Page 9 of Between a Duke and a Hard Place
Twice.
And then—to his utter horror—she laughed.
Not a polite, delicate chuckle.
No, Violet Honeywell never laughed in the polite and controlled manner most ladies did. She threw her head back and laughed—a deep, full-throated sound that filled the carriage and sent something very dangerous and completely forbidden curling through Max’s chest.
He scowled. "Stop that."
She bit her lip, attempting—and failing—to suppress another giggle. "I’m sorry. Have I wounded your fragile pride?”
He leveled her with a flat look. "I simply refuse to engage in any conversation where you are amused at my expense."
She sniffed, dabbing at the corners of her eyes. “Then this will be a terribly silent marriage, Your Grace."
Max sighed, staring out the window, wondering if he could survive the next several hours of travel without attempting to throw himself from the moving carriage.
As if reading his mind, Violet tilted her head. "Do not look so put out. You were the one who insisted we wed. That means you shall have the honor of enduring my company forever."
Max's jaw tightened.
Forever.
The word sent an odd thrill of discomfort—and something else he refused to name—down his spine.
"Do not remind me," he muttered.
“We shall both be reminded. Every single day,” she said sweetly.
Good God.
What had he done?
By the time they reached York, the sky had clouded over again, heavy and leaden. But the rain was holding off, so the streets were still bustling with activity. The carriage rolled through the narrow lanes, past vendors shouting their wares and children darting between carts.
Violet peered out the window, her expression decidedly unimpressed. "So," she said dryly. "Are we to conduct this solemn affair in an alleyway, or have you secured a church with at least one candle to light the occasion on this dreary day?"
Max exhaled sharply through his nose.
"St. Michael’s," he said, motioning to the modest stone church ahead. "It is discreet, efficient, and blessedly quick with its ceremonies."
Violet smirked. "How romantic."
He shot her a withering glare.
They stepped out of the carriage, making their way toward the entrance, where the vicar—a mild-looking man with thinning hair and an unfortunate nose—greeted them with a polite but confused expression.
"Your Grace," the vicar said, bowing slightly. “How may I be of assistance.”
Violet watched as Max removed the recently procured license from his pocket and passed it to the vicar, whose eyes widened with alarm.
“I was not aware that you and Miss Honeywell were betrothed!”
"Nor was I," Max muttered under his breath.
Violet elbowed him in the ribs.
The vicar, having caught the minor act of violence, flicked his gaze to and fro between them. "Do you… require a moment to reflect upon this decision?"
