"Ruan," she said happily, as her husband gave a low, courteous bow.
"My lady," his eyes twinkled as he stood, "Might I request the pleasure of the first waltz?"
"You may."
She beamed up at him, as giddy as a school-girl, unaware that Jane still stood close by.
"The waltz is the last dance of the night, your Grace," Jane quipped, "So you'll have to dance with a few other ladies, before you get to Olive."
Olive could see the frustration on her husband's face, and it amused her no end. It was secretly thrilling to have such a powerful, masculine man ready to do her bidding.
"Oh, yes Jane," she nodded, hiding her smile behind her hand. "His Grace must dance with the twins, Miss Devoy, you, and some of the ladies from the village. It's only right."
"Oh is it?"
Ruan cocked an eyebrow, an amused smile playing on his sinfully beautiful lips. Olive felt her mouth go dry as their eyes locked; his smoldering gaze promised retribution, and her stomach fluttered at the thought of what he might do. She recalled their brief, passionate embrace aboard The Elizabeth, and instantly regretted her plan to loan the Duke out to her friends. She wanted to be in his arms, she wanted to feel his heartbeat in his chest, she wanted to--
"Olive?"
Jane peered at her curiously, despite her shortsightedness she could tell that Olive was distracted and flustered. "Are you alright?"
"Just a trifle hot, Jane," she responded, fanning her hand against her flaming cheeks, "Perhaps we shall fetch a glass of ratafia?"
The two friends linked arms and went in search of refreshments, though as they walked Olive could feel the burning gaze of her husband on her back. Something had changed between the two of them; she now craved his company and his touch. She wanted to see that amused smile spread across his handsome face when she teased him, she wanted to hear his dry laughter at her jokes. If she didn't know any better, Olive would think she was falling in love with her own husband...
"Things are going well, between you and His Grace," Jane whispered, once they were out of earshot. It was not a question but a statement; apparently Olive's feelings for the Duke were plain to see.
"I think that you were right," Olive whispered back, stealing a glance at her handsome husband, who was asking one of the twins to dance. "He is a good man."
Their conversation was interrupted by the handsome Lord Payne, who, despite best efforts, looked rumpled and boyish in his dress coat and trousers.
"I say, Jane," he called happily, "I've been looking for you all over. If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were hiding from me!"
From the look on Jane's face, Olive guessed that this was exactly what her friend had been doing. Though, of course, the roguishly handsome Lord Payne would never dream that any lady would shun his company. Olive stifled a giggle as Jane desperately tried to squirm her way out of dancing with the dashing Duke-to-be, but her pleading fell on deaf ears, and she was led, blindly, to the floor for a boisterous quadrille.
"Your friend looks rather discomfited."
Olive turned to find Lord Somerset at her side, his handsome face turned toward the dance floor, where poor Jane was stumbling through the steps of the dance.
"Your friend ordered his sister to forgo her spectacles for the night," Olive replied archly in Jane's defence.
"Julian always was a prig," Lavelle muttered under his breath. Olive cast him a sidelong look; the Viscount seemed to be swaying on his feet. He was in his cups!
"What say you to a twirl around the floor?" Lavelle suggested, oblivious to Olive's look of alarm. She could not dance with a man so inebriated, it would surely end in disaster.However, before she could voice an excuse, Lavelle grabbed her by the hand, and led her to the centre of the floor.
"I hear you are to resume your post as Duchess," Lavelle commented, as Olive took his hand to dance down the line of guests. They took their places opposite each other, and because of the distance between them Olive could not reply.
"Good old Everleigh," Lavelle continued, as after a few bars they met again to join hands and twirl. "He always got the women to fall for him."
Olive glanced at the Viscount in confusion; from the way he was speaking it seemed as though he didn't like Ruan --though the two had been friends for years. She remained silent for the rest of the dance and hastily excused herself once it had ended. As the next set started, she hid herself behind a large, marble column and peered out at the guests on the floor. It reminded her of the night in June, when she had hid at Lady Jersey's, but this time the dark, handsome man who had frightened her so, was the very person she wished to be with. She watched Ruan dancing with Poppy--or was it Alexandra?-- with an ache in her heart. He was so striking; true, if one believed the rumours, he could be considered intimidating --but she knew the truth. The Duke of Ruin was possibly the most virtuous person in room.
