The Phoenix Of Love

With the doors once again secure, Traverston went neck or nothing to the point. “How would you like to be able to pension ‘old Bentley’ off, Mr. Wentworth?”

Wentworth’s eyes grew twice in size. “I b-beg your pardon?” he stuttered. “What did you say?”

Holding his impatience in check, Traverston repeated his question once more. “I said, how would you like to be able to pension off your retainer? As well as any other antique examples of humanity that might be lurking around your residence? I haven’t seen any others, but surely there are one or two.”

Wentworth blinked several times, appearing for all the world like a confused owl. Warily he sat more erect in his chair, a spot of color appearing on both cheeks. “My lord,” he responded through stiff lips, “I must ask that you explain yourself.”

In a fit of agitation now that the moment was upon him, Traverston took a sip from his glass, hoping to stall for time. Fleetingly, somewhere in the back of his brain, he decided that the refreshment was much better than his own swill he kept at home. Without realizing he was doing so, Traverston began pacing the room. So much rested on Wentworth’s acceptance of his proposal. What if he didn’t accept it? Should he then go solicit all of the neighborhood farmers for their daughters? Pretty soon word would get around of Traverston’s mission, and if doors weren’t slammed in his face, then he would be the laughingstock of the town. No, he must succeed the first time. This time.

In midstride, he ceased his pacing. Setting his glass down on a nearby table, he came forward to stand in front of his host. He grasped his hands behind his back, spread his legs into a wide stance and squarely eyed the man seated before him. Bluntly he came to the point. “Sir, I would ask for the hand of your daughter in marriage.”

Silence. For long seconds, Wentworth’s eyes slowly bulged from his head. Alarmed, the marquis rushed forward to pound his host on the back, but Wentworth managed to wave him away before he could get started. Still it was a moment before Wentworth could find the breath to gasp, “My lord, you must be joking!”

The marquis was quick to fortify his position. He leaned down into his face so that he could look the other straight in the eye as he replied with deadly earnestness, “I assure you, my good sir, I am not.”

Wentworth had just managed to summon the trace of a smile at his guest’s perceived joke when the marquis’s answer managed to wipe it clean off his face. As the horrifying truth set in that his visitor really did mean what he said, the color in Wentworth’s face leeched out of him by degrees. After what seemed to both men an interminable amount of time, Wentworth made a feeble attempt to brush the marquis aside. Traverston, perceiving his host’s need for some kind of action, stepped back and allowed the man to face his opponent on his feet.

Gaining his feet allowed Wentworth some measure of his old confidence, and he gathered enough bruised dignity to face the marquis squarely. “I fail to see how this cannot be a leveler, my lord,” he responded with scorn. “Olivia is but ten years old.”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” Traverston apologized, genuinely confused. “I could have sworn that your daughter was at least eighteen by now.”

As comprehension dawned on Wentworth, his hostility faded away. “Ah,” he breathed softly, “that explains it then.” Walking away from the marquis to look out one of the library windows, Wentworth continued speaking with his back turned to his guest, as if his words were more for himself than the marquis. “Of course, being out of local society for so long you could not have known.” He reached up to scratch his jaw through his graying beard.

“Margaret,” he said, turning back around, “whom I presume you meant to ask for, died in a riding accident not three years ago.” He walked over to the brandy decanter and topped off his glass before continuing. “She tried to take an old nag over a jump. The horse balked and threw her over the fence, snapping her neck on impact.” He stopped and stared down into the glass before continuing. “It was my fault, really. I was never very good about restraining her wilder impulses. And I never should have allowed her to take out Fancy that day.” His final words were almost lost in his glass. “She was a bonny lass.”

As Wentworth became oblivious to the passing minutes, Traverston used the brief interlude in the conversation to think. The daughter he had planned to marry was dead. So what now? But didn’t Wentworth say he had another?

Waiting an appropriate interval before speaking, Traverston interrupted with all the delicacy he could muster. “My apologies for bringing up, however inadvertently, a topic which is evidently very painful for you.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “But my petition remains as it stood a few minutes ago. I ask for the hand of your daughter in marriage.”

