The Phoenix Of Love. Susan Schonberg

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