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 These titles were chosen from among hundreds of manuscripts from unpublished authors, and we would like to take this time to thank all of the talented authors who made the effort to submit their projects to Harlequin Historicals for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

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

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.”

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The Phoenix Of Love

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Table of Contents

The Earl of Monquefort stoodpatiently and waited for anopening in the conversation.

The Phoenix Of Love Susan Schonberg

SUSAN SCHONBERG

Chapter One

The Earl of Monquefort stood
patiently and waited for an
opening in the conversation.

The Phoenix Of Love
Susan Schonberg