“What?” exclaimed Wentworth, immediately shaken from his reverie. “What manner of devil is it that compels you to offer for a ten-year-old chit?”

“I pray you, sir,” offered the marquis quietly, “hear me out.” He indicated the chair Wentworth had so recently vacated.

When his host was seated, Traverston began his explanation. “I understand your confusion, and the truth is I have to be honest with you and say that before this very instant I never in my life thought to be proposing for the hand of a young girl.”

Wentworth’s snort was answer enough to this statement.

Holding his hand out to indicate he be allowed to continue, Traverston waited until his host was ready to listen. “Still,” he said, “I need a wife. And I am prepared to do what I must in order to secure one.”

Wentworth couldn’t hide his amusement. “My lord, with all due respect, I doubt that there is any way you can compel me to hand over my daughter to you.”

Traverston mentally wrestled with his anger. He deserved this, he reminded himself. Wentworth had every right to laugh. The fact that it was at his expense cut him to the quick, but the affront was of little import at the moment. “Please,” supplicated the marquis, his impatience just barely under control, “allow me to finish.”

When Wentworth did not respond, Traverston continued. “Five years ago,” he began, “my life became intolerable.” He looked straight into his host’s eyes. “Without going into too much detail, let’s just say that I took every chance available to degrade myself, my name and that of my family’s. It became my dearest wish to die, but not before I had a chance to bring everything and everybody associated with the name of Traverston down with me.”

Here he paused, and as his host had done earlier, the marquis walked over to the window and looked out. He stopped only for a few seconds, however. Traverston had a mission to accomplish—he had to get this man to agree to his wishes—and he couldn’t afford to be absorbed in self-pity now. Facing Wentworth again he said, “But now all that has changed.”

Wentworth had not looked at his neighbor closely before this moment, but now as the marquis walked over to join him, he studied the man thoroughly.

His face and body were evidence enough of the hard living the marquis had testified to. Lines, where there shouldn’t be any for years, already showed on his face. Bags under his eyes, unkempt hair—the inventory went on. Wentworth was amazed that he hadn’t noticed these things earlier. Traverston’s proud bearing must have disguised those characteristics from him earlier, he thought.

The nobleman leaned down into Wentworth’s face, unconsciously giving the man a closer look at his dissipation. “But just when I thought I had hit bottom, when I thought there was no reason to go on, when I thought I could drink myself to death and no one would look twice at my demise, I find that I cannot.” He looked angry, yet somehow faintly elated. “From the depths of his muddy grave, my grandfather has seen to curse me.

“Oh, not many men would call it a curse, but I do. You see, Wentworth, my grandfather somehow knew how hard this was for me. He knew I was a weakling.”

Traverston was speaking so forcefully, Wentworth had to exercise an inordinate amount of self-control not to cringe back from him. Inexorably Traverston continued, grinding and clenching his words together in an effort to force them out. “My grandfather, damn his soul for all eternity, knew that I could never run through two fortunes.” He laughed, backing away from Wentworth. “He knew I didn’t have the strength.”

Traverston wiped his forehead on the sleeve of his coat, suddenly weary. He dropped his body into the armchair across from Wentworth, the action giving the impression that he didn’t have the strength to keep standing. “He’s making me marry to get the money, though,” he finished tiredly.

Bemused, Wentworth gazed in puzzled silence at his guest. Before he could help himself he asked, “Then, why bother getting married at all, my lord?”

As if he had unleashed a tornado, Traverston immediately hurled himself out of the chair again, his face a study of livid rage. He practically shouted, “Because that bastard half brother of mine will get the fortune if I don’t!”

But as quickly as it had come, his anger vanished. Realizing he had shocked his host, Traverston added more calmly, “And that, you see, my good sir, would be unacceptable.” As nonchalantly as he could, he passed a hand through his hair, pushing the strands back into place. He looked away from his host, mentally cursing his lack of self-control.

