"Good God, man, are you nervous?"
Henry Lavelle, Viscount Somerset glanced at his old friend the Duke of Everleigh with wonder. They were standing at the front door of Rosewick Cottage, Lord Greene's home, which in the usual English way was not a cottage at all, but rather an impressive Manor House. Three stories high, and built of soft, butter-yellow Bath stone, it was a rather impressive old pile.
Ruan momentarily rued his decision to gift it back to the profligate gambler, for one day he would surely lose it again, but the deed was now done. As a man of honour – for the most part – he would not renege on a gentleman's agreement.
Though it appeared that the old reprobate Lord Greene might have decided to take back what he had promised him.
"Hello?" Ruan banged against the door with his fist once more, where was the footman or the butler? Had the whole house absconded with Miss Greene at the news of her impending nuptials?
"Hang on, hang on," the sound of a man's grumbling filtered out the wooden door, much to Viscount Somerset's amusement.
"You're early."
It was Lord Greene himself, dressed much as he had been the night before. Ruan gave a discreet sniff, and tried not to wince; from the smell of the old man it appeared he was still wearing last night's brandy soaked shirt.
"I'm not early," an aggrieved Ruan consulted his gold pocket watch, it had just struck noon. He was perfectly on time.
A silence ensued, in which a curious Lord Greene surveyed the well-dressed Viscount Somerset, who was flamboyantly garbed in a coat of plum. Despite his rather obstreperous taste in clothing, Lavelle was Ruan's closest friend. Only friend, if truth be told. They had grown up together as young men, their Cornwall estates sharing a common land border, and Lavelle was possibly the only person who could reconcile today's dark despised Duke of Everleigh with the innocent young lad he had once been.
"Lavelle," Ruan removed his hat, "Allow me to introduce Lord Greene. Lord Greene, this is Henry Lavelle, Viscount Somerset."
"How do you do," Lord Greene responded churlishly, his West-County accent sounding more pronounced than it had the night before.
"Do you want to come in?" he asked, his face clearly betraying the hope that Everleigh would miraculously say no to the invitation. He opened the door begrudgingly when they informed him that they did wish to enter his home, and ushered them inside with a scowl.
"Where is she?" Ruan asked, glancing around the bare front hall. It was bright, with a double-height ceiling, though the sunshine only highlighted how sparse the furnishings were. There were noticeably large, dark square patches of wallpaper dotted throughout the room. Places where pictures had once hung, Ruan guessed, pictures which had probably been sold to pay Lord Greene's gaming debts.
Which reminded him of the prize he was there to collect.
"Where is your daughter?"
"I'm here," an irritated voice called down from above their heads.
Ruan looked up, and saw Olive standing on the stairs with one hand on the mahogany banister, while her other hand held a battered portmanteau. She was breath-taking, her red curls pinned high on her head, her green eyes narrowed in displeasure at the sight of him, and her body – Ruan's mouth went dry – was clad in a simple red gown, which clung to her generous bosom, before falling elegantly to the floor.
"Allow me to assist you with your bags," he said, realising that he had been seizing her up like she was a horse at Tattersalls, and not his intended wife.
"There's no need," Olive snapped, making her own way down the stairs and unceremoniously dumping her bag on the ground. It landed with a bang, which echoed in the empty hallway.
"May I introduce Lord Lavelle?" Ruan ignored the mutinous look his bride to be had cast him. She was a feisty one, he thought with a smile, which was exactly what he wanted in a wife. Someone with a bit of spirit, to challenge him, and she would preferably do this challenging in the bedroom.
"I've had the great pleasure of meeting Miss Greene before." Lavelle took Olive's hand, and placed a perfunctory kiss on it, which left Ruan seething with an emotion he could not identify. When Olive flushed with pleasure at the Viscount's attentions, he soon realised what it was: jealousy. It roared in his chest like a lion, and for one stupid second, the Duke considered placing his body between his friend and his fiancé to separate them. How dare Lavelle presume he could touch her? And how dare Olive think that she could bestow her beautiful smile on anyone bar him?
Reason slowly descended, brought on by Lavelle's amused laugh, as he noted Ruan's displeasure.
"I wonder where the Vicar has got to?" the Viscount mused, ambling over to the open door, to peer out into the driveway. "For I fear a bloody massacre, if he doesn't show up soon."
Ruan grunted; he knew that he had been glaring at his friend, and he knew that when he glared he was most formidable indeed. He cast a sly glance at Olive, who had paled somewhat, but whose mouth remained in a resolute, firm line.
"I apologise," she said, after an uncomfortable pause, "For not having any refreshments, or even a luncheon to offer you gentlemen. News of the nuptials came as quite a surprise, and as such I had no time to prepare."
Lavelle guffawed at her peevish tone, casting Ruan a knowing glance.
"I'm afraid that when the Duke decides he wants something," Lavelle said impishly, "That he waits for neither time nor tide."
