Perhaps Mr. Hedgeworth’s staid disposition (for there could be no other word to describe it) was the reason Millicent now pursued livelier game. Jane squirmed and shifted in her seat, her thoughts embarrassing.
Lady Serena considered Mr. Hedgeworth a good marital catch. She early identified his passion for propriety, his loathing for romantic intrigue. She decided to use his characteristics to her and her daughter’s advantage. Her first effort was to compromise Jane with another man. Failing that, to arrange for an embarrassing situation that would give Mr. Hedgeworth a disgust of Jane. In that, she all but failed.
Serena arranged for a drunk young man to take a wrong turn down the rabbit warren halls of Bridlington House and to find himself in Jane’s room. The plan was that she would discover him there and raise a hue and cry. Fortunately for Jane, she’d been sleeping restlessly. Finally, in disgust, she rose and, putting on her wrapper, descended the great staircase to the ground floor. She made her way soundlessly to the library. She stayed there an hour, perusing the Bridlingtons’ books and mementos. Finally, chosen book in hand, she turned to go back to her room.
The sound of shouting voices echoed in the Great Hall, their words indistinct. She hurried upward. Outside her room stood Lady Serena, Millicent, Mr. Hedgeworth, and some others Jane did not know. She remembered her aunt’s words.
“He’s in there! I tell you, I saw him go in there as bold as brass not five minutes ago. My poor niece, she’s ruined!”
The door to her bedchamber opened then, and out stepped the inebriated gentleman, swaying gently. "That’s not my room,” he lisped softly.
Lady Serena wailed at Jane’s misfortune. She turned to Mr. Hedgeworth, offering sympathy for his ill luck. It was then that Jane made her presence known by requesting to know what was happening. Millicent shrieked as if she saw a ghost. Lady Serena demanded to know what she was doing there. Confused, Jane told them of her lack of sleep and her trip to the library over an hour ago.
“And you’ve been there ever since?” queried Lady Serena.
When she responded affirmatively, she noted her aunt’s dissatisfied expression. Mr. Hedgeworth, after only a moment’s hesitation, came over to her to squeeze her hand and tell her how glad he was. Catastrophe averted and no spice for the scandal broth, everyone wandered back to their rooms. Jane locked her door.
Later in the night, Millicent found herself in Mr. Hedgeworth’s room. Claiming and cursing sleepwalking, she began sobbing hysterically. He tried to soothe her and shoo her out of his rooms. He was too late. Lady Serena flew in, dressed in affronted matronly dignity. So Millicent won Mr. Hedgeworth by arranging a compromising assignation with him for herself. Horrified at the gossip and rumors that would circulate society, he quickly proposed marriage. Instead of traveling to Speerford Hall with Jane, he left the Bridlingtons’ for London to place anotice in the Morning Gazette and to arrange a suitable and proper wedding. His chief concern was to scotch talk.
He scarcely said another word to Jane, for he said it wouldn’t be proper.
The Honorable Miss Millicent Tipton and Mr. David Hedgeworth were wed less than a month later. Out of duty, Jane attended the ceremony. She attended it enveloped in her new society cloak, designed to protect her from harm. It was not long afterward that the sobriquet Ice Witch began to circulate in polite society.
Ice Witch. Lady Elsbeth was correct. That name represented society’s love for rumor and scandal. They could make a scandal out of less than whole cloth. Jane pulled her cloak of icy mien tighter around herself. The rumors grew more pervasive.
Rumors. Scandal. Gossip. She was caught up in the whirlwind. And as she was a part of it, so she became a part of it. She questioned and speculated on everyone’s behavior, offering her insights, her beliefs. Hers, like everyone else’s, entered the vast vat of idle words and came out with knife-edged “truths.” She never questioned the accuracy of society’s tales. She took them as truth and reacted accordingly, as society took her sobriquet as truth and treated her accordingly. She was guilty of a gross perpetuation of lies.
A frown pulled at the corners of her lips. That was not a flattering nor pleasant realization to make about oneself. But was ignoring all tales proper, either? For the past two days, she’d refused to listen to anything that smacked of speculation and gossip. What was the name of that strange bird discovered in Africa? The one that hid its head in the sand at the approach of danger? As if denying the threat would make it nonexistent. Yes! It was the bird all the beautiful feathers came from. An ostrich. Was she behaving like that ostrich? Was she hiding her head inthe sand by refusing to listen? If she was, then could complete inattention wound her?
Furthermore, if she was playing the ostrich, if she did not hear the tales, neither would she be able to defend the unfortunate subject of the gossip. In the future, she vowed she would learn to question, to evaluate. Gossip mongering was not stopped by inattention. The light of truth defeated it.
And what was the truth regarding the Earl of Royce? Any gentleman who could enjoy her nephews’ company, as he genuinely appeared to, could not have been cruel to another child, no matter the circumstance. Perhaps his nickname was as false as her own.
She considered that a moment. She’d used the name as a shield between them, something to keep him from getting close to her, something to block the strange attraction she felt. If she were to remove that impediment, what would happen?
A surge of prickly tingles swept her blood, then faded only to remain in the pit of her stomach. She raised her hand and placed it on her waist, awed by the lingering echo. A slow smile pulled her lips wide, her cheeks flushing delicately, and her eyes sparkling like cut emeralds.
She hugged herself excitedly, then picked up her discarded novel and tried to immerse herself in the story in an attempt to curb her burgeoning anticipation.
The faint rumble of deep voices from out in the hall pulled Jane’s attention away from the book in her hand. It wasn’t a difficult task. She doubted she could relate the events of the last five pages. She had been daydreaming, waiting for the stillness to break.
The door to the parlor opened to reveal Lord Royce, leaning heavily on Lord Conisbrough’s arm. Instantly Jane was on her feet and running to his side.
“My lord! Should you be up? Your ankle!”
“My ankle would do well for a little exercise, as would my body and mind. Besides, if my company is to continue to be limited to Conisbrough, I’ll go mad!”
“I’ve beaten him eight games out of ten and his pride’s hurt,” drawled the marquis, turning his head to wink at Jane.
“Pride! I thought it was my pocketbook,” Royce said with asperity, hobbling over to one of the matched settees. He stood by it. Jane looked at him perplexed. "Miss Grantley,” he said with strained patience, “I cannot sit before you, and as the ankle is throbbing, I do so wish to.”
Jane blushed, then bristled. "Fustian, my lord. To be thinking of silly conventions when one is injured is the height of—of?—”
“Of?” he repeated.
“Oh, I don’t know. Just sit down.”
A small smile captured the earl’s lips. He bowed his head in thanks and sank gingerly down on the settee. In an instant, Jane was beside him, offering to help move the injured member on to the length of the broad cushions. Her hands burned when she touched him, the sensation traveling rapidly throughout her body. She stepped back hastily.
