The Phoenix Of Love. Susan Schonberg

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СКАЧАТЬ 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. СКАЧАТЬ