The Phoenix Of Love. Susan Schonberg

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ 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

      “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 СКАЧАТЬ