Page 12 of Between a Duke and a Hard Place
“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.
Chapter Six
Violet 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 naïve 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?"
