Page 2 of The Duke of Ruin
"Greene," Olive reluctantly supplied, for she had not wished to share her name with him. "Olive Greene."
"What an unfortunate name," Everleigh laughed properly this time, and he was even more handsome because of it. His colouring was dark, but his eyes were blue, and when he laughed they were as warm and bright as sunlight sparkling on the sea. The Duke's hand still circled Olive's wrist, and she tugged it lightly, wishing to free herself. He was dangerous, she knew it inherently. He was the embodiment of all her fantasies: dark, handsome, deadly. Olive was struck by the sudden realisation that one's fantasies were safer when they confined themselves to one's head and did not appear miraculously embodied in a ballroom. Nothing had ever scared her as much as the Duke of Everleigh, and it was not the man himself that petrified her, but her reaction. She wanted to flee, but worse, she wanted him to chase her. Her heart beat rapidly in her chest, and she had to steel herself before she spoke again.
"I am well aware of how silly my name is, your Grace," she responded through gritted teeth. "And, unlike you, I am also well aware of what constitutes a scandalous amount of time for a man and woman to spend conversing alone in an alcove. We have exceeded it ten-fold. Good night, your Grace."
At last, Olive had managed to yank her wrist free from his strong grip, and she made to push past him, to find her Aunt.
"Don't go, just yet," the Duke blocked her path with his body,an act which was akin to rolling a boulder in her way, he was that large and immovable. "I wish to apologise for upsetting you."
"I don't wish to hear your apology," Olive whispered, slightly breathless from a heady mixture of fear and desire. "An apology requires actual remorse, and I doubt you are capable of that."
"You seem to have the measure of me already."
Instead of being insulted, Everleigh looked rather pleased. He watched her as a cat might watch a mouse, amused by her antics, but she knew she was only safe so long as he found her entertaining.
"That's nothing to be proud of, your Grace," Olive whispered, her face now flushed with anger. "I should hate for anyone to think that of me."
"Then that's where you and I differ, Miss Greene," the Duke inclined his head. "I care little for other people's opinions."
He stepped out of her way, and waved his arm, indicating that he would allow her to pass. Olive lifted her skirts, but when she made to walk past him, he again blocked her way.
"I have enjoyed our chat immensely, Miss Greene," he whispered in a way that was almost a threat, "And rest assured, we shall meet again."
With a smirk, he was gone, leaving Olive standing stupefied by the marble column. She did not know what it was about her that had attracted the Duke's attention, but she wished dearly that she hadn't.
A season to find a husband, and the only man I attract has a penchant for murder, she thought wryly to herself. She had her father's luck.
A fine mist of rain lashed down on the Sixth Duke of Everleigh as he made his way on horseback, up the steep incline of White Ladies Road. The grand, yellow-stone buildings, which lined either side of his path, were as beautiful as those found in the neighbouring city of Bath. The stones here, however, were blemished from smoke and coal soot, for Bristol, unlike its sedate, fashionable neighbour, was a city built on industry, and it was stained with grime to its very core.
Which suited Ruan Winston Charles Ashford just fine, for he too was neither sedate nor fashionable, and there were many that would say he was stained to the core; that his very soul was black from his all misdeeds. There were many more again, he thought with a rueful grin, who would say that this was balderdash, that he had no soul to stain. Not that Ruan gave a tuppence for what people said of him, or the rumours that were whispered in parlour rooms and gentleman's clubs across the whole of England.
He had killed a man.
He had murdered his wife.
He was the Duke of Ruin.
The last rumour was the only one that the Duke would allude to publicly, for it was partly true. He rarely gambled, but when he did, he played for high stakes. And he always won. Many a young blood had lost more than his shirt to the Duke.
"A fool and his money, are easily parted," Ruan would quip, when asked if he felt any qualms at all about blighting the futures of these entitled, young Lords. They had ruined their own lives, he reasoned; he had just profited from it.
The genteel, moneyed, borough of Clifton, which looked out over the Avon Gorge from its lofty perch atop the hills of the city, was quiet, for the hour was late. Ruan dismounted his stallion, and handed the reins, without a word, to the doorman of the club. The poor chap was soaked, and he looked grateful to have an excuse to seek respite from the weather, even if only momentarily. The interior bar of the club was empty when he entered it, but from the adjoining snug room came the sound that Ruan loved the most. The sound of money exchanging hands.
"Gentlemen," he said brusquely, removing his hat, which was sodden from the miserable weather. He ran a hand through his thick black hair, to remove the worst of the raindrops, and surveyed the players present; the usual mix of wealthy merchants and country squires. The elite of thetonwould never deign to grace a place like this, preferring the Assembly Rooms in Bath, which was precisely why Ruan was there. He had no patience for gout ridden Viscounts or elderly Earls, and definitely no time for their wives and daughters, who could not keep the fear-tinged fascination from their faces when they met him.Murderer, he could see them think when their eyes met his, before they quickly looked away.
"Mascotte," Ruan said with a nod as he took a seat at the gaming table next to a portly man of about fifty years. Gregg Mascotte was England's most notorious gossip, a skill he put to good use as editor the Bristol Daily Star. No doubt the rag would be filled with veiled hints of his escapades the next day, for though the public loathed him, they loved to read of his adventures.
"Your Grace," Mascotte's florid, puffy face broke in to a grin. "You're playing?"
"I am," Ruan conceded.
"Then I must count myself out," Mascotte raised his hands in defeat, giving an ingratiating laugh. "I know when I'm in over my head."
"If only other men were as wise, sir," Ruan murmured as he waited to be dealt in.
The other unwise men who remained at the table were familiar to him; bankers, merchants and industrialists who had money enough to fritter away. The only man that Ruan was not acquainted with, was Lord Greene, who held an impoverished baronetcy in nearby Frome. He was legendary for having won and lost his fortune at least several times over the six decades of his life, though rumour now had it, that, since his wife's death, Lord Greene had been losing more than winning of late.
Ruan hid a smile, he intended to see Lord Greene ruined that night, for the man had something he desired very much: his daughter's hand. The defiant emerald eyes, of Miss Greene, had haunted his dreams for the past two weeks. Ruan was not a man who believed in love at first sight, though he did recognise lust when it reared its hungry head. Olive Greene had stirred him in a way that no woman had been able to for quite some time. He was a jaded, connoisseur of women, both titled ladies and some of common birth, but Miss Greene had captivated his mind - and other parts of his body - most thoroughly with her luscious beauty, and sharp tongue. He liked a woman with spirit, though they were hard to find amongst theton,who tended to breed insipid dishcloths as daughters. Now that he had found a woman who might challenge him, Ruan intended to make her his wife, for the need to produce an heir was foremost on his mind, and the thoughts of producing one with Olive was most titillating indeed.
