The Phoenix Of Love
Susan Schonberg
The Ice Princess And The Dashing MarquisIgnorant of her childhood marriage, Olivia Wentworth was uncertain she could ever put her troubled past behind her, though the Marquis of Traverston seemed determined to convince her otherwise.John Marston, the fourth Marquis of Traverston, was finally ready to claim his bride. Yet he too must put the past to rest if he is ever to win the trust and love of the coldly beautiful woman that Olivia has become.
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u7937eb3d-67b1-5bfe-81e2-f6690e2c946c)
Excerpt (#u6fcb8a39-471c-584a-b4f4-9bf42ba4daed)
Dear Reader (#ua8b4c5d4-6e28-5e50-bad7-19a4b6655670)
Title Page (#u7eb42acd-6b18-5e0e-97ed-844b824344a8)
About the Author (#u79c0a24f-d4da-58d4-a5c6-c96cbfd75586)
Dedication (#u91181e1d-cb08-5714-88d3-2ef39591ba9b)
Chapter One (#u1b47b660-787a-580b-9206-a70105b927cf)
Chapter Two (#u0f1b730b-8682-5319-bba1-6a6f80fa554f)
Chapter Three (#u1a58310e-ede1-5275-93e1-60f67644287b)
Chapter Four (#uf5500347-2c3f-5330-985e-481ee15e1f8e)
Chapter Five (#ub600cfde-4149-582d-a041-3c5aeed7e9c4)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
The Earl of Monquefort stood
patiently and waited for an
opening in the conversation.
“Miss Wentworth, I do hope you remember me,” he began.
Olivia was quick to respond. “Of course we do, Lord Monquefort”
“Please, let me introduce you to a friend of mine who is most anxious to make your acquaintance.”
Olivia’s eyes shifted away from the earl to take in the gentleman standing next to him. The sight of the darkly handsome Marquis of Traverston shocked her speechless.
The marquis took Olivia’s hand and held on to it for just a little longer than polite society would dictate as proper, before smiling into her pale blue eyes and making his own introduction.
“Your husband, I believe.”
Olivia’s famed cool gaze gave out with a vengeance. Without a word she crumpled slowly to the floor.
Dear Reader,
Every year at this time, the editors at Harlequin Historicals have the unique opportunity of introducing our readers to four brand-new authors in our annual March Madness Promotion. These titles were chosen from among hundreds of manuscripts from unpublished authors, and we would like to take this time to thank all of the talented authors who made the effort to submit their projects to Harlequin Historicals for review.
Among this year’s choices for the month is a Regency novel by Susan Schonberg, The Phoenix of Love, the story of a reformed rake and a society ice princess who must come to terms with their marriage of convenience, overcome their tortured pasts and defeat their present enemies before they are free to love. The Wicked Truth by Lyn Stone was a second-place finisher in the 1995 Maggie Awards. It’s the story of a woman with a ruined reputation and a straitlaced physician who join forces to discover a murderer in Victorian England.
The two remaining titles for the month are Heart of the Dragon by Sharon Schulze, the medieval tale of a young woman searching for her identity with the help of a fierce warrior, and Emily’s Captain by Shari Anton, a story about a heroine whose father sends a dashing Union spy to get her safely out of Georgia against her wishes.
Whatever your taste in reading, we hope you’ll find a story written just for you between the covers of a Harlequin Historical.
Sincerely,
Tracy Farrell
Senior Editor
Please address questions and book requests to:
Harlequin Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325. Buffalo. NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
The Phoenix Of Love
Susan Schonberg
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
SUSAN SCHONBERG
As a ninth-grade English project, Susan Schonberg rewrote Romeo and Juliet as a spoof (for which she received an A). From that time forward, she knew she wanted to write novels—specifically romance, which has always been her favorite category. Her professional writing career begins with this book, The Phoenix of Love. When Susan is not writing, she works alongside her husband, Stan, as a financial analyst for the Clorox Company in the San Francisco Bay area.
To the Riley women—Sue, Meghan and Erin— for always knowing that this would be published.
Chapter One (#ulink_d01cfe4d-51b8-5248-8227-885b0d07247f)
Norwood Park, Surrey 1808
“Dammit, man!” exclaimed the marquis. “You must be mistaken!”
John Richard Markston, the fourth Marquis of Traverston, paced the worn carpet of his library floor. One hand moved distractedly through his raven black hair, standing the none-too-clean strands up and then immediately smoothing them down again. His gray eyes, colored at the moment like some dark forbidding sky before a storm, looked about him with a restlessness that betrayed his inner feelings all too well.
He felt trapped.
The marquis had once been a handsome man. There were few who could contradict that. But the dandies and bits of muslin he had once taken as companions back in his younger days would be hard-pressed to recognize him now. It wasn’t just the blue-black shadow across his jaw and neck, silent testimony to his recent self-negligence, but the rest of his appearance, as well. Proud shoulders now slightly stooped over with hunger, tattered clothing that hadn’t been patched in years and the black shadows under his eyes all spoke of years spent in self-destruction.
The solicitor, Mr. Babcock, was at first incredulous to think that the bitter man pacing in front of him was really the marquis. He had come to know the marquis’s maternal grandfather rather well over the last few years of that gentleman’s life, and it shocked the lawyer to finally make the acquaintance of the notorious grandson. Of course, he had heard stories about Traverston, but he hadn’t realized how little they were exaggerated until he saw the man for himself.
Looking around the library now, Mr. Babcock thought that the room showed about as much abuse as the nobleman himself. The solicitor guessed that it had been months since the fireplace had been used, and probably much longer since it had been swept. The furniture, what few moth-eaten remains of it there were, looked every second of its age. Indeed, Mr. Babcock would not have attempted to seat himself in this room, even if he had been asked, which he had not, for fear of inflicting undue hardship on his carefully groomed person.
The small portly man measured his reply to the marquis before finally giving it in as soothing a tone as possible. He did not want to agitate his client any more than he was already. There was no telling what the madman was capable of. Not too many years ago, hadn’t there been some tale about the marquis in connection with a young girl who had gone missing? He shuddered and forced himself to go on.
“Be assured, my lord,” he responded in a bland, colorless tone of voice as he took off his spectacles and gave them a thorough rub with his handkerchief. He took his time cleaning the lenses before replacing them on his nose. “There is no mistake. Your grandfather’s will clearly states that you are to inherit five hundred thousand pounds upon his death, provided that you are married.”
The solicitor put his arms behind his back, unconsciously spreading both feet out slightly in order to look more authoritative. “In the event that his death finds you unmarried…” he paused, wrinkling his nose at the marquis’s surroundings in order to indicate that he gathered this was the case “…then you have exactly two weeks to remedy the situation before the entire fortune goes to your cousin, David Hamilton.”
Traverston’s look was thunderous. A more perceptive man would have immediately left the room after delivering such a speech, but sadly, Mr. Babcock was not noted for his powers of observation. Therefore it was a great shock for the solicitor to find himself lifted some foot above the ground with his feet dangling in the air and the marquis’s enraged visage just inches from his own.
“My good sir,” Traverston muttered between clenched teeth. “I suspect that you have failed to look for some alternative, some loophole,” he said, emphasizing the last words with a little shake, “in as complete a manner as possible. Might I suggest,” he growled, indicating that it was not really a suggestion, “you do so now.”
Believing he need make his request no clearer, the marquis dropped the solicitor. With a speed incredible for one of his ungainly bodily proportions, Mr. Babcock raced to the other end of the room. Belatedly comprehending his error, he attempted to straighten his clothes and his dignity while keeping a wary eye on his aggressor.
“My lord,” he cooed even as he smoothed his person, “I fail to understand.” At the marquis’s intensified frown, Mr. Babcock began to sputter, all of his lawyerly aplomb completely forgotten. “I mean…forgive me, my lord, it’s just that with this hovel, I thought you would be happy to…”
Mr. Babcock broke off, his hands held out in front of him to ward off the marquis’s impending attack as the nobleman began to stalk him. But Traverston stopped just short of his quaking visitor.
“My dear Mr. Babcock,” Traverston growled, “it is not your job to understand my motives.” His eyes seemed to shoot plumes of fire straight through the heart of the man cowering before him. “I pray you remember that in the future!”
Mr. Babcock gulped audibly. “Yes, my lord.”
Turning his back on the lawyer, Traverston walked over to the fireplace. It was an action Mr. Babcock divined was born of habit as there was no heat to be gained there now. Lost in thought, Traverston took his time before addressing the solicitor again. When he finally did, all trace of his former antipathy was gone, leaving in its wake what appeared to be a hint of the former cool and regal marquis.
His shoulders back and his manner direct, Traverston said, “Return here at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. I will expect a full report on your progress at that time.”
“Yes, my lord,” groveled Mr. Babcock. He turned around and headed for the door, his host making no effort to show him out. Still he hesitated before opening the great double doors that would take him to the hall and ultimately out of the accursed house. Turning around to face the marquis once more, he opened his mouth in a final inquiry. Then, remembering what had happened the last time he had dared to question matters, he thought better of what he was about to say and immediately returned to the doors in order to resume his previous course out of the house. Two minutes later, the solicitor started to breathe easier as a hired post chaise drove him away from Norwood Park.
As Traverston listened to the clip of the retreating horses’ hooves, he sank into the only usable armchair left in the library and acknowledged the weariness he was feeling. At eight and twenty, he knew he was too young to feel this tired, but he was exhausted all the same.
He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the cracking red leather upholstery, trying to wipe his mind clean of all thought. He clenched his hands and released them, willing the tension his solicitor’s visit had caused to leave his body. He took several deep breaths. He thought of blankness and dark, empty fields. He rolled his shoulders and settled more deeply into the chair.
It wasn’t working. His body still felt like a tightly coiled spring. Without opening his eyes, he fumbled for the decanter of brandy he always kept handy by the chair. Keeping his eyelids closed, he poured himself a glass of the fiery cheap liquid, miraculously not spilling a drop. He winced in pleasured pain with the first gulp, his muscles relaxing just a fraction. With another two swigs, he emptied the glass, his free hand automatically reaching for the decanter.
Four glasses was the absolute minimum required for Traverston to reach the mind-numbing state he was seeking at the moment. Unsurprisingly he had plenty of time for reflection until he got there.
After several more hearty swigs from the grimy glass, Traverston cracked open his eyes and glanced around the room. With something akin to surprise, he noticed for the first time in several years what had happened to his surroundings.
The library was filthy. Cobwebs hung from the top of the bookcases to the corners of the ceiling. Dust a quarter of an inch thick covered most surfaces up out of the marquis’s immediate reach, and it only thinned to an eighth of an inch further down. The rug was torn and smeared with something that looked like lard, and the mirror over the fireplace was so tarnished, it was impossible to get a clear look at what it reflected. Great threadbare and rotting husks of velvet hung at odd angles from the tall windows on the far side of the room.
In short, the library was a disaster area.
