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