When Spring Died

Chapter Twenty

Viscount Jean Montfort, a sweet-faced young man with the softest doe-eyes, a shy smile, and perpetually flushed cheeks, took great surprise at his name being so suddenly called. He wore a nicely tailored silk suit, rich brown in color. He took mincing sips of champagne. Yet Étienne overlooked him because by his side in gaudy red stood Odile.

Her slanted eyes peered sensually over her glass of champagne, which she lifted to her pretty lips in a manner almost ensorcelling. She held a paper fan in her other hand.

"Jean, my friend, how well you look," Laurent grinned, slapping Jean on the shoulder. "You've met Grand Duke Chastain, no? You must have!"

Jean blushed furiously at the barrage of comments and then grew even more embarrassed at the severity of Étienne's look. He bowed to him, and Odile beside him curtsied deeply, gracefully, although her proud head did not lower, her eyes trained purposefully on Étienne's.

"It is a pleasure to see you in good health, Your Grace," Jean said. He favored his right leg, standing in a way that put little pressure on his left and did not draw attention to the way his foot pointed oddly inward.

"And you, Viscount," Étienne returned, disinterested.

"Jean, how is it you say not a word and yet have the prettiest bird perched on your arm?" Laurent prodded, referring to Odile who snapped her paper fan open and looked the other way demurely.

Étienne felt a surge of annoyance. Why would Laurent say that? He must've heard of the failed elopement between the two, if not from the courts than from Jean himself. What an absolute fool he was. But neither Jean nor Odile commented on that fact. Odile glanced at Étienne, lips quirked in a secret smile. Ah...at least she understood. She was most gracious to not draw attention to Laurent's error.

"She's waiting for Jackie, not me," Jean admitted. "I've no doubt bored Mademoiselle la Marche to tears with my lack of conversational expertise."

"Not at all, Jean," Odile crooned, her head snapping over to him, the picture of feminine magnanimity. "You're a dear, you and your sister both."

Jean's face did not redden further, but he lowered his eyes and smiled slightly. He's in love, Étienne thought. He must be. No one ever looked like that without...well, they just didn't, did they?
But of course he must still love her, the silly fool. One doesn't merely fall out of love due to a failed elopement.

Jean mistook Étienne's distant, withdrawn gaze to be one of confusion.

"Jackie is my sister, Your Grace," he explained quickly. "Jacqueline."

"Yes, I know," Étienne answered curtly.

Laurent shot him an embittered look before saying to Jean, "I was talking with your sister just the other day. She is without a doubt one of the most beautiful creatures I've ever seen."

Odile tittered behind her fan and Étienne rolled his eyes, pleased that at least someone else saw the ridiculousness of that statement.

Every girl Laurent spoke to happened to be the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen. Either he had exceptionally broad standards or a terrible memory when it came to recounting the countless women he flirted and conversed with.

"Talking with her?" Étienne said, the alcohol he'd consumed making him snide and adverse to the nuances of polite conversation. "I don't see how you managed that. The girl's a mute. All she does is smile and nod stupidly."

Silence snapped taut.

Then Laurent's face colored with fury. "I'm sure she'd be a perfect conversationalist for you. You wouldn't have anyone to tell you what an everlasting ass you are."