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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 in the 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.

“Can I order any refreshments for you, my lord?”

“No, thank you. Just your company as a change from this fellow’s ugly phiz.”

“Don’t think you’ve been the only one to suffer,” quipped the marquis easily. He turned to Jane. "Where might I find Lady Elsbeth this afternoon?”

“In the stillroom.”

“More herbs?”

Jane laughed. "I’m afraid so.”

He sighed lugubriously. Then he cocked his head and looked at Jane. "Tell me, Miss Grantley, why has your aunt never married?”

She looked at him steadily, uncertain what to say. "For as long as I can remember,” she said slowly, “Elsbeth has devoted herself to the care of others."

The marquis raised his eyebrows.

“Not long ago, I teased her for allowing the family to take advantage of her.

She responded that it was not something one planned.

It begins either from the notion of being helpful in times of need or, as I thought she was referring to in my case, as an escape from society.

Now I wonder if she was strictly referring to me.

I know she has long shunned society, but I believe her reasons to be complex and convoluted.

Perhaps not even properly understood by herself. "

The marquis nodded. "Thank you, Miss Grantley, for your honesty. Now, if you two will excuse me.” He turned to go, then stopped and looked over his shoulder at Royce, a slight smile on his lips.

"Should I best leave the parlor door open?” Royce looked at him with feigned innocence. "And what of the stillroom door?”

“That, my friend, is none of your concern.”

“I perceive that the wrong one of us has an injured ankle."

"The wrong one of us?” repeated the Marquis, looking askance at Jane, though a smile lingered on his lips. Then he bowed and left the room, closing the door with a distinct snap.

The earl scowled after his retreating back, then glanced at Jane. "Conisbrough is reliving his youth,” he said sourly. He shifted in his seat, ostensibly to ease his ankle.

“Does it hurt much?” Jane asked, uncertain whether to stay or go.

He looked up at her and smiled. It eased the sharp creases in his brow and between his eyes, making him appear younger.

"No. Your aunt’s salve has done miracles.

But it is still tender, and I’m aware that it will heal faster if I pamper it.

There was a time, I suppose,” he went on reflectively, “when I would have refused to grant it rest and suffered in silence. Stoic heroism.”

“Sounds more like fool’s business to me.”

“Precisely, but oh, for the false pride of youth!”

Jane sat down on the edge of a chair set at right angles to the settee. "What do you mean by that, my lord?”

He looked at her levelly. "I believe, Miss Grantley, you are no more an Ice Witch than I am the Devil’s Disciple.”

“You aren’t?”

A tiny smile curled at the corners of his mouth. "No.”

“I know,” she sighed with a rueful smile of her own.

An arrested expression shone in his eyes. "How do you know that?” he asked, carefully watching her.

She slid back in the chair and cocked her head to the side. "When I first met you, you played the unrepentant rake. And may I say, you play it very well. Nonetheless, it is not intrinsic to your nature."

The earl slid his hands behind his head, thoroughly enjoying himself. "It’s not? How can you be so certain, Miss Grantley? You have heard my story.”

“No, that’s exactly what I haven’t heard. I’ve heard society’s story. I’m convinced there is a significant difference.”

“You have me intrigued. How so?”

“Really, my lord, this is not a subject we should be discussing.”

“Why not? If society finds it a fit subject, why should you not?”

“It is not something a woman discusses alone with a man, particularly the man in question. It’s embarrassing.”

Jane refused to meet his gaze as she worried her lower lip between her teeth.

When she looked up, she straightened. She turned her eyes from his.

"It is said you convinced a young woman of good birth to run off with you by false promises of marriage. Afterward, when she was ruined, you kept her as your mistress. When she presented you with a son, you threw her out but kept the child, though you never claimed him. It is said the child died when he was three due to abuse or neglect. There. That is the sum and total of it,” she said quickly.

She looked back at him tentatively to gauge his response. He nodded.

“A fairly concise accounting of society’s tale. But you, Miss Grantley, don’t believe it? What part don’t you believe?” A cynical sneer twisted his lips.

She pressed her lips tightly together, wishing to be anywhere but in this room with this enigmatic man. "I don’t know what the circumstances were with the young woman, so I will not venture a hypothesis.”

“Coward,” he murmured.