No doubt Mr. Babcock had been horrified at the room’s condition when the marquis had led him here. For some reason that thought pleased Traverston, and he smiled a little even as he took another drink.
Slowly he got up from the chair and poured himself another glass. Without consciously meaning to, he walked over to his only remaining possessions of any value, the books lining the walls of the room. Despite all of his other attempts to strip the house over the years, the marquis was unwilling to part with his books. Books, as well as drinking brandy from a glass, were the only remnants of a gentleman’s life that he had allowed himself to keep. He didn’t even own a horse anymore.
Tiredly his eyes sought a place of rest among the busy shelves, and so he began browsing through the titles. Poetry he mentally shrugged off without even pausing to absorb the titles. Shakespeare flickered into the corner of his vision and then immediately skittered out again. And then he was there. Among the great literary titles he saw a small collection of books. His eyes absorbed fairy-tale titles and, without meaning to, Traverston began to reflect on his childhood.
No one could have called his early days happy, but before his mother died, there had been some good times. His fingers wandered over the leather book covers, stopping on the gold stamped title of Robinson Crusoe. Just for a moment, Traverston could feel the gentle touch of his mother’s hand on his brow and he closed his eyes, lingering over the remembered sensation. Frowning, concentrating, he cast his mind back…and—ah! It was there—her soft, delicate voice, reading to him by the last light of sunset.
Physically shaking his head clear of such thoughts, the marquis dragged his limbs back to the decanter and poured himself another drink. Hoping to break his suddenly maudlin mood, he walked over to one of the long windows and pulled back its dusty drape, the tattered soft material long since faded from its original forest green. The action scattered a few spiderwebs and created a dust cloud, but the marquis stood his ground. He felt desperately in need of some sunlight.
Staring through the filthy panes, Traverston felt numbed by the sight of the mansion’s grounds. For some reason he didn’t understand, the grass outside the window was waist high and the garden overgrown with weeds. Directly outside the window, a rosebush seemed determined to choke out all available sunlight defiantly filtering through the leaves.
With another shake of his head, Traverston’s memory came back. Of course. He himself had neglected these grounds for years. Why was the sight of them now such a shock?
As he stared down into his brandy glass, he wondered how he had let himself come to such a pass. He had been bent on self-destruction, it was true. But was this sorry state really what he had planned so many years ago?
With a sudden movement so quick it surprised him, Traverston pulled back his arm and threw his glass across the room. The glass exploded into a thousand shards in the fireplace. No! In his mind the thought was so loud, so sudden, it was almost as if someone had shouted the word.
A few seconds later, Traverston realized that he had indeed spoken aloud. No. This was no answer. Killing himself and destroying his family’s estate and heritage had seemed the perfect solution to his problems five years ago, but now Traverston knew he couldn’t finish what he had started. Who could in light of this second chance at life?
The marquis laughed aloud, the bitter sound ceasing on a curse. “Damn you, you bastard!” he shouted to the empty room. “Why couldn’t you have left me alone?”
Gateland Manor, as the house was optimistically called by its occupants, was a shambling estate that marched alongside the Marquis of Traverston’s own home, Norwood Park. Locally the saying went that the two houses were like two generations of humanity—parent and child—where the fruit had fallen not far from the tree. Norwood Park was the run-down father, while Gateland Manor was the shabby, good-for-nothing offspring.
Riding up on a borrowed nag to the front door of the smaller house now, Traverston was pleased to note that the rumors were true. Gateland Manor appeared to be in no better condition than his own estate. Peeling white paint decorated the once pristine columns on the Queen Anne-styled home. The red brick walls, while engaging from a distance with their aged and mellow beauty, were covered almost completely with ivy, and where the bricks could be seen at all, they were crumbling and falling apart.
Traverston smiled to himself. The state of the house’s interior, if it were anything at all like the exterior, would bode well for him. The marquis needed Gateland Manor’s owner to be in dire need of funds if he was going to win his objective this day.
The door of the manor was answered by an old man so bent over with arthritis that he could hardly look up into the face of the visitor. The ancient’s appearance was neat but threadbare, his black and gold livery was antiquated. But even so, the servant appeared to take great pride in the uniform.
When no greeting seemed to be forthcoming from this relic of humanity, Traverston took it upon himself to take the initiative. “If you would be so kind, my good man,” he commanded, adjusting his tone to a shout, “please inform Mr. Wentworth that the Marquis of Traverston would like an interview with him.”
It was a few moments before the man replied. When he did, the sound was so much like a groan, Traverston didn’t have a clue as to his reply. It was only when he saw the old man shuffle away, leaving the door open behind him, that he decided it would be best to follow.
After what seemed to Traverston an interminable amount of time, the butler finally led him to a huge pair of double doors. It was another few moments before the marquis realized that he was expected to open the doors, the servant not having the required strength to do so.
As it turned out, the doors led into the manor’s library. This surprised Traverston as he had thought he would be shown into a parlor to await his host. Then realizing that, like Norwood Park, the library was probably the best room in the house, the marquis made his way over to the fireplace, silently gloating over the fact that Mr. Wentworth’s penury was indeed as bad as his own.
The library doors closed with a loud boom, alerting Traverston to the fact that he had been left alone. Using this opportunity to thoroughly study his surroundings, the marquis looked over his host’s library. What he saw there only confirmed his earlier suspicion that Wentworth was operating on a constrained budget.
The room, while large, was almost devoid of furniture. A few battered-looking but comfortable armchairs adorned the room, along with three tables and one sofa. Books were scattered throughout the many shelves on the walls, and the marquis noted with mild interest that Wentworth owned almost as many of them as he did. Apparently the man had some scholarly inclinations.
The one clear advantage Gateland Manor did have over Norwood Park, however, was its relative cleanliness. Here, unlike in his ancestral home, there were no cobwebs of astronomical dimensions hanging from the ceiling, nor was there a blanket of dust coating everything within sight. In addition, there was a small but cheery fire roaring away in the tidy fireplace at one end of the room.
Resisting the urge to grind his teeth at the unfavorable comparison his own home made with the manor house, Traverston was just about to stride to the fire to warm his chilled bones when the doors opened behind him to admit his host. Mr. Wentworth, a middle-aged man of somewhat portly dimensions, hesitated only slightly before stepping into the room. He took his time closing the doors behind him, much as if he were collecting his thoughts. When he turned to face the marquis, his countenance was unexpectedly grim.
Wentworth studied Traverston as he hesitated again. Finally he walked over to the peer with his hand stretched out before him. “My lord, this is a surprise.” He shook the marquis’s hand gravely before continuing. “It has been a. long time since this house has been honored by your presence.”
The meaning of the slight stress Wentworth put on the word honor was not lost on Traverston. He had no doubt that a neighbor as close as Wentworth would have heard of his less than honorable escapades over the past several years. But the marquis decided to ignore the slight, at least to all outward appearances. He smiled a smile that did not reach his eyes and replied with passing civility, “A long time indeed.”
Wentworth studied his guest carefully, weighing the advisability of having a private conversation with a man whose reputation did not bear close scrutiny. Finally he made up his mind. “Pray be seated, my lord.”
“Thank you, but I prefer to stand.”
After one final piercing stare, Wentworth shrugged his shoulders and walked over to a bellpull in the corner of the room. He yanked the rope several times before turning around and walking back toward his guest. Settling his bulk comfortably in one of the armchairs he had indicated earlier, Wentworth waited for the marquis to explain his presence.
Misinterpreting Traverston’s continued silence, Wentworth finally spoke. “I’m afraid it takes old Bentley awhile to answer my summons. If he even hears it at all, that is. Past retirement age, you know,” he apologized with an embarrassed air. “He would do better at home, but I haven’t got the blunt to pension him off.”
Traverston was momentarily taken aback. He hadn’t expected his neighbor to be as open as he was about his lack of funds, but there it was. Wentworth’s confession gave him the perfect opening, if he were but to seize the opportunity.
Before Traverston could form a suitable reply, however, the servant Wentworth had identified as Bentley opened the library doors. The decanter of brandy and two glasses he carried on the tarnished silver tray seemed to weigh him down and slow his pace even more than before. He made his shuffling way across the room, set the tray down on the table near his master, poured out two glasses of brandy for the gentlemen, handed the glasses around and made his pathetic trek back across the room. The whole process took about five minutes, but watching him, the marquis was sure it had taken twice as long.
With the servant’s delay, Traverston had time to make up his mind on how best to obtain his host’s cooperation. He could, if he were that sort of man, couch his offer in all sorts of flowery terms and euphemisms. Or, if he were the gambling sort, he could lie to Wentworth and say that he had fallen in love with his daughter after seeing her from a distance one day. That approach, however, was decidedly risky. Not only did he not have the least notion as to what his host’s daughter looked like, but he doubted that anyone would believe for a moment that the marquis was the kind of man to fall in love, let alone from a distance. He dismissed that option almost immediately. In the end, he decided that there was really only one choice. He would have to be truthful, at least partially so, and pray that Wentworth’s greed would overcome any sense of responsibility or feeling of affection he might have for his daughter.
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 (#ulink_9bde242b-40de-5cfa-8276-b4756a7e1f5b)
“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?”
“Now, love,” shushed the young girl’s nursemaid tenderly, “you know there are no such thing as pirates.” She held up an admonishing finger to her charge. “And how many times have I told you not to talk with your mouth full? And what do you mean by not washing your hands after playing with that filthy kitten?”
Olivia, not the least bit abashed by this chastisement, tried to hold on to her nanny’s attention. “But there are! I saw one here today! He even played with Isis!”
Maddie, having glimpsed the marquis herself earlier, knew full well whom Olivia meant. But she didn’t believe in giving in to flights of fancy, and she told Olivia as much.
“Olivia!” chided Maddie just as she was about to retort. “I told you not to talk with your mouth full. Now no more talk of pirates, child. I mean it!”
Olivia, left to her own thoughts as she munched her tart, reflected that it was a pity her nursemaid couldn’t have been with her to see the pirate. But her father had seen him, and he would surely understand her reference. After all, he certainly did look like a pirate. Even if he hadn’t exactly acted like one.
As always when she thought of her father, a smile began creeping its way up her face. Papa had promised to teach her about the ancient Greeks tonight, and she loved his lessons on Greek mythology. Maybe when he was done, they could talk about the pirate, and she could find out why he had come….
After dinner, much the same as before dinner, Olivia was alone. Wandering now through the empty house, she stopped suddenly as she heard voices raised in anger. She immediately recognized her father’s voice, but the other one was unfamiliar to her.
Softly tiptoeing around the corner, Olivia made her way gradually to the door of her father’s study. The door was open a crack, and without feeling the least remorse for her actions, she peeked through the opening.
Her father was in what her nurse would have called a “heated discussion” with a local tradesman. After racking her brain, Olivia remembered having seen this man make deliveries of wine and brandy to their house. It wasn’t an unusual conversation for her father to be having, thought Olivia morosely. She’d overheard several of its kind in the recent past.
