Page 8 of Between a Duke and a Hard Place
If one wished to make a lengthy journey particularly excruciating, there was no better companion than Violet. Max had known this, of course. He had been aware of it for years. But the full weight of his decision to marry her—to bind himself to this maddening woman for what might be the remainder of his days—was sinking in with every mile of the journey to York.
The carriage rocked slightly over the uneven road, the early morning mist still clinging to the trees, and beside him, the thorn in his side sat, arms crossed, looking utterly unimpressed with his existence.
He had been prepared for resistance. He had expected irritation. But he had not expected silence. Violet had not spoken a word since they had left Alstead Manor. Not a single one. And it was driving him mad. Was it fear? Was the idea of being his wife so thoroughly distasteful to her that she was truly debating which fate was worse: him or Eddington? That was an unbearable thought.
She had stared broodingly out of the carriage window for nearly an hour, her brow furrowed, her mouth set in a firm line, as if she were contemplating whether she ought to leap from the moving vehicle and take her chances with the muddy road.
Max exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"If you are going to attempt to throw yourself into a ditch," he drawled, "might I suggest you wait until the next coaching inn? Less risk of snapping your neck on a tree root that way."
Violet turned slowly, her green eyes flashing.
"You would like that, wouldn’t you?"
Max feigned a thoughtful expression. "A sudden, tragic accident would spare us both from this loathsome silence. If you won’t even speak to me, Violet, this is sure to be an excruciatingly tedious marriage. So yes, I might be inclined to allow it."
"Do not tempt me, Your Grace,” she scoffed, lifting up the too-long sleeve of his coat which engulfed her petite frame. “If only for the satisfaction of ruining your best coat with my untimely demise."
His lips twitched, but he schooled his expression into a mask of practiced disinterest. He would not let her know how much she amused him. Encouraging her would be an error of grand proportion.
"I have spent the last seven years convincing myself that we mutually loathed one another,” she said.
A ridiculous statement, of course. A lie, surely. Because what kind of woman wasted her energy loathing a man she barely tolerated to begin with?
He should not care. And yet, it unsettled him. “Why would you do that?”
“We cannot speak to one another without sparring like pugilists,” she said simply. “What else was I supposed to think? That you were harboring some secret tendre for me that you hidbehind barbs and not so thinly veiled insults? What a ridiculous notion! Also, I never aspired to be a duchess. In truth, it’s the last thing I ever wanted.”
He adjusted his cuffs, clearing his throat. "Perhaps you ought to be grateful, Violet. There are women who would be thrilled to find themselves in your position."
Violet snorted in a most unladylike manner.
"Oh, forgive me, Your Grace. Am I not adequately overwhelmed with gratitude?"
Max leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. "Not even a little."
She turned fully toward him now, her glare sharp enough to cut glass.
"Let us be perfectly clear about something, Alstead," she said. "I am only agreeing to this absurd arrangement because you are correct—Eddington is a repugnant creature, and I have no desire to be tied to him for eternity. However, do not mistake my acceptance of your solution to my problem as some starry-eyed joy at the prospect of being the Duchess of Alstead."
Max smirked. "Oh, I assure you, the very notion of you being starry-eyed over anything is inconceivable."
She narrowed her eyes at him. "I would rather wed an ill-tempered goat."
Max lifted a brow. "I am flattered to have edged out the goat in your considerations."
She exhaled sharply, rubbing her temple. "You are impossible."
"And you," he said, with far too much satisfaction, "are predictable."
"Predictable?"
"Yes." He adjusted his cravat, settling back into the seat. "Whenever you are confronted with an inconvenient reality, you react precisely the same way—you argue, you glare, you insult,and then you resign yourself to the inevitable with all the grace of a cat being forcibly dunked into a basin of water."
She blinked at him.
Once.