"That's not how the saying goes," Ruan interjected, wishing to add his voice to the conversation, if only so that Olive would bestow her gaze upon him and not his friend. He surveyed the look that passed between the Viscount and his betrothed with a frown; was she flirting with Lavelle, or simply conversing with him? The thought was driving him to distraction, and he wished to God that the Vicar would hurry up, so that he could whisk her away from the gaze of any other man but him.
"Am I late?"
The jovial voice that called through the door, was soon accompanied by the rotund figure of Frome's Vicar. His jowls quivered from the exertion of plodding up the drive, and he wiped the rivulets of sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. The Vicar had obviously downgraded the seven deadly sins to six, if his girth was anything to go by.
"You're just in time," Lavelle answered smoothly, shaking the man's hand and ushering him inside. "Our groom was about to combust, but you'll soon see to that."
The Vicar chuckled good naturedly, and began to usher them into the drawing room.
"I've been told to make this quick," he said with a wink to Ruan, who scowled back in return. He had paid the man a handsome price to perform the ceremony at very short notice. A few babes would have their Christening pushed back to the afternoon as a result of his bribery, but so what? It wasn't as though an infant could tell the time, whereas he could, and he had never been a patient man.
"Let us begin," the Vicar said at last, when Olive and the Duke were standing side by side, before him in the drawing room.
The ceremony was very simple, with the couple exchanging their vows before their two witnesses; Lord Lavelle, who seemed to find the whole thing terribly amusing, and Lord Greene, who seemed fit to cast up his accounts on the carpet. Ruan looked down at his feet, under which there were only bare floorboards. There was no carpet to stain, Lord Greene having gambled it away.
"By the power invested in me," the Vicar boomed, after what seemed to Ruan to be an age, his face solemn, "I now pronounce you man and wife."
Olive flinched visibly at his words. Her face, already alabaster, was now a ghostly white. She looked almost ill at the pronouncement that she was now a Duchess.
Another wife less than enamoured with the thought of being married to me, Ruan thought wryly as he observed her reaction. At least this time he felt a flame of desire to the woman who had promised her life to him.
"What say you all to a drop of brandy, to toast the newlyweds?" the Vicar asked, rubbing his hands together with anticipation now that his part in the sorry affair was finished.
"No," Ruan replied shortly, reaching out to take Olive's hand in his own. He held it tightly, for fear that she may abscond. "My wife and I have a ship to catch."
The Vicar's mouth opened into an "O" of surprise, and the only thing which rescued the awkwardness of the moment was Lavelle.
"What Everleigh meant to say, Vicar," Lavelle flashed his winning smile at the man of the cloth, whilst elbowing his friend in the ribs. "Is that he regrets that he cannot accompany us to the pub, for a few celebratory sherries, but he has gifted me a coin purse to make sure that you, and the father of the bride, might toast the happy couple in their absence."
The Vicar looked mollified, and Lord Greene licked his parched lips. If ever a man had looked like he needed a pint, it was Lord Greene at that very moment. He seemed to have aged a decade over night, his shoulders were slumped and he wore a look of defeat on his lined face.
"Thank you, Lord Lavelle," Ruan nodded stiffly, he had never been good at the business of social niceties. He glanced at Olive before he spoke again, wishing to let her know that she was foremost in his thoughts; "I shall leave my wife to say her goodbye to her father."
"There's no need."
Olive Ashford, now Duchess of Everleigh, yanked her hand from his grip.
"My bag is in the hallway," she said to her husband, in the tone one would use to address a footman. "If you would be so kind as to bring it to the carriage."
She turned and glanced at Lavelle and the Vicar.
"Good day gentlemen," she said, inclining her head. Her gaze did not fall in the direction of her father, who stared with an open mouth as his daughter swept from the room.
"Oh, dear," the Vicar said, tugging at his collar uncomfortably. "Whatever's going on here?"
"It's rather a long story," Ruan heard Lavelle say, but he didn't wait to hear the rest of his friend's explanations. He followed his angry wife from the room, remembering to retrieve her lone bag, and followed her out to the waiting carriage.
Olive sat with her arms folded across her chest, staring icily out the window, not even turning to acknowledge her husband as he took a seat opposite her.
"We are going to Bristol," he volunteered, as the carriage made its way through the winding streets of Frome. "After that we will board one of my ships and sail for Paris. How does that sound to you?"
"It sounds like I have no choice in the matter," Olive retorted, bestowing him, at last, with a glacial gaze. Good God, but she was beautiful when she was angry, Ruan thought, a surge of desire coursing through him.
"You don't," he conceded magnanimously, he could afford that now that she was his. "Have a choice. Though don't think that I shall be a tyrant for the whole of our marriage. Once you birth me a son, you will be free to do as you please. And well compensated, of course."