As Olivia moved quietly away from the door and went upstairs to the bedroom, she grew increasingly unhappy. She was an intelligent child, and she knew that her father didn’t have much money. Ever since she could remember, Maddie had emphasized to Olivia the importance of practicing economies. But no matter what lengths Maddie and she went to in order to cut expenses from their daily budget, it never seemed to be enough.
Olivia sat down on her bed, her chin in her hand. She didn’t know what she could do to help her father pay the bills, but she was determined to try. Perhaps she and Maddie could expand the kitchen garden out back? She’d have to think about it.
Wentworth had long ago done away with the age-old custom of children eating their meals upstairs. It wasn’t really out of any noble sentiment that he ignored that form of etiquette—just the opposite, in fact. If the truth be known, Wentworth simply got lonely.
At supper Wentworth seemed inclined to be more melancholy than at any other time of the day. Perhaps it was the candlelight. Perhaps it was the empty expanse of table and the encroaching shadows. Who knew? In any case, before Margaret’s death, he liked to have his children with him at supper to keep him company. After his first daughter died, he grew almost fanatical about having Olivia there.
Wentworth’s melancholy tonight was so palpable that Olivia could barely eat. Sometimes she chattered brightly in order to shake her father from his blue studies, but tonight Olivia’s attempts had met with dismal failure. Her father spoke in monosyllables throughout the indifferently cooked meal, speaking only when spoken to, and often not even then. It didn’t take much, thought Olivia, to see that he was preoccupied with his own thoughts.
After a time, Olivia could stand the oppressive atmosphere no longer. Without realizing what had put her father into such a depressed mood, she asked in an unusually loud voice, “Who was that man today, Papa?”
Wentworth’s head snapped up from where he had been studiously examining a chip on his plate. The eyes of his innocent young daughter speared him in his seat like a pin in a butterfly, and for a second all he felt was agony. If Olivia had slapped him in the face and called him a devil, he could not imagine how she could have struck him with a deeper sense of guilt.
Gazing at her in a kind of shock, Wentworth vainly attempted not to think about Olivia’s resemblance to his now long-dead wife. Silently he cursed the impulse that possessed him in a moment of madness to name his second child after his wife. His beloved’s creamy white skin, lush dark hair, firm chin and high cheekbones were replicated on the smaller version before him. Worst of all, though, were Olivia’s eyes. His dead wife’s eyes stared back at him from across the table, and tonight, in his own mind, they were full of accusation.
Tiny wrinkles formed on Olivia’s brow as she realized that something was dreadfully wrong with her father. He looked angry, upset and terrified. Worse, she thought, her father looked possessed.
Trying desperately to bring him back to the here and now, Olivia asked her question again, enunciating each word slowly and carefully.
“Papa. Who was that man?”
Wentworth, dropping his eyes before the interrogative stare of his daughter, attempted to take a bite of the boiled beef on his plate. But the dry meat stuck in his throat, choking him. Recovering quickly from his coughing fit, he got up from the table and threw his napkin onto his plate. The next second, he strode from the room without saying a word.
The long shadows, with their ominous shapes creeping across the room, were the only response to Olivia’s unanswered question.
A few hours after Olivia had finally drifted off to sleep, she was gently awakened by Maddie. The woman’s voice was soothing and calm. Although indistinct at first, the sound finally became words in Olivia’s consciousness.
“Here now, my love,” cooed the nurse. “I know you’re tired, poor wee thing, but we’ve got to get you ready for a trip.”
Olivia sat up in her bed slowly, stretching and rubbing her eyes. She blinked sleepily, trying to clear the cobwebs from her mind. After a moment, she was able to focus her eyes on her nanny.
“A trip?” she asked uncomprehendingly.
Maddie turned away from Olivia and returned the covers the little girl had tossed about in her sleep to the end of the bed. The old woman had her doubts about this strange trip in the middle of the night, but she kept them to herself.
“Indeed, yes,” she replied in as cheerful a manner as she could manage. “You and your father are going to Norwood Park.”
Olivia stared blankly at her nurse, the words not making any sense to her. Where was Norwood Park? What was it? Finally comprehension dawned.
Olivia’s eyes went round with fear. She had seen the park, and not so very long ago. Occasionally Olivia was able to slip away from Gateland Manor unattended, and on one of her more recent forays, she had glimpsed the house through the woods. The thought of going to that spooky old mansion, with all of its encroaching weeds and darkened, windows, did nothing to assuage her fear.
“Now, now, my poppet,” soothed Maddie, gently patting her charge’s hand. “’Tis nothing to be worried about, I’m sure. You mustn’t believe all those Banbury tales about the place being haunted, for I’m sure it simply isn’t true.”
In point of fact, Olivia was so isolated at Gateland Manor that she had never heard this particular rumor about the house, but she didn’t think that now was the appropriate time to bring up that fact. Maddie would just be upset if she found out Olivia had never heard the story before now.
Maddie made a dismissive gesture as she continued. “Besides, the master is going with you, and you know he would never put you in harm’s way.”
Olivia digested this bit of wisdom from her nurse and concluded that what she said was true. Her papa would never let anything happen to her.
“And look, Olivia. He brought you this.”
Maddie’s voice broke into the girl’s reverie, and she looked up to see her nanny holding the most beautiful dress she had ever seen. The material was pale blue and trimmed with navy ribbons. Around the neck and cuffs was delicately scalloped lace, and it felt rich to the touch of Olivia’s tiny fingers. When she put it on, the dress reached to the middle of her calves. Maddie had given her a pair of white stockings to complete the ensemble, and to Olivia, the effect was enchanting.
“Oh, Nanny!” cried Olivia, spinning around in circles in front of the peer glass. “Is it really just for me?”
Maddie laughed softly, her eyes gleaming with pride. “Yes, my dear,” she answered fondly, “it really is for you.”
When Olivia came down the main staircase thirty minutes later, Wentworth’s breath caught in his throat. Never had he seen such a perfect-looking angel! The dress, with its contrasting shades of blue, was the perfect setting to show off his daughter’s unusual eyes and creamy skin. Her dark heavy hair, held back from her face with a navy ribbon bought specifically to match the dress, swayed gently against her back as she descended the staircase.
“You look just like your mother, child,” he whispered as she approached him.
And then it hit him. The vision struck so hard, it was just like a physical blow. Wentworth staggered back, his hands out before him in a plea of supplication and remorse. “No, my dear,” he pleaded as the ephemeral form of his former wife floated down to him, her eyes ablaze with righteous anger. “It’s not what you think! I did it for you! I did it for you!” He cringed as the dress he had just given her burst into flames around her form, consuming everything within its reach but leaving her fragile figure unscathed. He closed his eyes and moaned piteously until he felt the frantic tugging on his greatcoat.
“Papa!” Olivia cried, her eyes wide with alarm. “Are you all right?”
Silently he stared at her, his eyes uncomprehending. Then, with just the barest hesitation, his expression changed. His lids closed halfway over orbs that were crafty and furtive. He straightened his back, took hold of his daughter’s arm and scrutinized her appearance carefully.
Yes, he thought. This was going to be just as he planned. That dress made his beautiful sweet daughter look just like Persephone, the goddess of spring. The marquis ought to appreciate her sweet innocence, he chortled internally.
At the thought of Olivia’s impending marriage, Wentworth’s mercurial mood turned instantly black, and he scowled at his daughter. He was glad she looked so lovely and innocent. Just let Traverston see the beautiful creature whose life he was about to destroy. Just let him see what his black hand was about to corrupt. By God, he vowed, he would see the marquis in hell for this! Quickly he yanked his daughter with him toward the door and the carriage, before he could lose his newfound sense of purpose.
Although Norwood Park was really quite close to the manor, the carriage ride in the hired post chaise took over fifteen minutes. For Olivia, the minutes dragged by. Far from being reassuring, her father’s presence in the coach was an added torment. His actions today had been so strange that Olivia didn’t know what to think.
When they finally did arrive, Olivia was stunned by the spectacle that met her eyes. She had expected the house to be a forbidding sight, but instead the building and its surroundings were serenely beautiful. In the autumn moonlight, Norwood Park was enchanting. A silvery lake, illuminated by the brilliant moon, reflected a hauntingly mellow vision of the grounds around the water. A great oak arched majestically over the edge of one shore, hinting to the observer of quiet summer nights long past.
The house itself was a marvel, as well. Great blocks of gray stone formed the exterior, suggestive of chivalrous times and knights in shining armor. And best of all, every single window was brightly lit with candles, welcoming Olivia to the ethereal home. By the time the carriage stopped, she was breathless with wonder and excitement.
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.”
Slowly Wentworth opened the box the marquis had handed him. Inside, a magnificent diamond and sapphire ring rested on a bed of velvet. When Wentworth failed to make a response, Traverston added cuttingly, “The ring was entailed with the estate. It was one of the few things I wasn’t allowed to hock in this crumbling heap. Otherwise, you can be sure, she would have received nothing from me.”
Without a word, Wentworth snapped the box shut and stuffed it into his coat pocket. Traverston noted the speed with which his guest raced down the stairs was most unbecoming to a gentleman. Pleased with Wentworth’s reaction, the marquis smiled. His new father-in-law had acted as though he were being chased by all the devils in hell. Good, he nodded to himself complacently. It would be nice to have some company when he got there.
Chapter Three (#ulink_fc21c89d-379a-54df-bfb7-240efa734391)
Olivia sat before the solicitor, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Her black bombazine dress trimmed with the faintest smattering of lace, more appropriate on a widow of advanced years than on a young miss still very much in the schoolroom, loudly proclaimed to all and sundry her state of mourning.
It wasn’t that she was pretentious, thought the middle-aged gentleman sitting across his desk from her. Olivia just genuinely seemed to have preferred that particular style of gown above all others. He should know: his wife had helped her choose it. Still she looked neat and tidy. He studied her openly from his vantage point.
Olivia was a beautiful child, of that there could be no doubt. But her beauty lacked something. Mr. Potts’s frown deepened as he tried to ponder what that missing element might be. Then he had it. She lacked fire. Olivia was simply not a spirited child. Oh, no. And she was not your typical twelve-year-old, either.
Mr. Potts continued his analysis of the girl, careful to keep his scrutiny away from his visitor’s eyes. Olivia’s icy blue eyes unnerved her solicitor. Whatever thoughts she might have had on the matter at hand were carefully locked away behind those cool eyes. They absorbed everything around them and gave absolutely nothing back.
The rest of her face, while equally noncommittal, was much less disturbing to him. He studied her finely chiseled features and then frowned. She might as well have been a wall for all the information her attitude gave away to him.
Nervously Mr. Potts cleared his throat. He had thought this interview would be rather simple, really. Just give the chit the get-go and be done with it. Faced with her impenetrable silence, however, he wasn’t sure the task would be as easy as he had first imagined. He cleared his throat again, loosening his cravat with one finger. No, this wasn’t going to be easy. If only she wouldn’t stare at him so!
