Page 40 of Between a Duke and a Hard Place
He wanted the Duke’s final thoughts to be of Violet, and how he had failed her, failed to protect her, failed to keep her from falling into the hands of another man. And when he was gone, when the dust had settled, what then?
Would Violet still fight him? Would she still glare at him with those brilliant green eyes, fire, and defiance battling against fear? Would she still hate him when she had nowhere else to run? Eddington exhaled sharply, dragging a gloved hand down his face as a dark amusement curled through him.
Yes, she would fight… And he would enjoy every second of it. He would relish the moment her spirit cracked, the instant she realized that there was no escaping him.
And if, by some chance, she thought she might still outmaneuver him? Well, that was where Ethella and Nigel came in.
The thought made him smirk. They had been useful thus far, providing him with just enough information to keep him one step ahead. But they were fools—Ethella, with her arrogant belief that she could control him, and Nigel, pathetically scrambling for his own survival.
They thought they were conspirators in his plans, but in reality, they were mere tools. Temporary pawns in a game they did not even realize they were losing. Once Violet was secured, once Max was buried, there would be no further use for them.
And while he had been willing to entertain Ethella’s schemes for a time, he had no intention of allowing her to live long enough to claim any part of his victory.
As for Nigel?
The man was as good as dead already.
Debts did not go unpaid. Loyalty was not optional. And Lord Eddington did not tolerate failure.
A faint rustling in the distance drew his attention back to the present, his sharp gaze shifting toward the great house once more. The servants were moving inside, tending to whatever nonsense occupied them, but still—no sign of Violet.
No matter. He would wait. And when the time came—when the moment was perfect— He would strike.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Max strode through the corridors of Alstead Manor, his temper burning hotter with each step. The corridors felt too narrow, the walls pressing in around him as he fought to rein in his frustration.
Smythe. Nigel. Ethella. Eddington. Their names circled in his mind like vultures, each one an affront to his patience, an insult to his intelligence. The fabricated officer, the endless scheming, the brazen manipulations—all for the nefarious purposes of stealing the estate out from under James and undoing his marriage to Violet, reclaiming her as their pawn.
It was unforgivable.
And Nigel—spineless, conniving Nigel. That damned fool was playing at things he did not understand, aligning himself with men who would gladly slit his throat the moment he ceased being useful. If he had any sense, he would be terrified. Eddington’s sins ran the gamut from the banal to the truly monstrous. Ending the life of someone as tiresome as Nigel would not even warrant the batting of an eye.
Max reached Violet’s door and knocked softly. He didn’t want to disturb her if she was resting. When no answer came, hepushed it open without waiting, wanting to assure himself she was well.
And immediately, everything else fell away.
She stood at the center of the room, half-dressed, the buttons of her gown undone, the fabric slipping from her shoulders.
Max froze. His breath stalled in his chest, his pulse hammering in his ears as he took her in. Pale skin, soft curves, the faintest glimpse of lace at the hem of her shift.
His stomach tightened. His blood heated. He struggled to think past the sudden, blinding desire that gripped him. She hadn’t seen him yet. Her head was tilted downward, her fingers lingering at the laces of her stays, lost in thought.
And then, she turned. Their eyes met. And she knew.
The realization passed over her features in a single instant—the flicker of understanding, the sharp inhale of breath, the way her hands stilled against the fabric of her dress.
Max should have looked away. Should have stepped back, and offered an apology. But he didn’t. Because all he could see—all he could think about—was her. The way she had felt beneath him. The way she had moaned his name, clung to him, welcomed him without hesitation.
He would never get enough of her, he thought. Would there ever come a time when he could look at her thus and not be instantly aroused by the sight? Bloody hell. He didn’t even need to look at her. Just thinking of her was enough in most cases.
Taking in her expression, her softly parted lips and pink cheeks, heavy-lidded eyes, and then her gaze darted from him to the bed. Before he could think what she intended to do, she untied the stays she had just put on and shrugged out of them, letting them fall to the floor. Clad only in a thin chemise so transparent she may as well have been entirely nude, she lifted her hand and beckoned to him like a siren. And like so many mythical sailors lost to their wiles, he was powerless to resist.
Violet had known, from the second their gazes had locked, what he was thinking. She saw it in the way his body tensed, in the way his breathing had gone shallow, in the way his hands curled into tight, white-knuckled fists. And for one terrible, breathless moment, she thought he meant to walk away from her, from what they had shared. But then he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him, his long stride eating up the distance between them.
He stopped just short of touching her, his breath fanning over her lips, his hands shaking at his sides. “You should tell me to stop," he rasped, voice low and rough with restraint. "Now, before I can't."
"Don't you dare," she whispered back, her own voice trembling.
