Читать книгу The Phoenix Of Love - Susan Schonberg - Страница 11

London, 1816

“Olivia!”

With painful slowness, Olivia brought her vision back into focus on the oil painting in front of her. The gay foursome, frolicking in the great Italian outdoors, danced across her eyes, the delicate brushstrokes of their picnic spread not quite becoming clear fast enough.

Knowing she had slipped back into her memories as easily as she had slid into her chemise this morning, Olivia strove for the center of calm that would help her retain her composure. There, she had it. But she hadn’t yet responded to the call of her name. Mortified but determined not to show it, she dropped her gaze to the slight form of her grandmother across the room, only to see the old woman perched precariously on the edge of a Georgian armchair covered in maroon-and-gold-striped upholstery.

“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said for the last five minutes.” The look Lady Raleigh gave her was stern, but there was a worried frown that creased her brow, and her lips were white with fright.

Olivia was instantly contrite. “I’m sorry, Grandmama. I’ve been losing my concentration a lot lately. I guess I’m just tired,” she dissembled.

The dowager stared intently at her relative, knowing full well she was being put off with a half-truth. But she decided not to make an issue out of it. “Marie,” said Lady Raleigh, loudly addressing the seamstress on her knees who was pinning the hem of Olivia’s gown, “Olivia is exhausted. And to be frank about it, so am I. It looks as if we shall have to fit her ball gown at another time. Say, tomorrow at four?”

“Oui, madame.” The petite French seamstress immediately got to her feet and began helping Olivia out of the dress. In moments, all trace of the afternoon’s fitting session were gone, and the two ladies were left alone in the charmingly decorated room.

Lady Raleigh got up from the chair and walked over to the bellpull. Her steps came slower now that she found it necessary to walk with a cane.

“We shall have our tea in here today, I think,” she said as she turned around to face her granddaughter.

“That would be lovely,” Olivia responded without the kind of tonal inflection needed to make the statement ring true. Immediately she went back to her contemplation of the painting.

But instead of reaching up and pulling on the rope, Lady Raleigh merely rested her hand on the velvet cord and frowned at her charge. It tore at the old woman’s heart to think that to Olivia, her life was a normal one. Even after all these years in her grandmother’s loving company, she had never seen the girl feel anything. Not really. She had never seen her look unhappy or sad. She had never appeared angry or disgruntled. She never looked frustrated or upset. Her face, as beautiful as it was, seemed to be carved from marble, for her features never moved with expression.

But more than any other expression, Lady Raleigh wanted to see Olivia smile. Underneath it all, she knew that her granddaughter was suffering. The masque she played for the world was the way Olivia hid pain so deep it seemed impossible to heal. Of that, Lady Raleigh was sure. But she so desperately wanted to see her smile. She wanted so much for her granddaughter to be happy.

A few times, the old woman remembered with hope, a few times she had seen something lingering at the corners of Olivia’s mouth. Sometimes, when her guard was down, she would smile just a tiny bit, a ghost of something that could be much grander, much more impressive, if she were but to try.

But that was the problem. Lady Raleigh knew that now. Olivia had no heart to try. Whatever feelings the girl had were locked away deep inside her heart, behind walls so high and thorny the old woman had little hope of ever seeing them in her lifetime.

Yet, she knew they were there. She knew because she also knew that Olivia was fond of her aged relative. It showed in her gestures and in her voice. Sometimes her voice would grow soft and wistful, even while her face kept its expressionless lines. But only on occasion. It was actually very rare.

Lady Raleigh knew that her granddaughter responded to intimacy by stepping back, by avoiding the situation like a colt shying from its handler. It was as though Olivia distanced herself from any contact with other human beings that would put her on any footing other than that of a distant acquaintance. Even with her grandmother.

And she so needed that contact, thought Lady Raleigh as she gazed with fond sadness at the beautiful young woman across the room. Olivia desperately needed someone to tear her away from those silent, damning thoughts—the ones that ate at her and kept her from her grandmother’s company, even while she was in the same room.

“What do you think of your gown, dear?” inquired the dowager loudly, hoping to break Olivia from the new trance that had gripped her young charge.

Olivia turned her head to look at her grandmother. Her eyes, even though they were focused on her relative, seemed to look through her. “It’s lovely, of course.”