Thankfully, Olivia was getting rather impatient with her lawyer. She decided to have pity on him, if only to get the conversation moving. “You found a place for me to go.” Her voice, although still childish in pitch, sounded strangely grown-up. She didn’t phrase the sentence as a question. She simply stated what she knew to be true.
Mr. Potts jumped for the olive branch with startling quickness. “Yes!” he said in a relieved voice. Belatedly regaining some of his composure, he sat back in his chair pretending an ease he didn’t feel. “Yes,” he repeated more calmly.
In his element now that the topic had been broached, the solicitor pushed his spectacles to the bridge of his nose and looked condescendingly down at the girl before him. In the space of a few heartbeats, he managed to go from his impersonation of a nervous Nellie to that of a schoolmarm.
“As you know, my dear,” began the man somewhat fatuously, “it has been well over a month now since your poor father died.” Here he took the time to give Olivia a sympathetic look. “And you have borne your bereavement well. Nay! Better than well. You have been exemplary in your conduct.”
He paused and glanced at her meaningfully.
If Mr. Potts had expected Olivia to be flattered by his words, he was sadly disappointed. In truth, she thought him a pompous old windbag and an insufferable bore. But rather than voice these opinions out loud, she kept silent. Her expression gave away none of her thoughts.
Again Mr. Potts cleared his throat, trying to regain his earlier equanimity. After glancing briefly at Olivia over the top of his spectacles, he continued his speech. “But now the time has come for you to leave your humble abode and go on with your life. Yes.” He nodded like a silly ass. “That’s it exactly.”
Olivia’s heart skipped a beat at his words. Oh, she knew that the inevitable must happen, but did it have to happen right now? Stoically she kept her external appearance of composure, though on the inside she was seething.
This conversation could only be taking place if her solicitor had found someone willing to act as her guardian. Who was this person and what did they want with her? Didn’t she do a good job of taking care of the manor? Maddie had died, it was true, but she got along just fine, thank you. Besides, she preferred to be alone. Olivia longed to say the words, but she knew they were futile.
Instead she inquired, “Where am I to go?”
Mr. Potts, relieved that Olivia appeared to be taking all of this so well, gave an audible sigh of relief. “Your grandmother, Lady Raleigh, the Dowager Duchess of Stonebridge, has kindly offered to have mercy on you. Even though she disowned your mother some twenty years ago, it appears as though now she is willing to forgive past grievances and take you in. You are sensible of the honor she does you, I am sure.”
The silence stretched on. Outside, the falling snow deadened all of the street noises, leaving the solicitor no hope of a distraction. He waited in vain for Olivia to agree with him. Then he took a deep breath and sighed. He should have known, he grumbled to himself, pushing his spectacles upright once more. Olivia could never be expected to do what she was supposed to. She was a very strange child.
“Lady Raleigh is waiting for you at the Three Crowns even as we speak.” As Olivia’s eyes widened slightly at the pronouncement, Mr. Potts gave a humorless smile. Finally he had gotten some kind of reaction out of her. With relish he continued. “Yes, it was all somewhat of a surprise, actually. One minute Mrs. Potts and I were quietly having our dinner, and the next minute there she was, pounding on our front door.” He muttered almost to himself, “Never thought for a moment she’d answer the letter in person.”
Olivia’s brain had almost ceased to function upon mention of her grandmother’s name. Surely she could not be going with her? It was beyond all thought!
And yet, who else did Olivia have? All of her immediate family was deceased, and all of her father’s family, as well. That just left her mother’s relatives.
But Lady Raleigh! Olivia’s father had never been able to mention the Duke and Duchess of Stonebridge without turning purple. He had been enraged at the way they had treated him and his poor darling wife. Why on earth did they want Olivia now?
Her eyes came back into focus and met with the solicitor’s. With anger she noted that he was pleased by her discomfort. She chastised herself severely. She hadn’t hidden her feelings well enough again, and now he was gloating—gloating just as her father had done every time she let her guard slip. Well, it wouldn’t happen again. She had had enough derision. She had vowed to take charge of her life, and she was going to do it. She’d never be at anyone else’s mercy again. No one would ever be able to use her emotions against her again. She wouldn’t let them.
Like a slate being wiped clean, Olivia’s face lost all trace of visible expression. She had her composure firmly in hand once again. Neutrally she repeated Mr. Potts’s earlier declaration, “She is waiting for me now?”
Disconcerted with her abruptness, Mr. Potts replied a little harshly, “Yes, at the Three Crowns, as I said.” He relented a little as he reminded himself Olivia was only a child. This whole experience was probably a great shock to her. He paused before adding more kindly, “Shall I escort you there?”
The child-woman speared him with her icicle eyes. Was he trying to manipulate her again? But no, that thought was too uncharitable. Mr. Potts was a fool, it was true, but he was not unnecessarily cruel. Still she would keep him on a short rein. Expressionlessly Olivia made her reply. “Thank you, Mr. Potts.”
After accepting his offer as escort, Olivia and Mr. Potts arrived at the Three Crowns some half an hour later. The snow on the ground crunched beneath their feet as they walked toward the door. Stopping a few feet away from the entrance, Olivia turned around and faced her solicitor. With a dignity unusual for one so young, she offered him her hand.
“Thank you so much for escorting me, Mr. Potts. You have been a tremendous help.”
Astonished, Mr. Potts stared at the young girl before him. He couldn’t quite comprehend that he was actually being dismissed by a chit half his size. Before he could make a suitable reply, however, Olivia reached down, grabbed his hand with her own, pumped it up and down a few times, and turned and walked through the door.
Somewhat uncertainly, Mr. Potts stared at the door that had closed with a solid thud behind Olivia’s retreating back. Finally, as if doubting the whole encounter, he shrugged his shoulders and began walking back to the carriage. He collected that this was one meeting where Olivia preferred not to have an observer. For once in his life, his assumption where Olivia was concerned was correct.
Once inside the establishment, the innkeeper’s wife immediately spied Olivia and rushed over to her. She was a big woman, and her sheer girth was enough to intimidate the young girl, although Olivia was careful not to show it.
“Well, little lovey!” she exclaimed, beaming. “You must be the little girl who must meet her granny!” She squeezed both of the girl’s shoulders in a friendly way, emphasizing her own excitement at the occasion.
Olivia thought this had to be the worst misinterpretation of the situation she had ever heard, but she wisely kept that opinion to herself.
Momentarily confused, the woman looked about them, still firmly grasping Olivia. “But where’s the little whatnot, deary?” she asked in her great booming voice. “Blimey if he didn’t tell me directly that you were both coming and that I should be preparing some refreshment. I don’t be understanding it at all. He shoulda come with you!”
Olivia stepped back a pace, inadvertently taking the large woman with her as her grasp on Olivia’s person held firm. “Mr. Potts was unavoidably detained,” she responded with quiet authority. “I have come here by myself.”
“Gone for a nip to stoke the fires, has he?” The innkeeper’s wife gave Olivia a searching glance. After a moment, she shrugged. “Well, it ain’t no never mind. The old lady’s been waiting for you.” She indicated somewhere behind her with the flick of her massive head. Then she maneuvered herself behind Olivia, taking hold of her shoulders from behind. “Just ‘round here, love,” she directed from the back, pushing Olivia toward the door of a private parlor.
The giantess nudged the door open with her shoulder. Inside, the room was surprisingly warm and cozy. A cheerful fire burned brightly in the grate, and the room was well lit with tapers.
In the center of the room sat Lady Raleigh. Her back was inches from the carved wood of an elegant Hepplewhite chair that she had no doubt brought with her, and her spine was as straight as a ramrod. Next to her elbow rested an untouched glass of water on an otherwise empty side table. Adorning the room was a comfortable-looking sofa, several armchairs and a pier table of cherry wood. But Olivia had eyes only for her grandmother.
She was even more striking in person than Olivia had imagined. Lady Raleigh, her back to the fireplace, stared across the room at her only remaining grandchild with eyes almost as pale as Olivia’s. Her gray velvet dress, capped with a gathering of lace high at the throat, only seemed to emphasize the unusual color of her eyes. Added to that, Lady Raleigh’s white hair and pale skin, combined with the profusion of pearls she wore about her arms and neck, made her look almost colorless.
She had a birdlike quality, thought Olivia. If she had any weight on her bones at all, she could have been a pigeon. As it was, however, her thinness undermined the comparison. For all her stern expression, she really looked to be a thin, frail old woman. That thought was oddly comforting to the girl.
Olivia had been so mesmerized by her grandmother’s appearance, she was somewhat startled when the apparition before her actually spoke.
“Leave us,” she commanded the woman behind Olivia in an imperious voice that only trembled slightly with old age.
The innkeeper’s wife abruptly let go of Olivia and bowed her way out the door, taking Olivia’s cape with her. Olivia thought it rather mean of her to leave a child all alone with the strange lady before her. But she managed to hold her ground anyway.
A few seconds brought about Lady Raleigh’s next words to her grandchild. In a surprisingly gentle voice, she asked, “Are you going to stand there all day, child, or are you going to come over here where I can get a better look at you?”
Obediently Olivia went to stand before her grandmother. Lady Raleigh took her time in examining Olivia. She reached out a hand and firmly grasped one of Olivia’s own, pulling the girl toward her. Squinting slightly, she studied Olivia from head to toe. Finally she spoke again.
“Who dressed you, child.” she asked with a genuine expression of mystification, “that you look older than I?”
Olivia thought this remark so highly amusing that she bestowed on her grandmother a smile. Or at least she thought it was a smile. In reality her eyes grew only a little warmer, and the corners of her mouth curled upward hardly at all.
She answered the question frankly. “I chose it.”
Lady Raleigh nodded thoughtfully. “I see.”
In point of fact, she did not see, but she had no immediate concerns about that now. Given time, she and Olivia would get on quite famously, she was sure of that, despite the fact she had known the child for only a few minutes. The girl held her shoulders back proudly, and she did not wince or whine like other little girls. That was a good sign. Lady Raleigh didn’t like whiners.
The old woman beckoned the girl to sit down in a chair across from her. Waiting until Olivia had seated herself, she began her quizzing. “What have you heard about me?” she demanded.
Olivia looked at her elder with candor. “Not much.”
“What exactly does that mean…not much?”
Again her lips hinted at a smile. “Not much good.”
Lady Raleigh leaned forward in her seat, trying to get a good look at Olivia. As if she thought she could startle a confession out of her, she barked, “What do you think of me?”
Olivia’s expression turned ever so slightly wary. But her eyes were still cool. “I’m not sure.”
“Well,” replied her grandmother, leaning back a little in her chair after she had completed her own examination, “I shall be honest with you. You are not what I expected.”
Lady Raleigh waited for a reaction. She didn’t get one. Nonplussed, she continued. “No, whatever monstrosity I had expected Edgar to raise, you certainly are not it.” Her look was approving. “You act very poised, Olivia, just like a young lady. You impress me.”
Olivia couldn’t break her gaze from her grandmother’s. Her eyes were positively mesmerizing. Was this what it was like to be on the other side of her stare? Unsure, she replied, “Thank you.”
