the badger might be preferable.

But he said nothing. He merely exhaled sharply, as if he had resigned himself to a lifetime of deep, soul-crushing regret.

"Very well," the vicar continued.

Violet turned to Max then, lifting her chin in a challenge, and whispered, ”You may at least pretend you are not being led to the slaughter.”

His stormy blue eyes flicked to her. "The Lord above might smite me for lying in church—more than we already are. Besides, my ability to feign enthusiasm has its limits.”

The butcher’s wife gave a small, horrified gasp.

Violet smiled brightly. "How fortunate that I require no enthusiasm from you at all, Your Grace."

Max’s mouth pressed into a thin, irritated line.

The vicar coughed awkwardly before proceeding.

"Will you, Maxwell Constantine Able, Duke of Alstead, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

Max hesitated. It was only a breath of a pause. A fraction of a second. But Violet felt it like a blade to the ribs.

He did not want this. He had said as much in a dozen different ways, with his clipped words, his exasperated sighs, and his unwillingness to look at her for more than a moment. Of course, she didn’t want it either. But it stung her pride to think he actually dreaded it so greatly.

"I will," he said, his voice low and firm, the words laced with reluctant finality.

The vicar nodded and turned to her.

"And will you, Violet Anne Honeywell, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

She did not hesitate. After all, what choice did she have? ”I will," she said smoothly, as though she had not spent the last seven years telling herself that she loathed him entirely.

There was another long pause, the weight of the words settling between them.

"Very well," the vicar said, clearing his throat. "By the power vested in me by the Church of England, I now pronounce you man and wife."

The butcher’s wife clutched her husband’s arm in visible relief.

"Have we scandalized the good vicar enough?” Violet asked, “Or should we brawl in the aisle?”

Max exhaled sharply through his nose. Then, before she could react, he lifted her hand and placed a kiss on the third finger of her left hand, his lips warming the gold band he’d placed there just moments earlier.

It was nothing. A mere brush of contact. An obligation fulfilled.

And yet?—

Heat flared in her chest, a traitorous warmth that should not have been there at all.

Max dropped her hand instantly, stepping back as if she were a lit candle threatening to singe him.

The vicar looked at them with a mixture of confusion and pity. “May God be with you both.”

“I wouldn’t inflict us upon him, my good sir,” Max replied.

The butcher’s wife fanned herself furiously, as though she were about to faint dead away.

Violet swallowed, forcing her expression into something calm and indifferent."Charming," she said. "Truly."

Max gritted his teeth with enough force that the sound was audible.

"Shall we sign the register, or would you like to continue tormenting me?"

Violet cocked her head, tapping her forefinger to her chin as if she were deep in thought. "A difficult decision," she mused. “Must they be mutually exclusive? Perhaps I shall do both."

Max closed his eyes briefly as if praying for patience.

They signed the necessary documents, thanked their bewildered witnesses, and stepped out into the late afternoon sun as husband and wife.

Violet turned to Max, smoothing her skirts.

"Well," she said. "That was positively magical."

Max glowered. "Get in the carriage, Violet. I’d hate for mud to be splashed on my best coat when I hurl myself down before the horses.”

"Ah," she sighed. “How charmingly romantic you are."

He muttered something under his breath, likely a curse, and she had never enjoyed herself more.

The ride back was mercifully quiet.

Violet was apparently too exhausted to needle him further, and Max had accepted his fate with resigned, suffering silence.

By the time they arrived at Alstead Manor, the sun had dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the grand stone facade.

Max stepped out first, offering his hand to assist her down.

She lifted a brow.

"How very chivalrous of you, Your Grace."

He rolled his eyes. "I should have let you trip on the steps."

She took his hand, likely just to spite him.

As they crossed the threshold, the housekeeper, Mrs. Rutledge, bustled forward, beaming. "Your Grace!" she said, positively glowing. "Welcome home! And congratulations to you both!”

“How did you know to congratulate us?” Max demanded with an arched brow.

“Harris, your grace. He told us everything,” the housekeeper replied, beaming with goodwill.

Of course, he had, Max thought, making a mental note to sack his butler.

Violet smiled at the aging servant, all sweetness and light. A side of her he rarely saw. "Thank you, Mrs. Rutledge. His Grace is absolutely overcome with joy, I assure you."

Max shot her a dark look, his blood fair to boiling with repressed irritation.

Mrs. Rutledge, still boasting her beatific smile as she gazed upon them with stars in her eyes, urged them inside."Come now, I have taken the liberty of preparing a lovely supper for you both," she said, gesturing toward the dining room.”But the wedding breakfast I have planned for you tomorrow will be one for the ages.”

“Marvelous,” Max muttered, his tone revealing that he would rather walk directly into the raging sea at high tide.

Violet patted his arm.

"Come along, husband," she said innocently. "Let us dine together as newlyweds ought."

His jaw ticked.

She was enjoying all of it far too much.