rel="nofollow" href="#litres_trial_promo"> Chapter Sixteen
As reported in the Lady Observer, from the evening of April the fifth, 1814, the below on-dits—following a very detailed account of lobster patties, chilled oysters and a decadent lemon syllabub.
What is a sumptuous affair without a bit of scandal?
It all began when a certain Belle of the Season danced not only a second set with a blue-eyed earl with whom we are all acquainted, but a third. As if that were not enough for the rapacious attendees to feast upon, the Earl then took the lady’s face in his hands and kissed her.
Mercy me!
Following this salacious display of affection came their official announcement of engagement, which produced a collective look of relief from the attendees. And disappointment from some, I’d wager, as there are always those who love a taste of scandal to season their tongues.
Suffice it to say the entire scene was quite riveting. Some might even say romantic.
And perhaps this Lady Observer might agree, were it not for the other person in this tale who warrants consideration. After all, before the Belle of the Season emerged in mid-March and blossomed with the enviable beauty of a summer bloom, there was another who caught the cerulean gaze of the Earl.
There was no mention of an engagement, this is true, but all believed there would be in time. Including the lady, no doubt.
While one cannot blame the Belle of the Season, to whom the burgeoning relationship was unknown, neither can one blame love, which strikes fast and without warning.
Regardless of where the blame lies, the tale has not ended happily for a lady who masks it so well she’s earned the unfortunate moniker of Ice Queen.
She has watched the entire heartbreaking scene unfold before her dry eyes with a composure tightly reined, as if she were bored. While this only perpetuates rumors of her cold nature, one cannot help but wonder at her ability to maintain such stoicism after everything she’s been through in recent years.
If her heart is truly ice, as some claim, it stands to reason that it would shatter more easily when broken...
In other observations, Lady Norrick’s gown was quite the thing. So many beads adorned her dress she had to keep sitting to alleviate its pressing weight...
And on went the article, further educating those who had been unable to attend on how very fine Lady Norrick’s gown was...
April 1814
There it was—between a cataloged detail of the lobster patties and a thorough description of Lady Norrick’s ball gown lay the entire tale of Lady Eleanor Murray’s most humiliating moment.
And a perpetual reminder of that blasted moniker.
Ice Queen, indeed.
Inside she was anything but ice, with untethered emotion lashing and writhing until an aching knot settled in the back of her throat.
But ladies were not to show emotion—and she was, after all, a Murray. Murrays were strong. They did not show fear. And they certainly did not concede to hurt, no matter how it twisted within one’s soul.
She stared down at the crinkled page in her hands. The corners of the paper fluttered and called to attention the way she trembled.
She wanted to read the story again and wished for the usual: a detailed account of dinner, as always very thorough, told through the eyes of the Lady Observer, and trifling little on-dits that did not include her. Simple, ineffectual tales—like pointing out someone who had had two glasses of champagne instead of one, or whose reticule might have been left behind after the guests departed, followed by speculation as to why it had been left with such haste.
But the words of the story had not changed. Lady Alice had swept late into the Season, bright and beautiful and devoid of the desperation clawing at Eleanor. Every man had been drawn to her—including Hugh.
Eleanor’s heart gave an ugly twinge.
Not Hugh. Lord Ledsey. She no longer held the right to address him or even think of him so informally. That right belonged to Lady Alice now. To make matters worse, Lady Alice was such a kind soul, and so lovely a person, it rendered her impossible to dislike. How very vexing.
The life Eleanor had envisioned with Hugh—summers at Ledsey Manor, the Season spent at Ledsey Place, freedom from having to plod along in the dreaded search for a suitable husband—all of it now belonged to Alice.
Eleanor’s throat went tight. Dash it—she was about to cry.
A delicate knock sounded at her closed door.
She quickly shoved the paper under the pillow of her bed, blinked her eyes clear and grabbed up a book. “Enter.”
The Countess of Westix swept into the room, followed by a footman carrying a large boxed parcel.