At that moment, a knock on the door announced the arrival of a visitor. The innkeeper’s wife, having.regained her earlier blustery manner, came into the room like a ship under full sail. Setting the refreshments out, she kept up a constant stream of chatter, not once noticing that her conversation was completely one-sided.
For Olivia, the interruption was an opportunity to reflect on her own impressions. She decided that Lady Raleigh was not what she had expected, either. From her father’s countless tirades, she had expected her grandmother to be a veritable dragoness. Oh, she had a bark… Olivia could see that, but she doubted the frail body before her had much of a bite. She narrowed her eyes a little as her thoughts steamed onward, but it was the only change in expression she allowed herself. At least until she got a good look at the spread laid out by the landlady.
With the woman gone and the food before them, Lady Raleigh was about to continue her conversation when she noticed Olivia’s expression. The child was not as good at hiding her feelings as she thought she was, Lady Raleigh noticed. The stare Olivia was giving the hot, buttered scones was practically burning a hole in the table.
In truth, Olivia was very smitten with the idea of biting into one of the scones. It had been so long since she had had anything like them. Looking hungrily at the treats before her, Olivia had to use all of her willpower not to reach out and snatch one.
Lady Raleigh’s words broke into her thoughts. “Go ahead, girl,” she offered kindly. “Take one while they are still hot.”
Olivia started to reach for a scone and then abruptly remembered her manners. “Wouldn’t you care for a scone, Grandmama?” she asked with all of the graciousness of a grown hostess.
Lady Raleigh, pleased at both her granddaughter’s polite behavior and her new name, shook her head. “I believe I’ll wait,” she replied.
While Olivia finished her scone and sat eyeing another one, Lady Raleigh continued their discussion. “Do you miss your father, Olivia?” she asked in a clipped voice.
Unsure of how to answer such a question, Olivia took a moment to think about it as she finished chewing her food. She regarded her grandmother seriously. “I accept my loss.”
“That’s a rather grown-up attitude for someone as young as you,” the lady replied.
Olivia shrugged her shoulders delicately. Her grandmother had meant no offense by the comment and none was taken. Still she wasn’t sure how to respond to her. For the moment, she decided not to try.
Lady Raleigh continued. “I do not pretend to have had any affection for Edgar, Olivia. He stole my daughter away from me and her rightful heritage and I cannot forgive him for that.” She added almost as an afterthought. “I can’t forgive her, either.”
Olivia regarded her grandparent gravely. In a quiet voice, she told her, “Papa blamed you for Mama’s death.”
Instead of snorting in disgust as Olivia was sure her relative would do, Lady Raleigh sat still, as if stunned by this bit of information. But after a moment she regained some of her composure and replied with an indication of uneasiness, “I do not doubt that my daughter and I caused each other grief during our respective lifetimes, but I can hardly be held accountable for her death. Your father never did want to see anything for what it really was. That’s one reason, although it is hardly the only one, my husband and I disapproved of the match.”
Olivia’s eyebrows quirked together in puzzlement. “One reason?”
“Yes.” Lady Raleigh’s own eyebrows drew together in a frown. “Olivia—your mother, that is—was engaged to an earl when she ran off with your father. The wedding papers were all but signed. We had no choice but to cut her.” She gazed at Olivia with brutal frankness. “She was a fool and she should have known better.”
Olivia took her time thinking this over. Up until now she had only her father’s version of the story. It was interesting to hear another version of an event that had caused so many people bitterness and pain. Still she felt somewhat unaffected by the whole affair—as if the story were an entertaining bit of gossip about someone else’s family.
Without warning, Lady Raleigh changed the topic. “You will be coming to London to live with me.” Her voice brooked no argument. “My husband died some years ago, leaving me a widow. The estate in Sussex went to my nephew, a pompous young man whom I detest, but he was kind enough to let me live in the dowager house, if I so chose. I detest the country, however, and live year-round in London instead. I have a house on Wimpole Street. It’s not overly large, you understand, but more than adequate for the pair of us.” She looked at Olivia expectantly.
Not wishing to offend her grandmother, she replied, “I’m sure it is quite nice.”
Lady Raleigh gave her a brisk, decisive nod. “Very well. We will leave in three days’ time. Although I doubt you have much to pack, I’ll need to stay at least that long to make sure all of Edgar’s affairs are in order. God knows, there are probably a hundred debts to pay off.
“I shall stay here at the inn until we leave for town. I won’t stay at your father’s house—you understand I cannot. Edgar would turn over in his grave if I did, and my husband would rise from his in outrage. You may come and visit me here as often as you like in the meantime.
“Mrs. Potts has graciously offered to oversee your packing for me. I’m sure she is already waiting for you at the house even as we speak. My coachman will drive you back.”
As she seemed dismissed, Olivia got up uncertainly from her seat. Subdued, she walked across the parlor to the door. Before she opened it, however, she turned around to face her grandmother. Politely she waited to be acknowledged.
“Well?” queried the lady, her imperial bearing once again very much in evidence.
“Do you…” began Olivia hesitantly. She searched for the right words. If she asked this question, then she would be opening herself up to attack. This strange woman before her would know her vulnerable spot. She’d know how to wound her in the future.
And yet how could she not ask it? She couldn’t very well leave Isis behind. An argument over the Siamese would be a terrible way to start her new relationship with her grandmother.
She almost bit back the words. But, no, she had to ask. Finally she opened her mouth again. Her eyes grew unconsciously wistful as she phrased the question. Such an awful lot of her future depended on the answer she would receive. “Do you…like cats?” She waited silently, building up her defenses against the rejection that was sure to come.
Again Lady Raleigh spied the little girl hiding behind the grown-up facade. With a conviction that would have surprised many of her cronies back in London, she declared soundly, “I adore them.”
Chapter Four (#ulink_58b31bda-b062-5b17-868e-e9f770386713)
London, 1816
“Olivia!”
With painful slowness, Olivia brought her vision back into focus on the oil painting in front of her. The gay foursome, frolicking in the great Italian outdoors, danced across her eyes, the delicate brushstrokes of their picnic spread not quite becoming clear fast enough.
Knowing she had slipped back into her memories as easily as she had slid into her chemise this morning, Olivia strove for the center of calm that would help her retain her composure. There, she had it. But she hadn’t yet responded to the call of her name. Mortified but determined not to show it, she dropped her gaze to the slight form of her grandmother across the room, only to see the old woman perched precariously on the edge of a Georgian armchair covered in maroon-and-gold-striped upholstery.
“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said for the last five minutes.” The look Lady Raleigh gave her was stern, but there was a worried frown that creased her brow, and her lips were white with fright.
Olivia was instantly contrite. “I’m sorry, Grandmama. I’ve been losing my concentration a lot lately. I guess I’m just tired,” she dissembled.
The dowager stared intently at her relative, knowing full well she was being put off with a half-truth. But she decided not to make an issue out of it. “Marie,” said Lady Raleigh, loudly addressing the seamstress on her knees who was pinning the hem of Olivia’s gown, “Olivia is exhausted. And to be frank about it, so am I. It looks as if we shall have to fit her ball gown at another time. Say, tomorrow at four?”
“Oui, madame.” The petite French seamstress immediately got to her feet and began helping Olivia out of the dress. In moments, all trace of the afternoon’s fitting session were gone, and the two ladies were left alone in the charmingly decorated room.
Lady Raleigh got up from the chair and walked over to the bellpull. Her steps came slower now that she found it necessary to walk with a cane.
“We shall have our tea in here today, I think,” she said as she turned around to face her granddaughter.
“That would be lovely,” Olivia responded without the kind of tonal inflection needed to make the statement ring true. Immediately she went back to her contemplation of the painting.
But instead of reaching up and pulling on the rope, Lady Raleigh merely rested her hand on the velvet cord and frowned at her charge. It tore at the old woman’s heart to think that to Olivia, her life was a normal one. Even after all these years in her grandmother’s loving company, she had never seen the girl feel anything. Not really. She had never seen her look unhappy or sad. She had never appeared angry or disgruntled. She never looked frustrated or upset. Her face, as beautiful as it was, seemed to be carved from marble, for her features never moved with expression.
But more than any other expression, Lady Raleigh wanted to see Olivia smile. Underneath it all, she knew that her granddaughter was suffering. The masque she played for the world was the way Olivia hid pain so deep it seemed impossible to heal. Of that, Lady Raleigh was sure. But she so desperately wanted to see her smile. She wanted so much for her granddaughter to be happy.
A few times, the old woman remembered with hope, a few times she had seen something lingering at the corners of Olivia’s mouth. Sometimes, when her guard was down, she would smile just a tiny bit, a ghost of something that could be much grander, much more impressive, if she were but to try.
But that was the problem. Lady Raleigh knew that now. Olivia had no heart to try. Whatever feelings the girl had were locked away deep inside her heart, behind walls so high and thorny the old woman had little hope of ever seeing them in her lifetime.
Yet, she knew they were there. She knew because she also knew that Olivia was fond of her aged relative. It showed in her gestures and in her voice. Sometimes her voice would grow soft and wistful, even while her face kept its expressionless lines. But only on occasion. It was actually very rare.
Lady Raleigh knew that her granddaughter responded to intimacy by stepping back, by avoiding the situation like a colt shying from its handler. It was as though Olivia distanced herself from any contact with other human beings that would put her on any footing other than that of a distant acquaintance. Even with her grandmother.
And she so needed that contact, thought Lady Raleigh as she gazed with fond sadness at the beautiful young woman across the room. Olivia desperately needed someone to tear her away from those silent, damning thoughts—the ones that ate at her and kept her from her grandmother’s company, even while she was in the same room.
“What do you think of your gown, dear?” inquired the dowager loudly, hoping to break Olivia from the new trance that had gripped her young charge.
Olivia turned her head to look at her grandmother. Her eyes, even though they were focused on her relative, seemed to look through her. “It’s lovely, of course.”
Lady Raleigh nodded vigorously. “And so it is. There can be no doubt about that. And you will look lovely in it, my girl,” she announced in ringing tones, and she hit her cane on the ground for emphasis.
Slowly Olivia dropped her gaze from her grandmother’s, and she searched distractedly for the embroidery she had left near her seat Finding it, she picked at the tiny threads with abstracted movements of her hands, all the while a single crease deepening on her forehead.
Olivia’s response to compliments always mystified Lady Raleigh. Any other girl her age would be overjoyed to have Olivia’s looks, and make no bones about it. Her lovely dark hair, straight yet richly imbued with body, made her skin look incredibly pure and creamy. And those eyes! God help any man who could look into those exquisitely unnerving blue eyes twice and not be intrigued.
In addition to all of this, Olivia was statuesque and perfectly proportioned. No one could accuse her of being too thin or too heavy, or too anything, except maybe too beautiful.
