Page 14 of Between a Duke and a Hard Place
Chapter Seven
Violet awoke to an unnatural stillness.
For a moment, she simply lay there, slowly taking stock and making sense of her unfamiliar surroundings. The great canopy bed she occupied was far more extravagant than the one she was accustomed to, the mattress softer, the sheets finer. Even the air smelled different—faintly perfumed with lavender and cloves and beeswax. Perhaps, underneath it all, was the faintest lingering scent of woodsmoke from the hearth.
As her mind slowly sorted through the unfamiliar surroundings, the events of the previous day came crashing back to her. She was married. To Maxwell Able, the insufferable Duke of Alstead.
Groaning into her pillow, she resisted the urge to pull the blankets over her head and pretend, for just a little while longer, that this was all some dreadful misunderstanding. But the steady sound of breathing near the fireplace put an abrupt end to such fantasies.
Turning her head cautiously, she caught sight of Max, still asleep, sprawled unceremoniously on the floor like some fallen warrior. He had refused to share the bed. Refused so thoroughly,in fact, that he had not even considered the possibility of doing otherwise.
And while Violet hadn’t known, from the outset that theirs would be a marriage of convenience, after reflecting upon it during the first sleepless hours of the night, she wasn’t surprised. And she’d resigned herself to a marriage that would be devoid of intimacy, devoid of passion, that—though a married woman—she’d likely remain virginal and largely ignorant until the day she died. Their arrangement, after all, was not born of passion or longing, but of necessity. While that rankled her to some degree, it was his apparent eagerness to keep his distance that truly stung.
It had been one thing for Max to insist upon a practical union. It was another entirely for him to react to the idea of lying beside her as if she carried some sort of contagious affliction. Even if he hadn’t wished to consummate their marriage, was lying beside her such a revolting prospect that a night on the hard floor was preferable?
He had not even entertained the possibility. Not even joked about it. Not even looked at her twice. Her pride bristled at the thought. She was not some great beauty. Sonnets and odes to her glory had never been written or even considered. But she was passably pretty. She had a good figure and nice hair, a clear complexion if a bit freckled from being outdoors. There was nothing about her that should be that wholly unappealing.
The least he could have done was pretend to struggle with the idea. Perhaps he might have wrung his hands dramatically, lamenting his tragic fate at having to resist the allure of his new wife. But no. Instead, he had taken one look at their wedding bed, declared it hers alone, and proceeded to make himself a very comfortable pile of blankets on the floor.
She turned onto her side, arms crossed as she glared at him.
Max shifted in his sleep, brow furrowing slightly, but otherwise remained utterly unperturbed. It was infuriating. With a great huff, she threw back the blankets and stood, the wooden floor cool beneath her bare feet. Stalking toward the washbasin, she splashed cold water onto her face, silently cursing every inch of the man currently sleeping soundly on the floor behind her.
“I can feel your irritation from here, Violet,” Max’s voice, still rough with sleep, rumbled behind her.
She whirled around to find him propped up on one elbow, his hair deliciously mussed, his eyes still heavy with sleep. The open neck of his shirt had slipped down, revealing skin far more bronzed than was typical of a member of the aristocracy. But it was the crisp, dark hair amidst that V of white linen that drew her gaze, that immediately stoked her curiosity.
Pulling her gaze from his chest, she realized that looking at his face was no better. The dark shadow of his morning whiskers only highlighted his strong features and perfectly framed sculpted lips that, in all honesty, were too pretty to sit on such a masculine visage. It was unfair, she decided immediately, that a man could wake up looking like that.
“You should feel my irritation,” she said primly, turning back to the mirror and patting her face dry. “It is very well deserved.”
A sigh. Then the sound of him rising. “Am I to be berated before I’ve even had a cup of tea?”
She turned again, fully prepared to continue her tirade, only to falter slightly when she saw him rolling his shoulders, stretching out the stiffness from his night on the floor.
Curse him and his broad shoulders.
“I suppose I should be grateful that you’re even here,” she said, lifting her chin. “I half expected you to flee in the night.”
Max smirked. “Where would I have gone?”
“Back to your life of carefree bachelorhood, perhaps.”
He let out a short laugh. “Hardly carefree, Violet. Though I do find myself mourning my once peaceful mornings.”
She huffed, turning back toward the washstand, determined to ignore the way her heart had inexplicably twisted at his words.
He did not regret marrying her. Not really. Did he?
She shook herself, unwilling to dwell on such thoughts.
“We have much to do today,” Max said, pulling on his discarded coat. “No doubt the entirety of the county is already buzzing with the news of our marriage.”
Violet groaned. “Which means we shall have visitors.”
“Indeed.”
“Do you suppose your mother will be the first to arrive, demanding explanations?”
