Susan Schonberg - The Phoenix Of Love

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.

As Olivia’s grandmother let out an exclamation of horror, Traverston picked up his wife’s still form and carried her swiftly from the room. With luck, he found an unoccupied salon a few doors down from the ballroom. Carefully he deposited his bundle on a red velvet sofa.

Within moments. Lady Raleigh and the earl came hurrying into the room, each demanding an explanation.

With a calm that astonished the earl, given his friend’s intensity earlier in the evening, Traverston swiftly walked to the entrance of the salon and closed the door, effectively blocking out the startled onlookers. He turned back to face the pair, his expression a mask.

“Is this young woman really Olivia Wentworth?” he demanded, his harshness at odds with the delicate way he had treated his wife. His question cut through Lady Raleigh’s impending tirade.

“Of course she is,” she replied with outrage. “Why should you doubt it? And what on earth possessed you to say such an incredible thing to my granddaughter?” The dowager duchess’s demands were every bit as compelling as the marquis’s in tone and temper.

Traverston sneered slightly as he replied, “I doubt it, because the last time I left my wife,” he said, emphasizing the last word, “she was safely ensconced at Gateland Manor.” The marquis’s hostile glare beat down on the small wrinkled form of Olivia’s grandmother as he waited for her reply.

Before his very eyes, Lady Raleigh seemed to gain height and stature. She drew herself up to meet the marquis’s challenge. “My lord,” she began grandly, imperiously, “I believe we should discuss this in private.”

Turning briefly toward the earl, who had witnessed the past five minutes in stunned silence, Lady Raleigh supplicated in a very different tone of voice, “My lord, I kindly ask that you watch over my granddaughter. I don’t want her to wake up in here alone.” He had nodded his head, for once unable to move his normally quick tongue, and the old woman marched out of the room without sparing a single glance for the marquis. It was obvious that she expected the marquis to follow.