But Olivia was not any other girl, as she knew all too well. Among other things, she was not interested in her appearance. She refused to pick out her own gowns, but had her grandmother choose them for her. Whenever the topic of fashion was brought up, she never participated in any of the discussions.
But even more peculiar was her reaction to compliments. Even the vaguest reference to her beauty sent Olivia off in another direction. It was as if she found the whole thought of her appearance an anathema to her existence.
Lady Raleigh had tried to get her granddaughter used to the idea of being complimented, but so far she had failed miserably. She worried about what would happen when Olivia was asked for her hand in marriage. How would she react then?
Time would tell, thought the dowager grimly.
After the servant arrived with the tea things, Olivia set herself to the task of pouring out the steaming liquid. Keeping her hands busy helped her to think, and she needed to think right now.
Her grandmother didn’t mean to be unkind, she knew, but she wished she wouldn’t waste so much time thinking about her granddaughter’s appearance. Olivia didn’t want to be attractive. Beauty just called attention to itself, and she did not wish to be noticed. When she was young, being noticed had only brought her trouble, and she did not want more of that kind of attention. She didn’t feel equal to it. Not even after all these years of practicing self-defense.
Like a trigger, her desire to forget the past only brought the memories on more strongly. Immediately her surroundings faded, and she was cast back into her childhood.
The manor house had grown dark and murky. Maddie was too old to do the cleaning, and even if she did not suffer so severely from arthritis, her father would not have let anyone diligently clean the house anyway. He had professed a liking for the tumbledown feel of the house with its dark and musty corners. He had called it scholarly, although where he had gotten that notion from, Olivia had no idea.
Their visitors had dwindled down to nothing. Except for the occasional tradesman, no one came to Gateland Manor except the postman, and even he showed up infrequently. Olivia didn’t know who was in the neighborhood anymore because she was not allowed to wander out of the house to find out. Even the grounds surrounding the house were forbidden to her. She had to sneak outside while her father was drunk in order to get any fresh air.
The wrinkles on Olivia’s fair brow grew more pronounced as she thought for the hundredth time about those last few years of her father’s life. As an adult, she could look back at them and calmly rationalize that her father was sick. He had suffered some debilitating illness, and he didn’t want anyone to see him. But what always puzzled her was why he didn’t want anyone to see her.
In his most debauched states, when Olivia had been unable to avoid him, he had spouted something about her being as good as dead. His beautiful child, he would cry, was dead, just like her mother. Then, seeing past Olivia into some other life, he would drag himself to his knees and beg her, his Olivia, to forgive him for killing her. He hadn’t wanted to do it, he had said. He had just wanted her to be happy.
At other times, Wentworth would simply rage at her. He had called her names that Olivia had never heard, and had ranted that she had sold herself to the devil. Olivia had covered her ears to the abuse, but she could always hear it. Sometimes the hate echoed in her head for hours on end, and there would be no one else around to dispute the perceived truth of his words.
Perhaps Olivia could have dealt with the abuse had she felt she had not been the cause of his sickness. Just to look at her seemed to drive her father further over the edge. And when he remembered how much she looked like her mother, he was always worse.
Desperate to protect herself, Olivia had tried to wall off her feelings for her father. She tried not to pursue his love. She tried not to want to make him happy.
But at times, when Wentworth seemed more lucid than others, he would hold out his arms and beg Olivia to forgive him for saying the things that he had. He loved her, he would say, because she was his last remaining bonny lass. And couldn’t she see her way to being patient with him just a little while longer? Olivia had cried and promised that she would. And then the cycle would start again.
A heavy weight fell slowly inside Olivia, oppressing her. Diligently she struggled against its strength, fighting for control. Her father’s sickness was not her fault. She had not caused it. She had to believe that. Otherwise she couldn’t live with the truth.
With a soft thud, a furry white body landed in her lap. More by rote than by conscious thought, Olivia’s hand began to stroke the fur. Slowly, painfully, the black memories receded. Then, after a million years, as she fought down dread and remorse, the object she was holding became familiar. “Isis,” she murmured, her hand fondling the cat’s head, smoothing the softly shadowed black ears. The vitality of the other voice brought reality back with a crash.
“That cat is terribly spoiled, Olivia.”
With feigned calmness, Olivia looked up at her grandmother. How long had she been lost in her past? Minutes? Seconds? With relief, she saw that Lady Raleigh’s face was filled with mild reproach, not concern. Good, it couldn’t have been too long, then. She picked up the Siamese cat and held it to her face, looking into its eyes. Only you know how close I came to losing everything, Isis, she thought. You were the only one that was there.
“Yes, I know.”
Gently she placed the cat on the floor and picked up the teapot. More assured, Olivia started to pour the hot fluid into the little delicate china cups.
Her lips were a lush shade of red. She looked closer. Green cat’s eyes; large and seductively slanted with kohl. Platinum blond hair framed a perfectly flawless complexion. One small mole sat strategically near those full, red, pouting lips.
Lady Beatrice Chisolm scrutinized the face looking back at her in the mirror carefully. It was a beautiful face, she knew. She glanced down at the full figure carefully accented by the flimsy negligee. She took another mental inventory. Firm torso, long silky legs, magnolia petal skin. Beatrice meticulously counted up her assets. Her eyes flew back up to her face, and she smiled at her own reflection. This would be the night, she decided. She had never looked better.
The door behind Beatrice opened soundlessly, and the Marquis of Traverston emerged from the bedroom beyond. He crossed the intervening space between them, silently admiring his mistress’s form in the diaphanous gown, just as he was meant to do.
The high-heeled mules encasing her tiny feet hid more of her body than did the rest of her ensemble, Traverston thought sardonically. He treated himself to a long look at her sumptuous perfection as he finished tying his cravat.
“Don’t say you have to go now, my love,” purred the countess in her most seductive voice. “I’ve just ordered us a light supper.” She pouted her full lips with a practiced ease. It would take a stronger man than him to leave her now. She was sure of it. “You can’t just leave me to eat all by myself.” She placed a long slender finger on her lips, playfully nipping the end of it with her perfect white teeth. Then she pushed the digit more fully in her mouth, looking at the marquis through her lashes as she did. She couldn’t quite keep the triumphant smile from teasing her pursed lips.
Traverston knew this game better than she did. His response was ruthless. Turning away from her, he replied, “I’m sure you will manage.”
With another pretty pout, she picked up her hairbrush and began to stroke her gleaming yellow hair. The movement of her arms gave Traverston tantalizing flashes of her almost naked breasts, and he smiled to himself at the obvious ploy even while consciously resisting his body’s reaction to her.
“It would be a shame if I had to send it back,” she finished with a seductive glance at him from the mirror.
Despite himself, the marquis was intrigued. She seemed more resistant to the idea of his leaving than usual. They did have a good time together, true, but he sensed something more to her machinations than just another romp under the covers. What could she have planned? He smiled inwardly. She was too obvious by half. For that reason alone he was planning on giving her the congé tonight. It would be amusing to toy with her first, though. He wanted to see what petty scheme she might try on him now.
Reaching over her to take the brush from her hand, his arm rubbed against her. He could see the excitement his touch caused her through the peer glass. Her rosy nipples had grown hard, and she squirmed with anticipation as he examined the silver setting thoughtfully. Finally he pulled a chair close to hers and sat with his knees touching her back. With slow, ponderous strokes, he ran the horsehair bristles over her head.
Beatrice closed her eyes and gave in willingly to the seduction. She made little moaning noises with every stroke of the brush.
Traverston bent his head forward and began nibbling on her neck. She had a lovely neck, he had to admit. Her creamy skin, soft and appealing over the graceful arch, was incredibly enticing.
But that wasn’t all. He inhaled deeply. Her perfume was the kind that invaded a man’s nostrils. He took another whiff, its strong, heady scent yet another invitation to remain.
Beatrice purred like a cat and reached back over her head to grab his shoulder. She angled her body back to get more of his lovemaking, turning her head to receive his lips with her own.
After the first long, deep kiss, she murmured against his neck, “Oh, Trav. We’re so good together.”
It had finally come. He was a little disappointed that the game hadn’t lasted longer. The chase had an intrigue of its own which he rather enjoyed. But then he pushed that thought back. Beatrice was no school miss, and he would have to be careful around her. Whatever she had in mind, she had been a long time in planning it. She must be impatient to have done with it, though, to have brought up the subject before he had a chance to take her back to bed.
Traverston pulled back a little to look into her face. Her eyes were still closed, her lashes long and dark against the skin. As she reveled in the luxurious feel of a woman who was being admired, she purred contentedly. She kept her eyes closed and pretended to be unaware of his scrutiny.
After a short while, she pulled him by the shoulder and back up against her lips. She licked his mouth, inviting his tongue to mingle with her own. His mouth opened obligingly, and she daringly explored the upper reaches of his mouth with a slow, heavy and suggestive movement of her tongue. He was quick to capture her lips more fully with his own, and briefly he let himself enjoy the honeyed taste of her mouth as he waited for her to continue with the verbal portion of her assault.
“I’m so lonely without you, my love,” she murmured against his lips, her voice husky with passion. “All those long nights without you, when we must pretend indifference to the rest of the world. And so—” she kissed him more deeply before continuing “—I’ve been thinking…why don’t we make our liaison one of a more permanent nature?”
Beatrice was so absorbed with her own desire, it took her a moment to notice that the marquis had sat back in his chair, distancing himself from her. Piqued when she no longer felt his touch after a while, she opened her eyes. The space above her was empty.
In confusion, she turned around on her stool to look at him. Traverston’s cold expression took her by surprise. Reflexively she grasped the transparent material of her negligee more closely around her neck for protection.
The marquis waited a moment before answering her question, his smile tolerantly amused. “You shouldn’t think, Beatrice, it’s not a chore that you’re accustomed to.”
She pouted her lips more fully. “You don’t have to be rude, Trav,” she sulked. “I don’t see that it’s such a bad idea.”
He laughed outright then. Her ire rose as she realized he found the thought genuinely comical.
“Do you know why we will never marry, Beatrice?” he asked her. Then he immediately answered his own question. “No, you wouldn’t. You don’t see the things you don’t want to, love, and that’s why you’ve completely missed your target this time.”
“What do you mean?” She had a slightly desperate edge to her voice, and Traverston understood that she was just beginning to realize that she was not going to win this particular battle.
“We’re lovers, my dear. That’s all. Nothing more. And in about—” he glanced at his pocket watch “—five minutes, we won’t even be that anymore.” He stood up and brusquely dug through his coat to find the long slender box he was seeking.
When he had located it, he brought the gray velvet case over to her where she sat before the mirror, and held it out to her. “Here. This is it.”
Tentatively she took it from him, her expression confused. “I don’t understand, Trav. Haven’t you enjoyed my company these last six months?”
“Immensely, my dear. But it’s time I moved along.”
She opened the box and glanced briefly at the stunning diamond bracelet that lay glittering on its soft bed of velvet. Then her wide, staring eyes locked with his again. “But why leave if you like us being together? I don’t understand.”
