Page 4 of The Duke of Ruin
"Well," Mascotte said gleefully, as the Duke won four out of five of his own throw ins. "It seems I shall be the first to congratulate you on your upcoming nuptials, your Grace."
"Shall we play for the best out of three games?" Lord Greene stuttered, as he realised that he had lost. His grey face showed signs of dawning comprehension at what he had done, and none of the men present seemed able to look him in the eye.
"No," Ruan shook his head firmly, ignoring the old man's nervous protests. "We shall play no more games, my Lord. I shall meet you at your home tomorrow at noon. Instruct your daughter to be ready."
"But the banns," Lord Greene grasped at straws. "You cannot wed until the banns are read out – that takes three weeks at least. Unless you wait a day or two for a special license."
"There's no need."
Ruan reached for his coat on the back of the chair, and from its inside pocket he withdrew the papers of the special license, which the Archbishop of Canterbury had signed for him just that very morning.
"You already had it?" Lord Greene looked flabbergasted, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. "So, all along...?"
"All along, I only wanted your daughter's hand," Ruan conceded, with a smile that did not reach his cold blue eyes. "And now I have it. My thanks, Lord Greene. I shall see you anon."
Ruan swept from the room, not caring to look over his shoulder, where he was sure a broken Lord Greene would be seeking comfort and solace from his friends. He would not get it.
Even Ruan, cold hearted swine that he was, would not have gambled away his daughter's life to a man with a reputation for murdering his last spouse, among other misdeeds. Lord Greene had thought he could not lose, how wrong he had been. The despicable act would surly eat at the old bugger for the rest of his years. Another life ruined – though the Duke thought it most deserved in this case. Imagine having a daughter as beautiful as the unfortunately named Miss Olive Greene, and throwing away her hand on a game of chance. It beggared belief.
He was already looking forward to the next morning, when he would make Olive his Duchess, and parts of him stirred at the thought of making her completely his. T'was a pity the young woman clearly hadn't felt the same way about him, but the Duke was sure she would learn to tolerate him after a lifetime of marriage.
Ruan smiled broadly at the doorman, as he handed him the reins to his stallion.
"Did you have a good night, your Grace?" the footman inquired, taken aback by how jovial the usually dour Duke of Everleigh appeared.
"It was," Ruan laughed, "For me at least."
Olive was in the kitchen, kneading bread into what she hoped would be an edible loaf, when her father emerged the next morning. His presence filled the room with the stale scent of cheroot smoke and the distinct odour of brandy. Olive sniffed; copious amounts of brandy, it would seem.
"What did you lose last night?" she asked bitterly, taking the misshapen lump of dough, and placing it on a tray. "The tapestries? The candlesticks? You're still wearing your shirt, so you didn't lose that at least."
"Liv," her father's voice was raspy, and she could hear the phlegm on his chest from the heavy smoking the night before. "A cup of tea would be nice, before you begin your inquisition."
"There's a pot on the table."
Liv watched from the corner of her eye as her father made his way to the wooden table, which dominated the other side of the dark, spotlessly clean kitchen. Only three years ago, before her mother's untimely demise, there would have been servants to make her father his morning brew, and it would have been served to him in the dining room. But now there were no servants, there wasn't even a table in the echoing dining room – it had been sold, along with the paintings and a heap of other furniture, to pay her father's ever accruing debts.
Irritated, Liv placed the baking tray in the wood burning oven, and slammed the door. She did not mind hard work, in fact she preferred it to the more tedious feminine arts like needle point and flower pressing. What she minded, as anyone would, was the uncertainty that all her hard work would be for nothing.
Her father had been a profligate gambler before her mother's death, but since then had become wild and reckless with his gaming. Some mornings Liv woke not knowing if the bed she had slept in would still be there that night, or if the roof above her head would have to be sold.
"Here," she snapped, ladling out two soft boiled eggs into egg cups and placing them before her father. A slice of dry, two-day old bread accompanied them, which her father looked at askance.
"I had to walk to the far field this morning, to collect the eggs, for that's where the stupid hen decided to nest," she said by way of explanation, "I had no time to make you fresh bread."
"Never mind," her father sighed, picking up a knife and generously coating the offending bread with a thick coating of butter. "I have news for you Liv, great news."
Liv stilled; the last time her father had given her great news, was after he had won thousands of pounds at the tables. Enough to send her to London, for her first season and look at what a disaster that had turned out to be. In hind-sight, Liv now wished that she had just hidden the money as a nest egg for herself, instead of allowing him to convince her to fritter it away on dresses and baubles. She had returned to Frome deflated, and just as penniless and trapped as she had left it.
"What kind of great news, Papa?" she asked cautiously, taking a seat across from her father, who looked rather green around the gills. A big win, if she could manage to wrestle some money from him, might mean they could hire a girl to help around the house. She might even be able to refurnish some of the main rooms, so that she could invite some of the few friends she had made in London to stay.
"A husband," her father said, gravely setting his cup upon the table. "I have found you a husband, my dear."
Olive, for the first time in her life, felt as though she was going to faint. A feeling she quickly dismissed; only consumptives and elderly matrons fainted, and she was neither.
"And who is this man you've gambled me away to?" she asked, her voice laden with ice, for she intuitively knew just how her father had found her a husband. "A farmer? A criminal? The captain of a pirate ship?"
Each was a distinct possibility, for her father's sense of reason and decency left him completely when he gambled.
