Page 7 of The Duke of Ruin
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.
"Youdon'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 haveyouthinking 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.