Traverston realized she was genuinely upset when the diamonds failed to hold her interest for more than a few seconds. He sighed and pulled over the chair he had recently vacated. As he seated himself, he explained. “It’s very simple, really. Let me see if I can put it plainly for you.” His mouth quirked up at the corner. “You’re too predictable.”
The lady was indignant. “I don’t know what you mean.” Immediately Beatrice cursed herself. She hadn’t meant to sound so shrewish.
Traverston laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant sound.
“Come, come, Beatrice,” he mocked. “What did you expect me to do? Fall down at your pretty little dimpled feet and beg you to be my bride?” He laughed again, shaking his head. “Surely you know me better than that by now.”
Beatrice looked vexed. “You don’t have to make it sound like such a ridiculous idea,” she said tartly. “After all, you must have an heir one day, and then who are you going to marry?” She sneered. “Some little missish girl out of the schoolroom?” She laughed a sound almost as unpleasant as the marquis’s. “No, you are right, Trav,” she agreed. “I do know you. You’d never marry some milk-faced puling little brat.”
In the span of a heartbeat, her manner changed. Once again she was soft and seductive. She stood up and melted into Traverston’s arms as if she had every right to be there.
Lowering her eyelashes, she looked up at him through their silken length, the action making her appear more felinelike than ever. “But you could marry me. I’m a countess, and eminently respectable. I even have a small fortune of my own…not that you would need it.” Her voice grew softer. “Wouldn’t you like to be married to me, Trav?” she purred, her hands stroking his body. “Don’t you like it when we’re together?”
Abruptly he stood up, inadvertently dumping the countess on the floor. He stalked away a few paces before he snapped around to face her again. The lines and planes of his face were harsh, and his expression was one of contempt.
“Do you know, Beatrice? I find that I grow more tired of you every day. That’s why you got the bracelet instead of a ring.” He laughed when he saw her expression. “Oh, please. Don’t play the wounded lover with me.” Abruptly he moved to where he had dropped his coat and pulled it on, his movements hard and rigid with anger. “You know the rules of the game as well as I do, and I’ve let you step around them once too often.”
She gasped in outrage, but he cut her off before she could make a reply. “This liaison has gone on far too long.” He smiled coldly at her. “It’s been a pleasure making your acquaintance, my dear.”
As she struggled to get up off the floor and retain her dignity, he let out his final parting shot as he was opening the door. “Oh, and Beatrice,” Traverston added almost as an afterthought, “I’m already married.”
The door slammed shut on her outburst.
It should have been a magical scene. It was not.
The green-marble and gold ballroom was filled to capacity with the wealthy and the beautiful, but the sight filled the marquis with disgust. The hot, airless ballroom was permeated with the sweet pungent odor of exotic perfumes overlaid with the acrid smell of unwashed bodies. The combination made Traverston wish that he had gone anywhere but to this gathering tonight. Still, for some reason he could not name even to himself, he stayed.
He lounged negligently against a fluted Corinthian column and casually watched the crowd through narrowed eyes. In silence, he cursed the misguided sentiment that led him to accept the invitation to this particular ball. If only Beatrice hadn’t chosen last night to spring her little surprise on him, he might have been at the opera tonight with her instead.
But no, he corrected himself. Regardless of what her intentions had been, he would have had done with her yesterday. To think otherwise was plain and simple folly.
He grunted in disgust. He must be getting old to be thinking such maudlin thoughts. Absently he retrained his wandering mind onto the whirling couples below him.
Traverston did not normally attend social functions of the ton. This came as a great relief to most of the hostesses of the upper ten thousand. As a wealthy bachelor with an important title, the marquis’s presence in London could hardly be ignored, so the ladies sent him their engraved invitations edged with gold. But they usually prayed fervently that he would not come. On one thing the gossipmongers were all in agreement: the Marquis of Traverston was a most disturbing man.
Usually it was in Traverston’s best interests to oblige the dragonesses that dictated the whims and fancies of society. He didn’t, after all, think much of their frivolous parties and gay gatherings. But tonight, he hadn’t been in the mood to oblige them. In fact, he had gone out of his way to get the vicious rumor mill started tonight. Already he had ruined one gentleman’s reputation over cards, and if he had anything to say about it, he would terrorize the sweet young debutantes later this evening just for fun.
“What? Lord Traverston?” A jovial voice bombarded his eardrum, disturbing his solitary reverie. “Bit of a surprise to find you here, old chap.”
Reluctantly Traverston acknowledged the existence of Sir John Whetmore, a distant acquaintance of his from the club, with a barely perceptible nod.
The gentleman stared good-naturedly at Traverston, mistaking the peer’s lack of civility for an inability to recognize him. He took the marquis’s hand and moved it up and down several times like a water pump. “Don’t you remember me?” inquired the gentleman with too much jocularity. “Sir John Whetmore,” he supplied helpfully.
Traverston remained where he was, slouched against the pillar. “What brings you to this insufferable crush, Whetmore?” inquired the marquis languidly.
“Oh, tush-tush!” pronounced the intruder with a booming laugh. “You’ve got too much town bronze, my lord! This party is simply ripping. Never had such a fine time.” Whetmore grasped the edge of his waistband as if to emphasize his own complacency with the affair. “After all, ‘tis a great success for Lady Eddington, don’t you know.”
When Lord Traverston failed to look impressed at this piece of information, Whetmore added significantly, “She’s my niece, don’t you know.”
“Ah,” said the marquis knowingly as he pushed himself upright off the column. He had definitely had enough of this pompous little man. He executed the smallest of bows to his fellow club member. “Then I must apologize, sir. Of course her ball is a smashing success.”
Traverston excused himself from Whetmore’s presence, keeping his exit just a cut above a snub. If there was one thing he was not in the mood for, he thought grimly as he stalked away from his former perch above the main floor, it was issuing mealymouthed phrases to placate some overblown tulip of the gentry.
The marquis fought his way down the short staircase and forward through the crowd, heading in the general direction of the refreshments at the far side of the room. He didn’t make it more than a couple of feet, though, before he was stopped dead in his tracks.
The object that prevented his continued passage through the crowd was perhaps seventy-five feet away from him across the room. In addition to that, there were at least two dozen people between him and her, including several whirling couples. But she stopped him all the same.
She was absolutely dazzling. Unlike most of the debutantes tonight, who looked insipid or even silly in white, this woman was magnificent. Even from a distance Traverston could see that she was unaffected by the oppressive heat and noise of the room. She looked calm, cool and pretty, and the crowd seemed to part for her automatically as she made her stately way through the masses.
“She’s fantastic, isn’t she?”
The voice in Traverston’s ear was so close to his own sentiment that he didn’t realize at first that someone was actually speaking to him. Still somewhat distracted, the marquis turned slowly toward the source of the rhetorical question, his eyes only reluctantly leaving the vision behind.
When Traverston identified the speaker, his reply was smooth and even. “Monquefort. I’ve no idea how you managed to find me in this squeeze, but I’m grateful. This gathering has become intolerable.”
The gentleman Traverston addressed was almost as devastatingly handsome as the marquis himself. Almost, but not quite.
Like the marquis, Lord Buxlcy, the Earl of Monquefort, was tall with broad shoulders and well-formed legs that needed no padding to look good in the formfitting clothes currently in fashion. But his slim, perfectly proportioned physique was where the similarity stopped.
Where the marquis was dark and mysterious, the earl was open and friendly. His smile was famous with the ladies, or perhaps infamous, as the dowagers would say. Women of every age seemed to gravitate to his blond good looks and careless charm, almost against their will.
For the ton, it was the mystery of the decade as to why the two men were friends, for they were almost as dissimilar in temperament as they were in looks. Indeed, it is doubtful that even Traverston or the earl could have said why they were friends. But neither one ever doubted the fact.
Tonight, as always, Monquefort had chosen his clothes with impeccable taste. His blue bath coat fit his shoulders without a wrinkle; his buff-colored pantaloons were snug and firm. The cravat around his throat was intricately tied in the style known as “the waterfall”, and the shine on his Hessian boots made all the dandies present groan with envy.
In comparison with the earl, the marquis was almost casual about his clothing. To be sure, he chose his outfits with the same care as the earl, patronizing only the finest tailors for his raiment. But, unlike Monquefort, once Traverston put on his clothes he forgot about them, never pausing even once during the day to examine his appearance.
As a consequence, the marquis had a certain masculine laissez-faire quality to him—an aura most members of the ton perceived but were never quite able to put their fingers on. His raven black hair, too long to be called stylish, only added to his rakish good looks.
All signs of dissipation, so evident eight years ago, were almost completely erased from the marquis’s appearance. All that remained of the hard living he had subjected his body to back in his younger days were the lines etched around the sides of his mouth, and the hard glint in his chilling gray eyes. They gave him a hard, implacable look. Many members of society had remarked that Traverston looked like a man who had fought with the devil…and won.
Monquefort’s reply to his friend was amused. “Excruciating, indeed, my lord.” His next comment caught the marquis off guard. “I see you have noticed the Ice Queen.”
Traverston’s raised eyebrow was the only prod Monquefort needed to burst out laughing at his friend’s expense. “Come now, man,” he exclaimed. “Don’t try and tell me you didn’t notice her. I saw you gaping.”
“Really, Monquefort,” purred the marquis warningly, “your attempt at levity fails to amuse me. If you really want to amuse yourself, I suggest you seek your pleasures elsewhere. I’m not in the mood to entertain you tonight.”
With his usual lack of respect for proprieties, the earl plowed ahead with his observations. “But that’s why you like me, Trav,” replied the man. “I’m such an amusing fellow. Besides, you know part of my charm is my disarming honesty,” he smirked.
“Cut line, Alex,” demanded the marquis with none of his usual tolerance for the young nobleman’s witty banter. “You’ve obviously got something you want to say. Come out with it!”
Monquefort blinked at the marquis in mock confusion, his hands held up in a gesture of innocence. “I just wanted to give you the information you are looking for. What more could a friend offer than that?”
Though the silence emanating from Travcrston was palpable, the earl managed to retain his easy smile even in the face of this unencouraging response. But he didn’t have to wait long for the marquis’s reply.
“And what,” he growled softly, “is it, pray tell, that I want to know?”
Monquefort’s smile was triumphant. “But her name, of course,” he replied equally quietly.
In the face of the marquis’s black frown, the earl wisely decided not to tease his friend any longer. “The lady in question is Miss Olivia Wentworth.” When this tidbit of information failed to lighten the expression on Traverston’s face, Monquefort cautiously added, “Miss Wentworth is the granddaughter of the Duke of Stonebridge.”
In point of fact, the marquis did not react to Monqucfort’s news for the simple reason that he was stunned. It was a full five seconds before Traverston whipped around to seek out the vision in white again.
There she was, just ten feet away from where he had spotted her originally. The young lady was deep in conversation with one of British society’s queens, Lady Jersey. Any other girl in her slippers would be quaking in fear, noted the marquis, but Olivia was not.
