Page 39 of Between a Duke and a Hard Place
Max merely hummed, his lips curving slightly as he followed her into the entrance hall.
“Your Grace,” a footman interrupted, stepping forward and offering a sealed letter on a silver tray. “A courier arrived while you were at church. The letter is marked urgent.”
Max took the letter and broke the dark red seal, his brows furrowing as he scanned its contents. And then, quite suddenly, he went utterly still.
Violet, having removed her bonnet and currently engaged in straightening a stray curl, noted the change in his demeanor instantly. The shift was subtle, but she had spent far too many years in his presence not to recognize when something had unsettled him. She stepped closer, all hint of teasing and humor gone. “Max?”
He did not answer at once. He simply stared at the parchment, his jaw tightening slightly before he folded the letter with deliberate precision.
Violet’s stomach twisted. James. Was it confirmation of his demise? The very thought of it filled her with dread. “What is it?”
He lifted his gaze to hers, his eyes now dark and unreadable. “There is no Major Smythe.”
For a moment, the words did not compute.
She frowned. “What?”
“No record of such a man exists.” He tapped the letter against his palm, his expression grim and set in stone. “There has never been a Major Smythe attached to any regiment that has served alongside James.”
A chill settled over her. The implications were immediate. The letter from the supposed officer confirming James’s death was simply a fabrication. Another of Ethella's and Nigel’s lies. The man who visited them yesterday, speaking in that calculated, somber tone had been a fraud.
Violet’s pulse began to race, but she forced herself to remain composed. “Which means…”
Max’s gaze did not waver. “Which means Ethella and Nigel have orchestrated all this without a legal leg to stand on. It’s no more than a confidence game.”
She inhaled sharply, her fingers curling into the folds of her gown as an icy rage unfurled in her chest. “They will not stop,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.
“No,” Max agreed, his voice quiet, steady, and full of certainty. “They will not.”
A long silence settled between them, punctuated only by the distant crackling of the fire in the parlor.
Then, after a moment, Max sighed heavily and ran a hand through his hair. “I will send a reply to the Bishop, confirming that we have received his warning and that there was no fraud in our union. If Ethella attempts to press the matter further, we will deal with it accordingly.”
Violet nodded absently, but her mind was already racing ahead.
If Ethella and Nigel were so bold as to fabricate a death notice for James, then qhat else were they willing to do? And perhaps more importantly, what were they planning next?
Chapter Twenty-Two
The air was crisp with the bite of early autumn, the scent of damp earth mingling with the distant aroma of burning wood from Alstead Manor’s chimneys. From his position within the dense tree line bordering the estate, Lord Eddington stood perfectly still, his eyes fixed on the grand house that should have been his victory, his prize.
But the cursed Duke of Alstead had stolen her from him. It was nothing more than spite, he thought. Petty revenge for having diddled his previous wife. Not that he was the only one. Katherine, the former duchess, had been more than willing to spread her thighs for anyone and everyone. But not Violet. She was chaste, innocent… fresh. And bloody Alstead was keeping him from her.
The thought made his hands tighten into fists, his nails biting into his gloves as his lips curled in a silent snarl. Violet belonged to him. She had been promised to him, indirectly, by that spineless wretch, Nigel Cavender, when he had taken Eddington’s coin in a desperate attempt to delay his inevitable ruin. The debt had been clear. The terms had been set. Violet was meant to be the payment. She would be his if he had to pryher from Alstead’s cold, dead grasp. In truth, he might prefer to have her that way.
A muscle ticked in his jaw as he imagined just how close he had been to owning her. And now she was the Duchess of Alstead, wrapped in the protection of a man who should have been rotting in a grave already.
Eddington’s breath came sharp and uneven, his pulse hammering in his ears as he watched the house, waiting—hoping—for some sign of her. He had never been a patient man, but for this, he would wait.
Because one way or another, he would have her. And if he could not have her, then no one would. Alstead could spend the rest of his days mourning her.
He had told himself—lied to himself—that his interest in her was merely transactional. That she was simply another investment—a means of reclaiming his fortune and restoring his position in society.
But that was before he had seen how beautifully she carried herself, how her defiant, fiery nature only served to make her more alluring. How the fire in her eyes was unlike any he had ever encountered before. She was not docile, not easily broken, and oh, how he longed to be the one to break her. Violet Honeywell Able would not simply spread her legs for him. But then he didn’t want that.
No, he wanted her shattered, remade into something his and his alone. He would make her beg, plead, bargain and ultimately he would own her. He would own her and Duke would die a slow, merciless death. Knowing that Violet would live the rest of her days under his thumb.
Eddington had been considering the details of it for weeks, ever since that wretched wedding had taken place. An ambush on the road, perhaps? A convenient hunting accident? The Dukewas known to ride alone at times, and there were so many ways for a man to meet his end when his enemies were clever enough.