As he twirled the twin in his arms, his eye caught Olive's and he gave a wink. She flushed, hoping no one had spotted, and stepped back further into the shadows.
"What's a pretty thing like you doing hiding in the dark?"
Olive whirled around to see who had spoken, her heart hammering in her chest. Standing in darkness, by the open French doors, was Lavelle, and he had a pistol aimed straight at her.
"Say a word and I'll shoot," he threatened - though he needn't have, for Olive was dumb with shock. The blonde haired Viscount grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her toward him, and the open door.
"W-what?" Olive at last found her voice, but it was silenced as Lavelle placed a gloved hand over her mouth.
"It's nothing personal Olive," he whispered harshly, as he pulled her out into the darkness of the garden, "It's just revenge."
Drat!
Ruan deposited Poppy--or was it Alexandra?--at the side of the ballroom once their dance had ended, and went in search of his wife, but she was no where to be seen. Ruan scanned the room, thanking his lucky stars that he was one of the tallest men there, but still he could not see her. He began to make his way toward the refreshment table, where he had spotted Jane, but his path was blocked by a rather familiar face.
"Lord Keyford," he said, pausing mid-step, as he came face to face with his father in law. The last time the two men had met, was five years ago at Catherine's funeral. The atmosphere had been tense, to say the least, and Ruan had left St. Jarvis convinced that his father in law wanted him dead --something he was still sure of now.
"You decided to return," Keyford said, his words slurred. It was obvious that the old man was drunk, even at a distance Ruan could smell the overpowering scent of alcohol on his breath.
"Aye," Ruan answered slowly, carefully watching the older man's reaction. "I thought it was about time I showed my face, even if it's the last face that some people might want to see."
The old man looked at him curiously and to Ruan's surprise his eyes became misty. "I hope you're not referring to me, lad," Keyford said, his voice thick with emotion. "For I know all that you did for Catherine, and you're forever welcome here, by me, at least."
"You know?" Ruan's face paled; what exactly did the old man know, and who had told him?
"Mrs Hogg." As though he had read his thoughts, Lord Keyford offered up the name of his informant. "I met her one day at Catherine's grave, and I'm ashamed to say that I began to abuse your reputation terribly --Mrs Hogg soon set me straight."
Ruan swallowed in lieu of a reply, he could not think of what to say in response to the man that his late wife had despised. Keyford seemed different now -- defeated, almost as though his daughter's death had affected him profoundly.
"Catherine always attracted ne'er-do-wells; if it wasn't Lord Somerset breaking her heart, it was that Birmingham chap. I should have thanked you properly, when you took her under your care. You did her a great kindness Everleigh."
"Lavelle?" Ruan felt a stab of confusion, "What does Lavelle have to do with anything?"
"He proposed to Catherine, the last summer he was
here," Keyford spat angrily, "Then disappeared to London and promptly forgot about her. Is it any wonder she ended up in the arms of that scoundrel Birmingham?"
Ruan felt as though he had been punched in the stomach; he had not known that Lavelle had proposed to Catherine. It was a despicable thing to have done, to have raised her hopes and then dashed them --but they had been young men.
"Perhaps there was some misunderstanding?"
"No misunderstanding," Keyford was firm, "And then he had the gall to accuse her of betrayal when she married you. I tell you, when I saw him in Southampton, not two weeks ago, I was tempted to run him over with my carriage."
Realisation dawned in Ruan's mind, slowly at first, but like a gas lamp catching flame he soon saw the light. It had been Lavelle all along; the attacks, the accidents, the attempts on his life, even the two roses at Catherine's grave. Lavelle had not arrived in Southampton to assist his friend --he had come to pay the man he had hired to kill him!
"Good God," he whispered, glancing frantically around the room to see where his nefarious friend was.
"Everything all right Everleigh?"
