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J ane Grantley scanned the blackberry hedge.

It was early in the season, though many branches near the top of the verdant growth already sported large, deeply-colored berries.

Not enough, perhaps, for jam making, but far too many to leave to the birds alone.

Blackberries with cream would make a nice treat for the children’s tea, and the idea of picking the ripe fruit reminded Jane of her happy childhood.

It was funny how life took so many odd twists and turns, quite in the manner of the maze at Hampton Court.

It was eight years since she’d been without care and had the freedom to pick berries.

Not since her mother died shortly after Mary’s wedding.

Afterward, it took a long time to pick up the pieces of her life, to sail ahead, ready to meet new experiences with assurance.

Luckily or unluckily, the semblance of confidence was easily donned until, with time, the genuine article came to cloak her.

Jane sorely missed her mother when she’d had her come-out.

Perhaps if she’d been alive, Jane’s life would have run differently.

She doubted she’d be worrying Lady Elsbeth with fears of spinsterhood.

Unfortunately, without her mother’s calm, good sense, and guidance, it took her a painfully long time to learn to believe in herself.

At least those days were long past, and she could once again enjoy life.

Jane glanced down at the empty basket she’d set by her feet, then glanced up toward the sun, screening her eyes with a slender hand as she evaluated that fiery orb’s position in the sky.

She hadn’t tarried long at the parsonage.

Mrs. Chitterdean was too distracted for stimulating conversation, her thoughts on the sick housemaid, and her husband’s susceptibility to infection.

She’d thanked Jane effusively for the herbs and questioned her closely on their proper usage.

Then her mind seemed to drift away toward the tiny upstairs room the maid occupied.

After hearing a protracted fit of hacking coughs from above stairs, Jane gracefully took her leave, promising Mrs. Chitterdean that Lady Elsbeth would brew more of the decoction should it prove necessary.

She judged that it still wanted the hour of noon, and she would not be expected back at Penwick Park for some time yet.

It would be no great matter to delay her return in favor of harvesting some of summer’s early bounty.

She picked up her basket and studied the ground leading to the ripe berries.

She would have to step carefully, but she decided the goal was worth the effort.

Smiling in delight at her enterprise, she stepped through the tall grasses and wildflowers and began filling the basket with berries.

Not far away, a lark sang, accompanied by a gentle breeze soughing through the trees and bees buzzing as they moved from flower to flower in the fields and on the tiny white blossoms remaining on the hedge.

Jane realized she was filled with a serenity she’d not felt in years.

She found she could even look on her aunt’s and cousin’s proposed visit with a modicum of amused equanimity.

That knowledge surprised her, for the last house party she’d attended with them had been an unmitigated disaster.

Though, she reflected, it had proved educational, even if it had cost her a prospective groom.

Months afterward, she considered it a turning point in her life.

She paused, remembering those mercurial days.

How she admired and liked David Hedgeworth!

She wove such schoolgirl dreams about him.

He embodied for her the ideal gentleman: refined, considerate of others, gentle, organized, and intelligent.

Those were the attributes she saw and most admired.

What she failed to consider was his wealth.

But who would blame her, as plump-in-the-pockets as she was herself?

She failed to understand how desperately people sought gold’s glitter.

Jane sighed. Thanks to her aunt and cousin, she’d been well educated, and it was the Honorable Miss Millicent Tipton, rather than Miss Jane Grantley, who married David Hedgeworth.

She shook her head dolefully, trying to dispel the old memories.

Mr. Hedgeworth was dead now. Perhaps it was time to heal the breach with her mother’s sister.

Lady Serena Tipton was no lady, but she was family, so maybe that should count for something.

Jane smiled mischievously, her eyes sparkling.

Three years ago, she’d proved an apt pupil, and now she had plans to make.

Elsbeth was correct, she thought with a hint of smug satisfaction.

This game would be hers. Impulsively she leaned farther into the hedge, stretching to gather the plumpest and ripest berries from the top.

She popped a fat, sun-warmed berry into her mouth, then reached up to gather more fruit.

A stinging sensation on her arm halted her.

Looking down, she discovered blackberry briars clinging to the sleeve of her dress.

She pursed her lips at her carelessness and twisted slightly so her other hand could free the delicate fabric and save it from harm.

Her turning tugged and raised her skirts.

She glanced down at the blue-and-red patterned muslin dress and bit back a cry of dismay.

With chagrin, she realized what her impetuous foray into reaching the topmost berries had accomplished.

She was caught in brambles, and every move she made caused thorns to sink deeper into the fine muslin fabric.

Freeing herself would be a slow, laborious process; else the dress would be reduced to tatters.

Muttering and calling herself every kind of fool, she carefully set the basket of berries down and began to work free her captured sleeve.

“Madam. I am aware the philosopher Montaigne wrote that the path of true virtue demands a rough and thorny road; nonetheless, I do not believe one need take the man’s words quite so literally.”

Jane started and looked toward the owner of the deep, sardonic drawl.

She found herself staring up at a gentleman dressed in the first style of fashion, seated casually astride a large bay horse.

Her cheeks stained a deep pink. Several thoughts sailed through her beleaguered brain: first was amazement that she had not heard the animal approach; second, that she should be found in so embarrassing a plight; and all the rest centered on the unknown gentleman and the sudden riotous trembling in her limbs.

The last so dismayed her that she abruptly drew cold dignity about her like a cloak and disciplined her wayward nerves.

Only a faint tinge of high color remained in her cheeks when she finally met his amused gaze and raised one black brow in arrogant inquiry.

“Tall, graceful, black hair, blood-freezing glare. . ." the man murmured. "Ah! I have it now. You’re the Ice Witch!”

He swung easily out of the saddle, missing the brief spasm of pain that twisted Jane’s features. He led his horse over to a sapling, tying the reins to its sturdy trunk. By the time he turned to face Jane, she had marshaled her emotions, and her face once again held the cool, expressionless mask.

“I take it I have the dubious honor of addressing the Earl of Royce?”

“Miss Grantley, you disappoint me. I would have thought you would have returned like for like.”

Jane repressed a smile. "By that, I gather I should have addressed you as the Devil’s Disciple?"

“Since we have not been formally introduced, the use of informal names seems fitting, does it not?”

His gaze held hers, his eyes so dark they reminded her of night and the wild creatures that roamed in its sheltering darkness. She had never seen the man before, but she felt she would have known him even if she hadn’t been forewarned of his presence in the neighborhood.

He was not a handsome man. His face was tautly lean, with high cheekbones and a fierce blade of a nose.

Lines of world-weariness bracketed those haunting midnight eyes as well as his firm, thin-lipped mouth.

His marsh-brown hair was cut unfashionably short, with silver lights glinting at the temples and other touches threading its thick depths.

No, he was not a handsome man, but there was that within him that would turn a woman’s head no matter her age or station in life.

The Devil’s Disciple. He was well named.

She shivered involuntarily. Her gaze slid away.

“I’m sorry, my lord, but I do not agree with you,” she said, cool dismissal in her voice. She directed her attention back to the thorns holding her captive, though she was only too aware of the man's tall, lean presence.

His deep answering laugh made her want to gnash her teeth, though she did not sigh perturbation. It was a restraint perfected in her days of uncertainty that she found useful. Few people knew that the confidence she possessed was not carried from birth.

“Confess, Miss Grantley. You are not sorry at all.”

She looked up at him then, hauteur shimmering in the hint of a smile she bestowed on him. "You have such a ready understanding, my lord, that my words are superfluous.”