Page 6 of The Duke of Ruin
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 batteredportmanteau. 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."
