Susan Schonberg - The Phoenix Of Love

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.

“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.