Lady Raleigh nodded vigorously. “And so it is. There can be no doubt about that. And you will look lovely in it, my girl,” she announced in ringing tones, and she hit her cane on the ground for emphasis.

Slowly Olivia dropped her gaze from her grandmother’s, and she searched distractedly for the embroidery she had left near her seat Finding it, she picked at the tiny threads with abstracted movements of her hands, all the while a single crease deepening on her forehead.

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.” She pouted her full lips with a practiced ease. It would take a stronger man than him to leave her now. She was sure of it. “You can’t just leave me to eat all by myself.” She placed a long slender finger on her lips, playfully nipping the end of it with her perfect white teeth. Then she pushed the digit more fully in her mouth, looking at the marquis through her lashes as she did. She couldn’t quite keep the triumphant smile from teasing her pursed lips.

Traverston knew this game better than she did. His response was ruthless. Turning away from her, he replied, “I’m sure you will manage.”

With another pretty pout, she picked up her hairbrush and began to stroke her gleaming yellow hair. The movement of her arms gave Traverston tantalizing flashes of her almost naked breasts, and he smiled to himself at the obvious ploy even while consciously resisting his body’s reaction to her.

“It would be a shame if I had to send it back,” she finished with a seductive glance at him from the mirror.

Despite himself, the marquis was intrigued. She seemed more resistant to the idea of his leaving than usual. They did have a good time together, true, but he sensed something more to her machinations than just another romp under the covers. What could she have planned? He smiled inwardly. She was too obvious by half. For that reason alone he was planning on giving her the congé tonight. It would be amusing to toy with her first, though. He wanted to see what petty scheme she might try on him now.

Reaching over her to take the brush from her hand, his arm rubbed against her. He could see the excitement his touch caused her through the peer glass. Her rosy nipples had grown hard, and she squirmed with anticipation as he examined the silver setting thoughtfully. Finally he pulled a chair close to hers and sat with his knees touching her back. With slow, ponderous strokes, he ran the horsehair bristles over her head.

Beatrice closed her eyes and gave in willingly to the seduction. She made little moaning noises with every stroke of the brush.

Traverston bent his head forward and began nibbling on her neck. She had a lovely neck, he had to admit. Her creamy skin, soft and appealing over the graceful arch, was incredibly enticing.

But that wasn’t all. He inhaled deeply. Her perfume was the kind that invaded a man’s nostrils. He took another whiff, its strong, heady scent yet another invitation to remain.

Beatrice purred like a cat and reached back over her head to grab his shoulder. She angled her body back to get more of his lovemaking, turning her head to receive his lips with her own.

After the first long, deep kiss, she murmured against his neck, “Oh, Trav. We’re so good together.”

It had finally come. He was a little disappointed that the game hadn’t lasted longer. The chase had an intrigue of its own which he rather enjoyed. But then he pushed that thought back. Beatrice was no school miss, and he would have to be careful around her. Whatever she had in mind, she had been a long time in planning it. She must be impatient to have done with it, though, to have brought up the subject before he had a chance to take her back to bed.

Traverston pulled back a little to look into her face. Her eyes were still closed, her lashes long and dark against the skin. As she reveled in the luxurious feel of a woman who was being admired, she purred contentedly. She kept her eyes closed and pretended to be unaware of his scrutiny.

After a short while, she pulled him by the shoulder and back up against her lips. She licked his mouth, inviting his tongue to mingle with her own. His mouth opened obligingly, and she daringly explored the upper reaches of his mouth with a slow, heavy and suggestive movement of her tongue. He was quick to capture her lips more fully with his own, and briefly he let himself enjoy the honeyed taste of her mouth as he waited for her to continue with the verbal portion of her assault.

“I’m so lonely without you, my love,” she murmured against his lips, her voice husky with passion. “All those long nights without you, when we must pretend indifference to the rest of the world. And so—” she kissed him more deeply before continuing “—I’ve been thinking…why don’t we make our liaison one of a more permanent nature?”

Beatrice was so absorbed with her own desire, it took her a moment to notice that the marquis had sat back in his chair, distancing himself from her. Piqued when she no longer felt his touch after a while, she opened her eyes. The space above her was empty.

In confusion, she turned around on her stool to look at him. Traverston’s cold expression took her by surprise. Reflexively she grasped the transparent material of her negligee more closely around her neck for protection.