“My lord,” answered Wentworth as softly and with as much entreaty as he could muster, “As much as I may pity your situation, and as much as I may be inclined to help you, you must realize that I cannot give you my daughter.”

Traverston, still looking away, answered in a deceptively neutral tone, “But you see, sir, I cannot go to anyone else for help. My reputation is such that no social butterfly, even given a title and fortune as a lure, would be inclined to have me. Even if she were so inclined, the fact that I must wed within two weeks would be such a shocking proposal that I could never gain her agreement. So you see,” he finished, turning sharp eyes on Wentworth, “I must have Olivia.”

“My lord, you must see that the very argument you use to preclude yourself from a ton bride applies doubly so to my daughter. By your own admission, you are a danger—to yourself and everyone else around you. Olivia is but ten years old. Given these facts, how could I possibly entrust her to you?”

The marquis had known what Wentworth’s answer would be, but now he was ready. The trap was laid and all he had to do was draw the net in.

Carefully the marquis responded, “While it is true that I had originally meant to ask for Margaret’s hand, sir, I now see that an offer for your second daughter, Olivia, would really work out much better for the both of us.”

“I am afraid I do not follow you.”

“I have need of a wife immediately, that is true.” Holding his index finger up, he added, “But only on paper. If your daughter is but ten years old, then I will gladly wait until she turns eighteen to collect her and make her my wife in something other than name. I confess, the thought of taking a leg shackle at this point in my life has little appeal. But I know that I will need one a few years down the road, for an heir if nothing else.

“I will marry Olivia now, but until she is eighteen you may keep her and raise her as you see fit. During her eighteenth year,’ I will come for her myself, and you will be safe in the knowledge that you have secured for her a husband with both title and fortune. Who knows,” he added with a flat smile, “I may even be dead by then, and then she would be a wealthy peeress indeed.”

Without giving Wentworth a chance to reply, the Marquis of Traverston quickly added, “Of course, I would expect to pay you handsomely for raising my wife in a fashion befitting her station in life.” He paused for dramatic effect. “And to reimburse you for the future loss of your daughter.”

The room was quiet. Wentworth was vaguely aware of the kind of sounds existing somewhere in the countryside. Like a clock ticking away the minutes, those soft sounds—of wind blowing and leaves stirring, as well as a multitude of other quiet, unidentifiable noises—accompanied his thoughts as he vainly sought to fight against the insidiousness of Traverston’s proposal.

On the one hand, Traverston’s request was unthinkable. If he agreed to such an outlandish plan, he would be no better than a white slaver. In fact, he thought, he might be something worse. For he would be selling his own daughter.

But it wasn’t so simple. Although he rarely admitted it in public, he was strapped for cash. The manor house had already been mortgaged twice, and he had racked up such a pile of tradesmen’s bills that he wasn’t sure he would ever have the ready to pay for them all. Wentworth realized he was not a very good administrator, and the current state of his finances was a more than adequate testimony to how bad he really was.

As though the question were dragged from his lips, Wentworth stared at his clenched hands and asked quietly, “How much recompense?”

“Thirty thousand pounds!” Traverston announced in ringing tones.

Wentworth gasped involuntarily. The things he could do with that money were almost beyond thought. It was a fortune, more money than he could have hoped for in his wildest dreams.

And yet, it was a traitorous thought. He couldn’t sell his daughter, no matter how high the price. She would have no say in the matter of her marriage if he agreed to the marquis’s request. No opportunity for choice at all.

But would he really be selling her when the money would actually benefit Olivia? In the present state of matters, he could barely afford to educate her, much less clothe and feed her. How much worse would the situation get over time? Worse yet, what would happen in seven years when she became of marriageable age and there was no dowry for her? That would preclude her from making a choice as surely as arranging the affair now.

But would she understand? Would Olivia know he made this pact because he wanted her to be happy? Or was the money such an incentive he was justifying the means to the wealth? Wentworth could barely stand to think about such things.

