Page 7 of Between a Duke and a Hard Place (The Honeywells #1)

Chapter Six

V iolet had never, in all of her life, actually been frightened by Max. Intimidated? Certainly, but less by his behavior than her own misguided hero worship of him as a child. When she’d been somewhat older, on the cusp of womanhood, her hero worship had transformed into something much more dangerous. Attraction. Infatuation. She had, for a time, fancied herself completely in love with him and had woven countless fantasies about being just where she was at that moment, only under entirely different circumstances.

All that had changed, however, when he’d married Katherine. Beautiful and untouchable Katherine. There had always been something slightly cold about her, an icy mask that had hidden a deep unhappiness in her. But Katherine was gone. Had been for two years. But the damage was done. To effectively quash her own feelings for Max, she’d begun a campaign of bloodless warfare. She had spent the better part of a decade sparring with him—verbally, if not physically, though there had been many occasions in which she had entertained the thought of striking him with a fireplace poker. She had outmaneuvered him, outwitted him, and had never backed down from a single battle of words.

Now, as she sat in the sumptuous suite that had been prepared for their wedding night, her hands trembled slightly as she brushed her hair.

It was absurd. Utterly, laughably absurd.

She was not some na?ve girl who had spent her youth sighing over poetry and love stories. She knew full well what was expected of her as a wife. And yet, the idea of Max—of sharing a bed with the man she’d always imagined as her husband—had left her with a nervous, fluttering sensation that she did not care for one bit. What if it was a horrid experience? What if it wasn’t? She didn’t know which outcome would have more devastating consequences for her. She couldn’t afford to let those tender feelings she’d once had for him spring to life again. Therein lay the path to utter ruin.

Annoyed with her own missishness at that moment, Violet told herself that it was simply the uncertainty of it all that was making her feel so uncharacteristically… emotional. That was what unsettled her, what left her hands trembling and her heart beating in a rhythm that outpaced a hummingbird.

They had not spoken of what was to come. No conversation had been had regarding what would take place between them as husband and wife. And for all his blustering declarations of duty and honor, Max was still a man—a man who, if rumor was to be believed, was not without his vices and abundance of experience.

But now, she was his wife. She ought to be prepared. She ought not to care.

And yet?—

The soft knock at her door sent her stomach into a tangle of knots. Violet exhaled slowly, smoothing her night rail, and turned just as the door opened to reveal her husband. Her tall, brooding, impossibly irritating and devastatingly handsome husband.

He had changed out of his wedding attire, his cravat undone, the top buttons of his shirt left open to reveal a hint of tanned skin. His dark hair was slightly mussed, as though he had run a hand through it in frustration. A sight, she realized, that should not be quite so distracting.

She steeled herself. “I wasn’t certain you would come," she said, keeping her voice light, as if she didn’t care one way or another. As if it was simply idle curiosity and not the anticipation/dread of a life-altering moment.

Max paused, his blue eyes flicking to the grand bed that dominated the room before settling on her. His expression was unreadable, his mouth set in a firm line.

"Of course," he said evenly. "It would not do for the servants to believe I had abandoned my bride on our wedding night."

A peculiar tightness gripped her chest. So that was it. He was here for appearances. Not because he desired to be. Not because he desired her.

"How fortunate," she said coolly, lifting her chin, "that you are so mindful of propriety."

He did not respond other than an arch look. Instead, he strode to the bed, retrieved a blanket from the chest at the foot of it and then tossed that blanket onto the rug before the fireplace. Then, with the air of a man making a great sacrifice, he took one of the large pillows from the bed as well, tossed it beside the blanket, and lay down on the floor.

Violet blinked.

"What are you doing?"

He exhaled sharply, resting one arm behind his head as he stared at the ceiling.

"Sleeping," he said. "As one does at this hour."

"On the floor?" she asked, her voice climbing in pitch.

His jaw clenched. "Where else would I sleep?"

Oh, she could think of one place. A place she had rather assumed he would sleep. He had promised to protect her. To be a good husband. And yet, here he was, lying on the damned floor, as though even sharing a bed with her would be a fate too horrid to endure.

Her hands curled into fists at her sides. "Is this how it will always be, then?" she asked icily.

His gaze did not waver. "Yes."

A sharp, bitter laugh escaped her before she could stop it. "I see. You find the prospect of lying beside me so utterly repugnant that you would rather?—"

"Violet."

There was something in his voice—a quiet warning, a strained sort of desperation—that made her pause.

Slowly, he sat up, raking a hand through his hair. "I do not find you repugnant," he said, his voice low, rough. "Quite the opposite."

Her breath hitched. For a moment—a single, fleeting moment—she almost believed him.

But then, just as quickly, his expression hardened. "I made this marriage to protect you," he continued, his voice flat, emotionless. "Not to take advantage of you. I will not demand anything of you."

The words should have reassured her. And yet, they felt like a blow. Because if he had no intention of taking his husbandly rights, if he was so determined to keep this marriage in name only— Then it could only mean one thing. He felt nothing for her. Not truly. Not in the way a man ought to feel for his wife. It wasn’t as if she’d thought the vicar pronouncing them man and wife would suddenly render them in love with one another. But she had thought that, perhaps, the more intimate aspects of marriage might alter their general behavior and attitudes toward one another.

Of course, Violet knew she had never been the sort of woman to make men lose their wits. Barring a few exceptions, and most of them quite undesirable, men had rarely acted as though she inspired even moderate attraction much less longing or desire. But to have it confirmed so plainly—by the very man she had spent years secretly yearning for—It was unbearable.

"Of course," she said lightly, pasting a brittle smile onto her face. "I would not expect you to suffer such an imposition."

He let out a low curse, shifting to rest his elbows on his knees. "That is not—" He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "God, Violet, if you had any idea?—”

She folded her arms. "Any idea of what, precisely?"

His gaze flickered to hers—dark and unreadable—before he shook his head. "Never mind," he muttered. “Just go to bed and let us both attempt to get some sleep tonight.”

Her throat tightened. She wanted to push him. To demand an answer. But what good would it do? The truth was plain enough.

And so, with all the grace she could muster, she turned away, climbed into the bed, and drew the covers up to her chin.

"Good night, Your Grace," she said coolly.

There was a long silence.

Then, softly—so softly she almost did not hear it?—

"Good night, Violet."

Max lay awake for what felt like an eternity, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sound of her breathing.

She had been hurt. He had seen it in her eyes. And he hated it. Hated that she thought this was about her. That she believed he found her unappealing.

Christ above!

If anything, he had never wanted her more. Which was precisely the problem.Because she had not chosen him. She had chosen safety. She had chosen the protection marriage would afford her because that was what he had offered her. The idea that she would welcome into her bed out of duty and obligation—well, that made him no better than Eddington. He’d already had one wife who resented his touch and loathed every moment they were together. The last thing he wanted was to engender such feelings in Violet. Despite their surface animosity toward one another, he genuinely cared for her. He was fairly certain she genuinely cared for him. But caring about one’s friends or lifelong acquaintances was not love. It was certainly not the foundation for marriage or physical intimacy.

And he could not stand the thought of being the lesser of two evils in her eyes. So he would keep his distance. He would protect her, yes. But he would not take advantage of a marriage she had never truly wanted. Even if it damned him to this miserable floor for all eternity.