The marquis waited a moment before answering her question, his smile tolerantly amused. “You shouldn’t think, Beatrice, it’s not a chore that you’re accustomed to.”

She pouted her lips more fully. “You don’t have to be rude, Trav,” she sulked. “I don’t see that it’s such a bad idea.”

He laughed outright then. Her ire rose as she realized he found the thought genuinely comical.

“Do you know why we will never marry, Beatrice?” he asked her. Then he immediately answered his own question. “No, you wouldn’t. You don’t see the things you don’t want to, love, and that’s why you’ve completely missed your target this time.”

“What do you mean?” She had a slightly desperate edge to her voice, and Traverston understood that she was just beginning to realize that she was not going to win this particular battle.

“We’re lovers, my dear. That’s all. Nothing more. And in about—” he glanced at his pocket watch “—five minutes, we won’t even be that anymore.” He stood up and brusquely dug through his coat to find the long slender box he was seeking.

When he had located it, he brought the gray velvet case over to her where she sat before the mirror, and held it out to her. “Here. This is it.”

Tentatively she took it from him, her expression confused. “I don’t understand, Trav. Haven’t you enjoyed my company these last six months?”

“Immensely, my dear. But it’s time I moved along.”

She opened the box and glanced briefly at the stunning diamond bracelet that lay glittering on its soft bed of velvet. Then her wide, staring eyes locked with his again. “But why leave if you like us being together? I don’t understand.”

Traverston realized she was genuinely upset when the diamonds failed to hold her interest for more than a few seconds. He sighed and pulled over the chair he had recently vacated. As he seated himself, he explained. “It’s very simple, really. Let me see if I can put it plainly for you.” His mouth quirked up at the corner. “You’re too predictable.”

The lady was indignant. “I don’t know what you mean.” Immediately Beatrice cursed herself. She hadn’t meant to sound so shrewish.

Traverston laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant sound.

“Come, come, Beatrice,” he mocked. “What did you expect me to do? Fall down at your pretty little dimpled feet and beg you to be my bride?” He laughed again, shaking his head. “Surely you know me better than that by now.”

Beatrice looked vexed. “You don’t have to make it sound like such a ridiculous idea,” she said tartly. “After all, you must have an heir one day, and then who are you going to marry?” She sneered. “Some little missish girl out of the schoolroom?” She laughed a sound almost as unpleasant as the marquis’s. “No, you are right, Trav,” she agreed. “I do know you. You’d never marry some milk-faced puling little brat.”

In the span of a heartbeat, her manner changed. Once again she was soft and seductive. She stood up and melted into Traverston’s arms as if she had every right to be there.

Lowering her eyelashes, she looked up at him through their silken length, the action making her appear more felinelike than ever. “But you could marry me. I’m a countess, and eminently respectable. I even have a small fortune of my own…not that you would need it.” Her voice grew softer. “Wouldn’t you like to be married to me, Trav?” she purred, her hands stroking his body. “Don’t you like it when we’re together?”

Abruptly he stood up, inadvertently dumping the countess on the floor. He stalked away a few paces before he snapped around to face her again. The lines and planes of his face were harsh, and his expression was one of contempt.

“Do you know, Beatrice? I find that I grow more tired of you every day. That’s why you got the bracelet instead of a ring.” He laughed when he saw her expression. “Oh, please. Don’t play the wounded lover with me.” Abruptly he moved to where he had dropped his coat and pulled it on, his movements hard and rigid with anger. “You know the rules of the game as well as I do, and I’ve let you step around them once too often.”

She gasped in outrage, but he cut her off before she could make a reply. “This liaison has gone on far too long.” He smiled coldly at her. “It’s been a pleasure making your acquaintance, my dear.”

As she struggled to get up off the floor and retain her dignity, he let out his final parting shot as he was opening the door. “Oh, and Beatrice,” Traverston added almost as an afterthought, “I’m already married.”

The door slammed shut on her outburst.

It should have been a magical scene. It was not.

The green-marble and gold ballroom was filled to capacity with the wealthy and the beautiful, but the sight filled the marquis with disgust. The hot, airless ballroom was permeated with the sweet pungent odor of exotic perfumes overlaid with the acrid smell of unwashed bodies. The combination made Traverston wish that he had gone anywhere but to this gathering tonight. Still, for some reason he could not name even to himself, he stayed.