With Traverston, she would have a husband of vast means. His impending fortune must be great indeed for him to offer such a large sum as her bridal portion. He doubted that under ordinary circumstances, even were she to blossom into a great beauty, she would receive half as much.

But would she be happy? Could wealth and a title make up for being married to a rake, a blackguard, in fact?

Traverston watched his host struggle internally with these issues, but he was not moved. He was confident as to what the outcome would be. What it must be.

Wisely the marquis held his tongue until Wentworth turned to him, his eyes clouded with remorse and sadness at the result of his internal battle.

“You win, my lord,” he said, but his voice was not congratulatory. His shoulders had become stooped, as if the weight of the world now rested on them. He sighed deeply, sadly and with defeat, and he couldn’t look the marquis in the eye as he determined his daughter’s fate. “When will you wish the ceremony to take place?”

Traverston’s eyes fairly glittered. “Tonight,” he said firmly.

Chapter Two

“Impossible!” The effrontery of the marquis stunned Wentworth. To come into his house with his insulting offer was bad enough, but now to add insult to injury, Traverston actually wanted him to sacrifice Olivia immediately.

“Impossible!” he shouted again.

“I beg to differ, my good sir,” replied the marquis, all calm, cool efficiency now that he had what he wanted. He reached for the glass he had set down long ago and took a long, satisfying pull. “You’ve already agreed to my bargain. What difference can it make when the actual ceremony takes place?”

Traverston studied his neighbor through slitted eyes, his fear and impatience effectively hidden behind a mask of contempt. “You wouldn’t want to go back on your word now.”

The marquis’s words hit home, as he knew they would. His blow to Wentworth’s honor stung the man, and his host fell for the simple trap with comical willingness.

“Of course not!” he blustered with bruised dignity. After a brief period of tugging at his waistcoat, as if that action would help him to straighten his spine, Wentworth continued in a calmer tone. “It’s just that it is so soon. I hadn’t expected…” His faltering tongue trailed off, unequal to the occasion. He dropped his gaze and returned to staring at his glass. “And what, if I may inquire,” he asked softly, all of the righteous indignation taken from his sails, “hour would you be expecting us?”

The marquis gave Wentworth’s dejected form a small and mocking bow. “Ten o’clock, if you please.” His sardonic imitation of his host’s politeness echoed hollowly around the room. “At Norwood Park. I have a private chapel there. I think you’ll agree with me that this is one ceremony that is better conducted without a large audience.”

The short nod Wentworth gave Traverston was almost lost on his guest, it was so brief. Wentworth sat lost in thought for a long time, oblivious to the silent, amused contemplation of the marquis. And in the end, it was up to Traverston to show himself the way out, for his host was not up to the courtesy.

Finally, just as Traverston was opening the door, a brief flicker of hope flitted across Wentworth’s brain. He sat up in his chair suddenly and, like a desperate man hanging over the edge of hell, he flung his question out with all of his strength.

“You have a license, I presume?”

The abject misery on his neighbor’s face almost caused the marquis to relent. What was he doing after all? His life was over, finished. He had no more claim to Olivia, a pure and sweet innocent child, than had the devil. And yet, here he was, demanding her to be sacrificed, willing her to a life of suffering and misery as his bride. Hadn’t he caused enough harm for one lifetime? Did he really need to do this?

But then the old resolve returned. This was a choice Wentworth had made, after all. He could justify his avarice any way he wanted to, but it was still plain and simple greed that motivated him in the end. If Traverston was a blackguard, then Wentworth was a traitor. Let him live with the consequences of his own actions and be damned for them, he decided.

Again Traverston gave his neighbor a mocking little bow, then laughed unpleasantly as he noticed his host’s reaction to his silent affirmation.

At the new insult, Wentworth grew both angry and remorseful, and without realizing it, he shrank further into his shell. Grasping his brandy glass with both hands, he hunched over it, seeking some warmth from the bowl as the front door to the house slammed shut, announcing the departure of the marquis. Black hatred and resentment welled up in him, directed both at himself and at the perceived source of his misery.