Olivia’s height and posture gave her a regal appearance, and she somehow managed to make Lady Jersey, an animated person with a powerful presence in her own right, look small and bland by comparison.
Her perfectly shaped head was blessed with the classical features found only on Greek statues. That, and her long, graceful, swanlike neck, made Olivia look like a goddess who had stepped down from the heavens to temporarily grace a gathering of mortals. Her white gown of gossamer-thin silk, draped in folds over a petticoat of pale blue satin, only heightened this illusion. And her hair! He had never seen such a glorious pile of rich dark hair on any other woman.
The heat didn’t touch her, Traverston noticed as he felt the sweat trickle down his own brow. She was a spot of calm in a tempestuous sea of humanity. She was as cool as…as cool as ice. The Ice Queen. Wasn’t that what Monquefort had called her? Somehow the name seemed fitting. And not altogether appealing.
Traverston turned back to his friend. His hand shot out and he grabbed the earl’s upper arm in a viselike grip. Ignoring the other man’s outcry, Traverston propelled him backward through the crowds until they reached the far corner of the ballroom. The immediate area was cluttered with potted plants, providing the men with some measure of privacy.
“What the devil…” sputtered Monquefort, but Traverston quickly cut him off.
“What do you know of her?” demanded the marquis, shaking Monquefort’s upper arm for emphasis.
Monquefort, startled at his friend’s unusual behavior, looked astounded. “What the devil has gotten into you, Trav?” queried the earl.
Traverston removed his hand from Monquefort and partially turned away from him in an effort to gain control over himself. Without meaning to, he automatically searched for Olivia. She was still with Lady Jersey. After the briefest of moments, he turned back.
“What do you know of her?” repeated Traverston again, only slightly more calm than before.
Monquefort eyed his friend warily before answering. “Very little, actually. Mostly what I’ve just said.” He hastily continued when the marquis started to become angry again. “She’s just come out…made her debut about a month or two ago. It took her awhile to do it, seeing as how her grandmother was sick last season. Apparently she had no one else to see to the task. She doesn’t seem to care for men, leastwise not the young ones.” He racked his brains for something else to say. Traverston’s look grew grimmer until the earl quickly added, “Flattery turns her off. Doesn’t seem to be any way to get a reaction out of her. That’s why she’s called the Ice Queen.” He stopped and eyed the marquis with trepidation.
Traverston’s eyes seemed to ignite with an inner fire as he listened to the words trip off Monquefort’s tongue. His face took on the lines of decisiveness as his friend finished his litany. “Introduce me to her,” he commanded.
“Hell and damnation, Traverston!” exclaimed the earl belligerently. “I can’t do that. I’ve not even properly made her acquaintance myself!”
Traverston was remorseless, however, and he gripped Monquefort’s arm tightly, leaning into his face for emphasis. “Introduce me to her,” he said slowly, enunciating each word carefully.
The look Monquefort gave the marquis was penetrating, and what he saw there must have convinced him that he could not refuse his friend’s request, because the next thing he knew, he was leading Traverston over to where the beautiful Ice Queen herself was standing.
A minute or so passed before Olivia and her grandmother noticed the presence of the two men standing to their left. Thoughtfully, both ladies graciously turned enough in their direction in order that the men could politely “do the pretty” without undue hardship on their part.
The Earl of Monquefort stood patiently waiting for an opening in the ladies’ conversation, but a painful pinch reminded him of the marquis’s urgency. He kicked himself mentally as he butted in. “Lady Raleigh, Miss Wentworth, I do hope you remember me,” began the earl with no little embarrassment.
Olivia was the first to respond to the handsome peer’s polite intrusion. She graciously inclined her head. “Of course we do, Lord Monquefort. We met at the Seftons’ masque.”
The earl’s relief was almost palpable. “You are quite gracious to remember, Miss Wentworth. But please, allow me to introduce you to a friend of mine who is most anxious to make your acquaintance.”
Olivia’s eyes shifted away from the earl to take in the gentleman standing next to him. She was totally unprepared for the sight of the darkly handsome marquis. Traverston’s sudden appearance at her side shocked her speechless.
By this time, the marquis’s control had returned to him. Bowing over Olivia’s hand and brushing her fingers with his lips, he allowed himself to make eye contact with her. He was momentarily taken aback by their unusual color. They were such an unusual shade of blue he didn’t see how he could have forgotten them.
He held her hand for just a little longer than polite society would dictate as proper before righting himself again. He smiled into those pale, pale eyes and made his own introduction.
“Your husband, I believe.”
At Traverston’s words, Olivia’s famed expressionless cool gave out with a vengeance. Without a word she crumpled slowly to the floor, her body having no more firmness to it than that of a rag doll.
Chapter Five (#ulink_ff8d7d6d-fa81-54cd-9be3-cadc3b346e87)
As Olivia’s grandmother let out an exclamation of horror, Traverston picked up his wife’s still form and carried her swiftly from the room. With luck, he found an unoccupied salon a few doors down from the ballroom. Carefully he deposited his bundle on a red velvet sofa.
Within moments. Lady Raleigh and the earl came hurrying into the room, each demanding an explanation.
With a calm that astonished the earl, given his friend’s intensity earlier in the evening, Traverston swiftly walked to the entrance of the salon and closed the door, effectively blocking out the startled onlookers. He turned back to face the pair, his expression a mask.
“Is this young woman really Olivia Wentworth?” he demanded, his harshness at odds with the delicate way he had treated his wife. His question cut through Lady Raleigh’s impending tirade.
“Of course she is,” she replied with outrage. “Why should you doubt it? And what on earth possessed you to say such an incredible thing to my granddaughter?” The dowager duchess’s demands were every bit as compelling as the marquis’s in tone and temper.
Traverston sneered slightly as he replied, “I doubt it, because the last time I left my wife,” he said, emphasizing the last word, “she was safely ensconced at Gateland Manor.” The marquis’s hostile glare beat down on the small wrinkled form of Olivia’s grandmother as he waited for her reply.
Before his very eyes, Lady Raleigh seemed to gain height and stature. She drew herself up to meet the marquis’s challenge. “My lord,” she began grandly, imperiously, “I believe we should discuss this in private.”
Turning briefly toward the earl, who had witnessed the past five minutes in stunned silence, Lady Raleigh supplicated in a very different tone of voice, “My lord, I kindly ask that you watch over my granddaughter. I don’t want her to wake up in here alone.” He had nodded his head, for once unable to move his normally quick tongue, and the old woman marched out of the room without sparing a single glance for the marquis. It was obvious that she expected the marquis to follow.
Amazingly he did. It was evident to the marquis that Lady Raleigh was familiar with the house, because she unerringly led him to the Eddingtons’ massive library. After a quick glance around the dimly lit room, she beckoned the marquis in and shut the door.
With a grim smile she turned and faced her opponent. “I doubt the tabbies will be able to make anything of my being cloistered in here with you. I’m at least twice your age.” Then, as if it had only been an illusion, her smile disappeared. “We must talk.”
Traverston responded with a slight nod and waited for her to continue.
“My lord,” began Lady Raleigh, only to falter. The fact of the matter was she didn’t know what to say. Her magnificent diamond tiara and necklace sparkled in the candlelight as she began to agitatedly pace across the carpet. In all her long years, she had never had to deal with a situation like this. The simple fact of the matter was that the Dowager Duchess of Stonebridge was at a loss.
Watching her evident confusion, the marquis felt a trace of pity for the old lady. But almost immediately he squelched the emotion. She should be uncomfortable, he reasoned. This muddy state of affairs rested on her head. How dare she bring his wife into society without notifying him first?
At length, Lady Raleigh began again. “My lord,” she addressed him, her voice stronger and with more authority than before, “my granddaughter has lived with me for the past six years, and I never once heard her mention your name.” She stared at the marquis triumphantly, as though she had finally hit upon the heart of the problem.
Traverston was silent, his eyes mere slits as he studied her. Did this woman really expect him to believe that she knew nothing at all about his marriage to Olivia? It was impossible! Unthinkable!
And then his conscience nagged at him. Or was it?
Casting his mind back to the scene in his family chapel so long ago, the scene he had tried so carefully not to remember, Traverston realized it might indeed be possible.
After all, what proof did he have that Wentworth had informed his daughter of her married status? What mention had he heard made of the arrangement in front of Olivia? A smile almost flashed across his face as he remembered a young girl solemnly declaring “amen” to the question of matrimony. She hadn’t even realized she had a leading role in the wedding ceremony, the poor chit.
But she was hardly a chit now. His loins became warm at the thought of the regal beauty lying close by. No, she was a woman, and a highly desirable one at that. He couldn’t quite grasp the enormity of having such a stunning morsel as his wife. For that matter, he couldn’t quite grasp the reality of having a wife at all, much less one that looked like Olivia.
As the marquis mused on these matters, his reply was almost inaudible. “I imagine that is because she never knew my name.”
Lady Raleigh stared at the marquis, her mouth forming a surprised O. His was an unanticipated response. “But…but that is absurd!” she sputtered.
At the dowager’s outrage; he snapped out of his reverie. “What? Not knowing her own husband’s name? I couldn’t agree with you more.” His words were angry, clipped. “I imagine her father never told her of my presence at all. I doubt Olivia even knew she was married.” Suddenly he looked intense, murderous, and he stalked closer to Lady Raleigh. “Where is her father now?” he demanded.
Despite her best efforts to keep calm, a quiver of fear ran through Lady Raleigh’s breast. What rumors had she heard of this man? Something about a black and tainted past? What crimes to her person would he be capable of committing?
Pulling the pieces of her dignity around her like a cloak, Lady Raleigh replied as fervently as she could, “He’s dead, thank heaven!”
When the marquis made no move to back away from her, she explained, “He died when Olivia was twelve years old. After that, she came to live with me. She has no other family.” Lady Raleigh tried to still her quaking knees as she stared bravely into the marquis’s fearsome visage.
Traverston’s features were so still that his face might have been etched from stone. “Then it would appear, madam, I was correct. Olivia was never informed of our marriage.” He backed away as quickly as he had stalked her.
As Lady Raleigh’s courage began to seep back into her bones, she confronted the marquis with the obvious question. “But how could Olivia go through a marriage ceremony and not realize what was happening?”
One corner of his mouth twitched up in a slightly mocking smile and he replied enigmatically, “You had to have been there.”
Both parties were silent. Lady Raleigh was appalled by the marquis’s words. Desperately, grasping at any straw to extricate her granddaughter from this horrible mess, she jumped on the dim possibility looming in the back of her mind. “I don’t suppose your lordship could produce proof of this wedding?”
The sound the grim man made sounded very much like a snort. “I don’t happen to have the papers with me right at this moment, my lady,” he remarked with ill-concealed and bitter amusement, “but it wouldn’t take more than a minute to locate them at my solicitor’s. Hardly enough time to postpone the inevitable, I should think, from your point of view. Still, I’d be happy to send him round with them on the morrow. I wouldn’t want you to harbor any doubts.”
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