He lounged negligently against a fluted Corinthian column and casually watched the crowd through narrowed eyes. In silence, he cursed the misguided sentiment that led him to accept the invitation to this particular ball. If only Beatrice hadn’t chosen last night to spring her little surprise on him, he might have been at the opera tonight with her instead.

But no, he corrected himself. Regardless of what her intentions had been, he would have had done with her yesterday. To think otherwise was plain and simple folly.

He grunted in disgust. He must be getting old to be thinking such maudlin thoughts. Absently he retrained his wandering mind onto the whirling couples below him.

Traverston did not normally attend social functions of the ton. This came as a great relief to most of the hostesses of the upper ten thousand. As a wealthy bachelor with an important title, the marquis’s presence in London could hardly be ignored, so the ladies sent him their engraved invitations edged with gold. But they usually prayed fervently that he would not come. On one thing the gossipmongers were all in agreement: the Marquis of Traverston was a most disturbing man.

Usually it was in Traverston’s best interests to oblige the dragonesses that dictated the whims and fancies of society. He didn’t, after all, think much of their frivolous parties and gay gatherings. But tonight, he hadn’t been in the mood to oblige them. In fact, he had gone out of his way to get the vicious rumor mill started tonight. Already he had ruined one gentleman’s reputation over cards, and if he had anything to say about it, he would terrorize the sweet young debutantes later this evening just for fun.

“What? Lord Traverston?” A jovial voice bombarded his eardrum, disturbing his solitary reverie. “Bit of a surprise to find you here, old chap.”

Reluctantly Traverston acknowledged the existence of Sir John Whetmore, a distant acquaintance of his from the club, with a barely perceptible nod.

The gentleman stared good-naturedly at Traverston, mistaking the peer’s lack of civility for an inability to recognize him. He took the marquis’s hand and moved it up and down several times like a water pump. “Don’t you remember me?” inquired the gentleman with too much jocularity. “Sir John Whetmore,” he supplied helpfully.

Traverston remained where he was, slouched against the pillar. “What brings you to this insufferable crush, Whetmore?” inquired the marquis languidly.

“Oh, tush-tush!” pronounced the intruder with a booming laugh. “You’ve got too much town bronze, my lord! This party is simply ripping. Never had such a fine time.” Whetmore grasped the edge of his waistband as if to emphasize his own complacency with the affair. “After all, ‘tis a great success for Lady Eddington, don’t you know.”

When Lord Traverston failed to look impressed at this piece of information, Whetmore added significantly, “She’s my niece, don’t you know.”

“Ah,” said the marquis knowingly as he pushed himself upright off the column. He had definitely had enough of this pompous little man. He executed the smallest of bows to his fellow club member. “Then I must apologize, sir. Of course her ball is a smashing success.”

Traverston excused himself from Whetmore’s presence, keeping his exit just a cut above a snub. If there was one thing he was not in the mood for, he thought grimly as he stalked away from his former perch above the main floor, it was issuing mealymouthed phrases to placate some overblown tulip of the gentry.

The marquis fought his way down the short staircase and forward through the crowd, heading in the general direction of the refreshments at the far side of the room. He didn’t make it more than a couple of feet, though, before he was stopped dead in his tracks.

The object that prevented his continued passage through the crowd was perhaps seventy-five feet away from him across the room. In addition to that, there were at least two dozen people between him and her, including several whirling couples. But she stopped him all the same.

She was absolutely dazzling. Unlike most of the debutantes tonight, who looked insipid or even silly in white, this woman was magnificent. Even from a distance Traverston could see that she was unaffected by the oppressive heat and noise of the room. She looked calm, cool and pretty, and the crowd seemed to part for her automatically as she made her stately way through the masses.

“She’s fantastic, isn’t she?”

The voice in Traverston’s ear was so close to his own sentiment that he didn’t realize at first that someone was actually speaking to him. Still somewhat distracted, the marquis turned slowly toward the source of the rhetorical question, his eyes only reluctantly leaving the vision behind.

When Traverston identified the speaker, his reply was smooth and even. “Monquefort. I’ve no idea how you managed to find me in this squeeze, but I’m grateful. This gathering has become intolerable.”

The gentleman Traverston addressed was almost as devastatingly handsome as the marquis himself. Almost, but not quite.