Ruan nodded curtly, and left Keyford standing in the middle of the ballroom, as he went in search of Lavelle.
"Have you seen Somerset?" he asked Jane urgently, once he had reached her side.
"I have seen no one, your Grace," the young woman replied miserably, "I can't see past the end of my nose without my spectacles. The waltz is soon though, I know that much. You'd best go fetch Olive before somebody steals her away!"
Although Jane's voice was light and teasing, her words sent a jolt of fear through Ruan. The last time he had spotted Olive, she had been hiding in a dark alcove. He made his way to where she had stood, when she had smiled at him, but there was no one there. The curtains on the French doors, which had been left open to catch a breeze, rustled slightly as they were stirred by a gust of wind. A dash of colour of the floor caught his eye, and he stooped down to inspect the item. It was a ribbon, a green ribbon: the same one which Olive had worn on her dress. It had caught his eye because he had vividly imagined untying the thing once he had her alone in his bedchamber.
Silently he exited the doors, which led to a dark veranda. He could see signs of a struggle --an overturned urn of flowers, a wrought-iron chair on its side, and most worryingly of all, a lone slipper. He hunkered down and picked it up; it was small, black and utterly anonymous, but he knew instinctively that it belonged to Olive.
Agitated he stood, and made to return to the ballroom, but a confused voice called out to him from the shadows.
"I say Everleigh, is that you?" It was Lord Deveraux, relaxing and smoking a cheroot. "Finished already?"
His old friend gave a rather saucy laugh, which left Ruan perplexed.
"Finished what?"
"With your wife. I heard you dragging her away, old chap," Julian guffawed with amusement, before taking another drag on his cigar. "Well done, you finally convinced her."
Ruan near staggered at Julian's words --the stupid fool had heard his wife, who had obviously been putting up a fight, being dragged away into a dark garden, and he had done nothing!
"That wasn't me," he bit harshly, to a startled Lord Deveraux, "That was Lavelle. He wants revenge for Catherine and so he's taken my wife."
"W-what?"
Ruan had no time to explain to Julian what was happening, instead he barged through the ballroom, and up to his bedroom. He had never been filled with such rage; his pistol lay in the drawer of his bedside table, and never before had he felt so compelled to use it. If someone had told him a week before that he would want to put a bullet through his best friend's heart, he would have told them they were insane --now, at that moment, he would gladly have riddled Lavelle with as many bullets as he could shoot.
"I say," a voice called, as Ruan came barrelling down the stairs to the entrance hall, "What's all this about Somerset kidnapping your wife?"
It was Lord Payne, slightly breathless, but wearing a look of determination on his young face.
"He absconded with Olive about half an hour ago," Ruan snapped, not breaking his stride. The younger man jogged alongside him, his face worried.
"Any idea where he might have taken her?"
Ruan paused just outside the door, thinking.
"There's one road," he said, as he once again began to stride in the direction of the stables. "It goes in two directions."
"So, I go one way, you go the other."
Ruan glanced at Payne in surprise; the young man was known as a high-spirited rake, but now his tone was determined and Ruan was glad that he was there. Payne looked grim and angry, and Ruan knew that he would gladly do anything to protect Olive--even shoot Lavelle.
"You go in the direction of Truro," he said, "I'll go toward the cliffs, it leads back to Lavelle's home, he might have gone that way. Do you have a pistol?"
Payne patted the breast pocket of his dinner jacket. "Always."
He might have made a wry comment about a man with a predication for married women needing to carry one at all times, but this was not the moment. The Duke and the Duke-in-waiting, dashed across the front yard, to the side of the house where the stables were located. The grooms inside were still mucking out for the night, but jumped to attention when they caught sight of the pair. They saddled two horses for the men and within five minutes Ruan was away, galloping down the pebbled drive of Jarvis House. Once he reached the gates he went right, while Payne went left with a shout of encouragement. Ruan leaned low against his mount's neck, urging him on in a fast gallop. He hoped that Lavelle would be slowed down by Olive struggling, for he had a large lead on him.
