Susan Schonberg - The Phoenix Of Love

If her father had expected her enthusiasm to die down once she was inside the dusty tomb of a house, he was sadly disappointed. Although the interior of the home was sagging and tired, Olivia saw only what the mansion must have been like once long ago, and she wandered the halls behind her father in a daze.

Olivia’s attention became riveted on her immediate surroundings when she realized that the butler had taken them a long way into the house. The guest parlor, she rationalized, should have been located much closer to the great hall she and her father had just come through. They were no longer in the main wing of the house, and she wondered where the servant might be taking them.

Olivia was more than a little relieved when the servant finally stopped before a door. As the man stepped back in order to let them pass through the opening, she could see he had led them to a chapel.

Wentworth, not being overly religious, had taken Olivia to church but rarely, and usually then only on special occasions. So it was that now Olivia racked her brains trying to remember what religious holiday today might be. But she could think of nothing.

Puzzled, Olivia looked up at her father for an explanation, but his face was as closed and shuttered as it had been all day. He was as silent as the grave.

The butler slipped away, his footsteps making no more noise on the worn carpeting than those of a ghost. Father and daughter were alone. Following some inner instinct, Olivia wandered a few steps into the room, gazing around in awe at the ceiling and walls. The chapel was a beautiful example of Gothic architecture, with high pointed arches, an intricately ribbed ceiling and delicate stained glass windows. Lost in the pleasure of the moment, she started toward a small statue set in one wall, but before she could walk more than a few steps, a sudden tug on her arm brought her up short. Still silent, Wentworth pulled her back to his side and began to march her down the aisle between the pews.

It was then that Olivia noticed what she had failed to see upon entering the chapel. She and her father were not actually alone. Facing the pair was what appeared to be a minister. At least his vestments proclaimed him to be a religious man, but she was unfamiliar with his particular costume.

A second man was facing toward the minister and so had his back to Olivia, but she recognized him all the same. He was her pirate.

His dark green velvet coat fit his broad shoulders perfectly while his black pantaloons showed off every lean muscle in his thighs. Although Olivia didn’t know much about gentlemen’s clothing, surely, she thought, these were the sort of clothes only a pirate would wear!

When they reached the front of the chapel, Wentworth nudged his daughter forward just a bit. The action brought her parallel to the pirate, and she was able to take her second close-up look at his face.

What she saw there made her want to gasp. She stared at him unabashedly. Why had she not noticed what must have been so obvious before? He was, she decided without any hesitation, a handsome man. His gray eyes, so dark and unusual in color, stared straight ahead, looking at neither the minister nor at her. His nose, a perfect aquiline in profile, sat between prominently chiseled cheekbones. Olivia thought he had a noble brow. His forehead was tall and square without being too large, and it carried his raven black hair without pretension.

But the expression she had noted earlier on him was still there. He had a solemn, unhappy look to him, she thought. Oh, he wasn’t crying or anything like that— grown men didn’t cry, after all—it was just that he looked so…so determined. And intense. And more than a little scary.

Olivia gave a start. The whole time she had been staring at the man she called her pirate, the one who looked like a minister had been speaking. She had been so engrossed in studying the man next to her, she had completely failed to take in the rest of her surroundings. Guiltily she tried to concentrate on his words now. She blinked a time or two before she gave up trying to follow the lofty language. She had never been fond of religious talk, anyway.

As the odd ceremony continued, a frown began to form on Olivia’s delicate brow. What did this evening mean, and why was everyone acting so strangely? She tried to puzzle the clues out, glancing back at her father as she did. But from his glassy eyes, she guessed she would get no help from that quarter.

With another guilty twinge, Olivia brought her attention back to the front of the room. The minister had stopped speaking and was staring at her with an intensity that was somehow frightening. Had she missed a response? Gads, that would be awful. He would think she didn’t know the first thing about religion. Usually when there was a silence like this, it meant a response of some kind was in order. Muttering the only religious phrase she knew, Olivia quietly avowed, “Amen.”

As the silence stretched on, Traverston began to collect that the chit standing next to him had no idea what was going on. Her ridiculous response to the question only confirmed his suspicions. Wentworth must not have told his daughter a thing. His already low opinion of his neighbor dropped another inch. The cad probably hadn’t even mentioned that she had a speaking role in tonight’s little drama, he thought disgustedly.

For the first time in that strange, unearthly night, the tall stranger looked down at Olivia. His eyes, smoky with a depth that seemed to penetrate her to her very soul, smiled gently into hers. Carefully taking one of her small hands into his own, he spoke.

“You have only to say ‘I do,’ and your father will take you home and tuck you into your nice warm bed. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Olivia?”

His deep voice, soothing and gentle to her ears, lulled Olivia into a kind of trance. Acting without conscious thought, she nodded as she opened her mouth and softly repeated, “I do.”

Traverston rewarded the child with a smile and turned to face the minister, her hand still firmly held in his own. Olivia glanced back at her father, but he looked as though he had been turned to stone. His eyes never left the marquis’s back.

The ceremony ended quickly. Before leaving the room, the minister signed a piece of paper and handed both pen and paper to the marquis. With quick efficiency, he scrawled his name and title across the page. Next he handed both over to Olivia whom he instructed to do likewise. Finally, Wentworth also signed the page, his handwriting barely legible.

Without saying a word to his host, Wentworth grabbed his daughter by the hand and began pulling her down the aisle at a rapid pace. Olivia looked back over her shoulder to see if the pirate was following her, but he simply stood near the alter and watched them go.

As the pair reached the hallway, Olivia managed to tug herself free from her father. Frustrated and tired, she demanded, “Papa, what was that all about?”

Wentworth did not bother to answer her, but simply regained his grip on his daughter and resumed dragging her toward the great hall. He had one thought and one thought only—to get out of the house as quickly as possible.

Stumbling behind him, Olivia was just about to descend the stairs leading down to their hired carriage when a voice from behind brought them up short. Wentworth took one look at Olivia and ungently pushed her in the direction of the coach. “Get in the carriage,” he commanded. His tone brooked no argument.

The Marquis of Traverston’s tall, lean frame appeared in the giant entrance of his home. “Ah, there you are, Wentworth.” His smile was sardonic, triumphant. Without giving the least hint he was aware of his guest’s discomfort, he paused to take an object out of his coat pocket before continuing. “’Tis a trifle big for her now, but I will expect it to be on her finger when I come for her eight years from now.”