Like the marquis, Lord Buxlcy, the Earl of Monquefort, was tall with broad shoulders and well-formed legs that needed no padding to look good in the formfitting clothes currently in fashion. But his slim, perfectly proportioned physique was where the similarity stopped.

Where the marquis was dark and mysterious, the earl was open and friendly. His smile was famous with the ladies, or perhaps infamous, as the dowagers would say. Women of every age seemed to gravitate to his blond good looks and careless charm, almost against their will.

For the ton, it was the mystery of the decade as to why the two men were friends, for they were almost as dissimilar in temperament as they were in looks. Indeed, it is doubtful that even Traverston or the earl could have said why they were friends. But neither one ever doubted the fact.

Tonight, as always, Monquefort had chosen his clothes with impeccable taste. His blue bath coat fit his shoulders without a wrinkle; his buff-colored pantaloons were snug and firm. The cravat around his throat was intricately tied in the style known as “the waterfall”, and the shine on his Hessian boots made all the dandies present groan with envy.

In comparison with the earl, the marquis was almost casual about his clothing. To be sure, he chose his outfits with the same care as the earl, patronizing only the finest tailors for his raiment. But, unlike Monquefort, once Traverston put on his clothes he forgot about them, never pausing even once during the day to examine his appearance.

As a consequence, the marquis had a certain masculine laissez-faire quality to him—an aura most members of the ton perceived but were never quite able to put their fingers on. His raven black hair, too long to be called stylish, only added to his rakish good looks.

All signs of dissipation, so evident eight years ago, were almost completely erased from the marquis’s appearance. All that remained of the hard living he had subjected his body to back in his younger days were the lines etched around the sides of his mouth, and the hard glint in his chilling gray eyes. They gave him a hard, implacable look. Many members of society had remarked that Traverston looked like a man who had fought with the devil…and won.

Monquefort’s reply to his friend was amused. “Excruciating, indeed, my lord.” His next comment caught the marquis off guard. “I see you have noticed the Ice Queen.”

Traverston’s raised eyebrow was the only prod Monquefort needed to burst out laughing at his friend’s expense. “Come now, man,” he exclaimed. “Don’t try and tell me you didn’t notice her. I saw you gaping.”

“Really, Monquefort,” purred the marquis warningly, “your attempt at levity fails to amuse me. If you really want to amuse yourself, I suggest you seek your pleasures elsewhere. I’m not in the mood to entertain you tonight.”

With his usual lack of respect for proprieties, the earl plowed ahead with his observations. “But that’s why you like me, Trav,” replied the man. “I’m such an amusing fellow. Besides, you know part of my charm is my disarming honesty,” he smirked.

“Cut line, Alex,” demanded the marquis with none of his usual tolerance for the young nobleman’s witty banter. “You’ve obviously got something you want to say. Come out with it!”

Monquefort blinked at the marquis in mock confusion, his hands held up in a gesture of innocence. “I just wanted to give you the information you are looking for. What more could a friend offer than that?”

Though the silence emanating from Travcrston was palpable, the earl managed to retain his easy smile even in the face of this unencouraging response. But he didn’t have to wait long for the marquis’s reply.

“And what,” he growled softly, “is it, pray tell, that I want to know?”

Monquefort’s smile was triumphant. “But her name, of course,” he replied equally quietly.

In the face of the marquis’s black frown, the earl wisely decided not to tease his friend any longer. “The lady in question is Miss Olivia Wentworth.” When this tidbit of information failed to lighten the expression on Traverston’s face, Monquefort cautiously added, “Miss Wentworth is the granddaughter of the Duke of Stonebridge.”

In point of fact, the marquis did not react to Monqucfort’s news for the simple reason that he was stunned. It was a full five seconds before Traverston whipped around to seek out the vision in white again.

There she was, just ten feet away from where he had spotted her originally. The young lady was deep in conversation with one of British society’s queens, Lady Jersey. Any other girl in her slippers would be quaking in fear, noted the marquis, but Olivia was not.

Olivia’s height and posture gave her a regal appearance, and she somehow managed to make Lady Jersey, an animated person with a powerful presence in her own right, look small and bland by comparison.

Her perfectly shaped head was blessed with the classical features found only on Greek statues. That, and her long, graceful, swanlike neck, made Olivia look like a goddess who had stepped down from the heavens to temporarily grace a gathering of mortals. Her white gown of gossamer-thin silk, draped in folds over a petticoat of pale blue satin, only heightened this illusion. And her hair! He had never seen such a glorious pile of rich dark hair on any other woman.

