The Phoenix Of Love. Susan Schonberg

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      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.” СКАЧАТЬ