"Oh, of course," Olive mimicked his imperious tone, with alarming accuracy. "I suppose if I don't deliver this son in the required time, I will be disposed of like your last wife?"
Anger flowed through Ruan's veins at the accusation. He had heard it before, but coming from her it stung sharply.
"I did not kill my last wife," he said through gritted teeth.
"I'm sure that's what you say to everyone," Olive bit, apparently nonplussed by the smouldering Duke seated opposite her.
"Actually, no." Ruan replied, struggling to keep his tone even, and trying not to lose his temper, which when unleashed had a mind of its own. "I don't care who thinks I killed Catherine, but I will not have you thinking that I did. You are safe with me, you have my word."
The weight of his word seemed to have little impression on Olive, for she returned her gaze to the country road, which whisked by the window of the carriage.
"Why me?" she asked, after a lengthy silence, in which Ruan had wondered if perhaps he had been a bit too impatient with his plans. Actually asking the girl if she wished to be his wife, might have ingratiated him a little better with her.
"You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen," he said simply, unembarrassed by his confession. "The moment I saw you, I knew that I had to have you as my own. I desire to continue on my line, and when I do, I'd rather do it with a beautiful woman like you, rather than some insipid Miss with a dowry I don't need."
To his pleasure, a pink flush began to form on his wife's cheeks, making its way down her neck to her décolletage, and the impressive swell of her breasts. Ruan lifted his gaze from her bosom, to her eyes, which were watching him with irritated amusement.
"Most men would try to court a woman they desired as a wife," she challenged him, her eyes narrow and thoughtful. "They would write love notes, and fill her dance card. They wouldn't try to win her in a game of chance."
"I am not most men," Ruan shrugged, thinking that the courtship rituals she had listed sounded insipid and dull.
"And I am not a piece of horseflesh to be bartered with."
The last sentence was spit with such venom, that Ruan recoiled slightly. He had made many women angry over the years, in fact it was one of the things he did best, but this woman, his wife, was so furious that Ruan believed if she had been in possession of a pistol, she would have shoot him there and then.
It was alarmingly alluring.
"You are not a piece of horseflesh," he agreed, hoping to placate her anger. "You are my wife, and anything that you desire shall be yours. Don't tell me that the life that I can offer you is less certain than living at the mercy of your profligate father?"
"I believe the expression, your Grace," Olive replied, in bored tones, unimpressed by his declaration. "Is caught between the devil and the deep, blue sea."
Ruan smiled with appreciation, for it was a sailor's expression. She thought him the devil, but as a man who had spent a decade of his life on the ocean, he knew that she could not fathom the dangers of dark, endless seas. Better she was under his care, the known devil, than at the mercy of her father. Who knew who, or what type of man, might have eventually won her hand. The thought left him shaken, which perplexed him. He was not inclined toward feelings of empathy or protectiveness, but his new wife seemed to be eliciting both.
"You may call me Ruan," was all he managed to say in response, his thoughts being occupied elsewhere.
"What kind of a name is that?" she asked, watching him with sloe eyes.
"Scottish," he thought briefly of his wild mother, who had bestowed on him a Highlander's name, before disappearing to the continent with one of his father's footmen. His last memory of her was when she had tucked him in to bed the night that she had left. She had smoothed his hair, and told him that she loved him, then left his life forever. Looking back now, he recognized that his mother had only been a child herself; though the memory of her leaving still seared through his soul.
The carriage carried on moving at a brusque pace, and soon they had passed Bath and were on the road to Bristol proper.
"Have you ever been to France?" he asked, to break the silence that had fallen between them again. With Catherine, their short marriage had been filled with silence and the pressure of things unsaid; Ruan wanted this to be different. He wanted Olive to feel free to speak to him.
"No," she answered shortly, tearing her eyes away from the window and glancing at him with disdain. "Do you think a father with a predication for gambling would ever have had the money to take me to Paris? When he lost we barely had money for food."
"Of course, I apologise," Ruan frowned; now that he thought on it, Paris had probably always been beyond her grasp. "You'll like it, I promise. You can have anything your heart desires. Now that you are my Duchess, you shall not want for a thing."
Olive looked at him, with the steady gaze that women the world over had mastered, reserved specifically for the times a man dared declare that he could give her anything her heart wished for.
What do you know of my heart? He could see her thinking, and for the first time in his two and thirty years, he cursed the fact that he was born a male. Oh, to have the innate wisdom that women possessed, to feel as deeply as they did. He was a lumbering boar of a man, he knew that, and his desires were simple, not multi-layered and unobtainable - as he was sure Olive's, like every other woman's - were.
"Thank you, your Grace," his wife replied simply, her tone decidedly calm, dare he say, polite. She resumed her watch on the passing fields, leaving Ruan feeling bereft as her attention fell elsewhere.
He had no idea what it was that Olive wanted, but at that moment he would have killed to get it for her, a thought that scared him no end.