Ye Gods! he wailed internally. What had he done? He should have known that Traverston would not have come to Gateland Manor without a license. The marquis had expected to win, the damn villain, he thought miserably, and he had let him have his daughter without so much as a fight. For the first time since his encounter with the nobleman that day, Wentworth truly began to despair.

The approaching footsteps were bold and swift. They didn’t belong to anyone she knew, but Olivia could guess at whose they were. Calmly, knowing that she had plenty of time, she reached down to stroke the small kitten once more before holding out a tiny morsel for the ball of fluff to consume. Above the contented purring noises made by the cat, Olivia heard the footsteps hesitate, and she was surprised. He hadn’t struck her as the kind of man to be unsure of himself.

All at once he was there beside her. She turned her head to look at him, curious, but not overly so. As when she had witnessed his arrival earlier, she felt guided by an unknown force, and she moved her head and limbs as though she were merely following the actions written for her in a play.

As she turned her head to face him, Traverston was momentarily taken aback. What he had expected, he did not know, but it was not this silent child-woman before him. Her skin was like porcelain, a soft creamy white, except on her cheeks where the wind had kissed them a soft rose. Her hair, as blue-black as the edge of night, was lush with luster and health as it hung down her back. But her most exceptional feature, the one that made him stop breathing just for a moment, were her eyes. Olivia had eyes of a blue so pale they seemed as translucent as ice, and about as forthcoming.

When she spoke, her voice was low and clear, yet with a girlish quality at odds with her serene and mature appearance. “You’ve been to see my father,” she said, and she watched his reaction with unblinking eyes.

The feeling of unreality for Olivia intensified with his answer. “Yes,” she heard him respond, and she knew without question that was all he was going to say. Distantly, as if she had no more control over herself than an automaton, she evaluated him.

His clothes were worn, but they were those of a gentleman. But it wasn’t his clothes that interested her, so she dismissed them with hardly another thought. His hair, like her own, was black, but it was the dead black of charred wood, not the vibrant shade of night like hers. It was wild, untamed hair, coarse and difficult to train, and too long in places, as though he had tried to trim it himself without the use of a looking glass. But even this feature had no prolonged interest for her. What Olivia really needed to study, what she had to understand, she knew, deep inside her, was his face.

It was a hard face. The line of his jaw was much too strong, his chin too pronounced. His eyebrows were live things, crouched beneath a creased forehead too tall and noble to speak of mercy. His nose, full and proudly Roman, was not the nose of a man known for his kindness and generosity.

But, she thought, there was more to him than that.

The lines of his chin and the hollows in his cheeks were more the result of hunger than anything else. She could tell because she had seen that look before on beggar children in the street. He was tall, very tall, but his jacket flapped loosely with space that had once been filled with muscle.

As for the bags under his eyes, she knew they were due to a combination of sleeplessness and drink. Her father, on rare occasions, looked like that when he had had a particularly rough night of carousing in town. And the wrinkles on his brow, and the intimidating way his eyebrows drew together, those could be fixed if he were but to smile.

That, of course, was the heart of the question. Could this man be brought to smile?

And so it was that Olivia finally sought the one part of him that would tell her the answers. She looked into his eyes. Dark, dark eyes, she thought. Exceedingly dark; they were stormy eyes, full of horrible promises. Eyes that had seen too much from a mind that had done too much. Eyes that were full of terrible secrets that could haunt you in the night.

Eyes that begged for help.

And then, without realizing it, Olivia answered their silent plea. “If you want,” she said slowly, offering him the only thing she had to give at the moment, “you can pet her if you like.” And she held up the small ball of fur for his scrutiny.

A shudder ran through the marquis. It gripped him so strongly that, for a moment, Olivia thought he would surely fall. But then, just when she knew he would turn away, the tremor passed, and he slowly sank down to the ground beside her. Then, tentatively, as though he were afraid the small animal might bite him, he reached out one hand and began to pet its tiny head.

“Maddie,” exclaimed Olivia that afternoon as she grabbed a jam tart and popped it into her mouth, “did you see the pirate?”