The stares followed Ethan like an unwelcome shadow. Ever since the ball, where he’d spent a considerable portion of the evening in Lady Isolde's company, whispers had become bolder, gazes more pointed. He could practically feel the collective disapproval radiating from the matrons perched on their velvet settees, their fans fluttering like agitated birds. He’d ignored Miss Abigail’s pointed coughs and her mother's saccharine, yet barbed, inquiries about his well-being. He'd disregarded the sly smiles exchanged between gentlemen, and the not-so-subtle bets being placed on how long his "infatuation" with the Ice Queen would last.