The heat didn’t touch her, Traverston noticed as he felt the sweat trickle down his own brow. She was a spot of calm in a tempestuous sea of humanity. She was as cool as…as cool as ice. The Ice Queen. Wasn’t that what Monquefort had called her? Somehow the name seemed fitting. And not altogether appealing.

Traverston turned back to his friend. His hand shot out and he grabbed the earl’s upper arm in a viselike grip. Ignoring the other man’s outcry, Traverston propelled him backward through the crowds until they reached the far corner of the ballroom. The immediate area was cluttered with potted plants, providing the men with some measure of privacy.

“What the devil…” sputtered Monquefort, but Traverston quickly cut him off.

“What do you know of her?” demanded the marquis, shaking Monquefort’s upper arm for emphasis.

Monquefort, startled at his friend’s unusual behavior, looked astounded. “What the devil has gotten into you, Trav?” queried the earl.

Traverston removed his hand from Monquefort and partially turned away from him in an effort to gain control over himself. Without meaning to, he automatically searched for Olivia. She was still with Lady Jersey. After the briefest of moments, he turned back.

“What do you know of her?” repeated Traverston again, only slightly more calm than before.

Monquefort eyed his friend warily before answering. “Very little, actually. Mostly what I’ve just said.” He hastily continued when the marquis started to become angry again. “She’s just come out…made her debut about a month or two ago. It took her awhile to do it, seeing as how her grandmother was sick last season. Apparently she had no one else to see to the task. She doesn’t seem to care for men, leastwise not the young ones.” He racked his brains for something else to say. Traverston’s look grew grimmer until the earl quickly added, “Flattery turns her off. Doesn’t seem to be any way to get a reaction out of her. That’s why she’s called the Ice Queen.” He stopped and eyed the marquis with trepidation.

Traverston’s eyes seemed to ignite with an inner fire as he listened to the words trip off Monquefort’s tongue. His face took on the lines of decisiveness as his friend finished his litany. “Introduce me to her,” he commanded.

“Hell and damnation, Traverston!” exclaimed the earl belligerently. “I can’t do that. I’ve not even properly made her acquaintance myself!”

Traverston was remorseless, however, and he gripped Monquefort’s arm tightly, leaning into his face for emphasis. “Introduce me to her,” he said slowly, enunciating each word carefully.

The look Monquefort gave the marquis was penetrating, and what he saw there must have convinced him that he could not refuse his friend’s request, because the next thing he knew, he was leading Traverston over to where the beautiful Ice Queen herself was standing.

A minute or so passed before Olivia and her grandmother noticed the presence of the two men standing to their left. Thoughtfully, both ladies graciously turned enough in their direction in order that the men could politely “do the pretty” without undue hardship on their part.

The Earl of Monquefort stood patiently waiting for an opening in the ladies’ conversation, but a painful pinch reminded him of the marquis’s urgency. He kicked himself mentally as he butted in. “Lady Raleigh, Miss Wentworth, I do hope you remember me,” began the earl with no little embarrassment.

Olivia was the first to respond to the handsome peer’s polite intrusion. She graciously inclined her head. “Of course we do, Lord Monquefort. We met at the Seftons’ masque.”

The earl’s relief was almost palpable. “You are quite gracious to remember, Miss Wentworth. But please, allow me to introduce you to a friend of mine who is most anxious to make your acquaintance.”

Olivia’s eyes shifted away from the earl to take in the gentleman standing next to him. She was totally unprepared for the sight of the darkly handsome marquis. Traverston’s sudden appearance at her side shocked her speechless.

By this time, the marquis’s control had returned to him. Bowing over Olivia’s hand and brushing her fingers with his lips, he allowed himself to make eye contact with her. He was momentarily taken aback by their unusual color. They were such an unusual shade of blue he didn’t see how he could have forgotten them.

He held her hand for just a little longer than polite society would dictate as proper before righting himself again. He smiled into those pale, pale eyes and made his own introduction.

“Your husband, I believe.”

At Traverston’s words, Olivia’s famed expressionless cool gave out with a vengeance. Without a word she crumpled slowly to the floor, her body having no more firmness to it than that of a rag doll.