Page 2 of Between a Duke and a Hard Place
Violet snorted. James, in his dying breath, would have been far more likely to curse Nigel to eternal damnation than to entrust him with anything—particularly delivering such terrible news to her. “So,” Violet said, crossing her arms, “your argument is that my brother, rather than contacting his beloved sister, instead elected to bestow his final wishes upon—” she gestured vaguely at Nigel, “—you?”
Nigel bristled.
Ethella’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Regardless, my dear, it does not change the fact that as his closest male relation, Nigel must assume control of Wellston Hall.”
Violet did not move. She neither blinked nor flinched. Instead, she braced herself for battle. Because the only way she’d give over control of Wellston to them would be over her dead, cold corpse.
Then, after a long moment, she smiled. Slow and sharp as a blade. “Well,” she said lightly, “then I suppose it is rather inconvenient that I do not believe a word of it.”
Nigel’s face reddened. “You cannot?—”
“Oh, but I can,” she interrupted smoothly. “Until I have proof—real proof, not some fabricated letter delivered by a man whose very existence is suspect—then Wellston Hall remains mine.”
Ethella’s gaze darkened.
Nigel clenched his fists.
Violet smiled sweetly. And with that, she turned on her heel, swept up the grand steps, and disappeared inside her house—leaving them fuming in her wake.
Wellston Hall was hers.
And she would see it defended.
Chapter One
Alstead Manor
There were only two circumstances under which Violet Honeywell would voluntarily call upon Maxwell Able, Duke of Alstead. The first would be if every other man in England perished in a sudden and catastrophic event, leaving Max the only person left to speak to. The second would be precisely this sort of wretched circumstance, in which she required his assistance in a matter of grave importance and had no other reasonable alternative.
Neither scenario was particularly pleasing to her. Thus, it was with a most unladylike scowl that she rapped upon the grand doors of Alstead Manor, half-expecting them to collapse under the force of her irritation.
The butler—a serious, long-suffering man who had endured the strange and tumultuous relationship between Violet and his master for many years—opened the door.
“Miss Honeywell,” he intoned with only the barest lift of his brow.
“I need to see his grace. Immediately.”
The butler did not look impressed.
Violet exhaled sharply, stepping inside and closing the doors behind her. She had spent enough of her childhood in this house that she required no direction.
“Where is he?” she demanded.
“In his study, Miss Honeywell,” the butler answered with the patience of a saint, already stepping aside as she marched unapologetically down the corridor.
“Of course he is,” she muttered. Where else would Maxwell Able, the most infuriating man in all of England, be but brooding in his study, avoiding society, and doing whatever it was dukes with questionable personalities did in their leisure time?
She reached the door, did not wait to be announced, and threw it open.
Inside, Max was precisely where she had expected him, seated at his great mahogany desk, a glass of brandy in hand, a ledger open before him, and an expression of supreme displeasure at the sight of her.
He sighed heavily, as though her very existence had just given him a headache. “Violet.”
“Maxwell,” she returned, equally unamused.
“I assume you have come to disturb my peace.”
“While I hate to rob you of your usual miserable solitude,” she quipped. “I do, sadly, require your assistance.”