Ruan galloped ferociously through the dark night, ignoring the town of St. Jarvis, which was lit up below him. The cliff path was in darkness, but luckily the night was clear and the three-quarter moon illuminated his way. Never before had he been struck by such fear; the thought of Olive afraid or in pain was like a sword through his chest. This feeling was new and utterly unfamiliar; he had not known that he had the capacity to care so much for another human being.
"Faster," he urged his steed, slapping the horse's flank with his crop. He didn't usually ride so hard, and his thighs screamed in protest at the strenuous exercise, but he ignored the pain.
Finally, horse and rider came to a sharp bend in the road. The path, if he chose to follow it, went further inland, but if he went left he would reach the edge of the rugged cliffs.
Ruan paused, to consider his options. As he did so he heard a sound from his left; it was hard to hear exactly what it was, over the crashing of the waves below, but instinctively he rode towards it. He directed his horse over the grass and heather, until they were nearly at the cliff edge --and then he saw them. Olive was struggling valiantly against Lavelle, who had his arm around her neck and was dragging her across to where the cliff ended abruptly.
"Olive!"
Her name was torn from his mouth, and it flew across the space between them on the harsh, unforgiving breeze. Lavelle paused and looked up; a manic grin spread across his face as he spotted Ruan.
"You're too late," he roared above the howling wind, "Say goodbye to your wife Everleigh."
Panic seized Ruan at his words, but Olive, brave, resourceful Olive, took advantage of Lavelle's distracted state, to deliver a sharp elbow to his stomach. The Viscount doubled over, winded, letting go of the grip he had on the Duchess. Pale-faced Olive stumbled away from him, running in the direction of Ruan, who was in turn barrelling toward her.
"You're safe," he whispered as he caught her in his arms. He swiftly pushed her behind him, to protect her from any harm and began advancing on Lavelle.
"Why?" he asked, as he withdrew his pistol from his breast pocket. "Why do this Henry?"
"You ruined everything," his friend snarled, reaching inside his own jacket and fumbling for his weapon. "You stole Catherine from me and then you killed her. You don't deserve happiness, you don't deserve to live."
"Ruan didn't kill Catherine," Olive was shaking her head, her eyes fixed on the pistol that Lavelle now gripped. "She killed herself --he kept it secret so that she could have a decent burial."
"Lies!" Wild-eyed Lavelle backed away from the Duke and Duchess, his pistol still pointed at Ruan.
"It's the truth," Ruan bit out, "She was afflicted with sadness --a sadness that you helped perpetuate when you abandoned her for a life of vice in London. Why do you think she wrote to me when she discovered she was pregnant by Birmingham? Because she knew I was her true friend--she knew I would return to her. But you, you'd already broken her heart Henry, you'd already treated her like dirt upon your shoe."
"It's not true," the Viscount shook his head, and took another step backward. "You killed her, you did, you did--"
"Henry, no."
Ruan watched in horror as his oldest friend took another step back and lost his footing on the loose, stony edge of the cliff. He seemed to stay suspended, mid-air, for one second, his eyes awash with confusion and fear. Ruan raced forward, but it was too late, by the time he reached the cliff edge, Lavelle was plummeting toward the rocks, some fifty feet below.
"Don't look," Ruan ordered Olive, who had come to stand by his side. He drew her toward him, pressing her face against his chest so she would not have to see the horrible sight below.
"Is he..?"
Ruan nodded, unable to speak as a tide of emotion seemed set to drown him. Lavelle had been his best friend since they were both three-foot high, but for the past five years the man had secretly hated him and wished him dead.
"Come," Ruan put his arms around Olive's shoulders, and guided her to where the two horses now stood, grazing on the flora of the sea-cliffs. "We need to get back to Somerset House and fetch some help retrieving Lavelle's body."
He also needed a stiff glass of brandy and few moments alone to reflect on what had happened. He helped Olive to mount Lavelle's steed, then jumped into the saddle of his own. The Duke and Duchess travelled back to Jarvis House in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.
The Duke of Ruin: Reluctant Regency Brides Page 14