Miss Isabella Thaws a Frosty Lord

by Larissa Lyons

  “And that leaves us with our remaining duo…” Anne paused for effect. “Frost and Isabella!”

  “Frost?” she whispered, testing the wintry name upon her tongue.

  “Aye,” his smooth voice responded from right in front of her.

  Buffets of wind, amidst bustling and laughing and promises of more instructions once they reached town, battered Isabella from all sides as, now partnered, everyone deserted the hall in a mass exodus that barely granted Isabella enough time to mask her surprise before her left arm was tucked securely along his, her right being abandoned to fidget alone within the warm muff. Well now, she certainly hadn’t planned very wisely for this occurrence!

  “What? No gloves?” He made no attempt to hide his surprise.

  Who needed them when a human brick burned beneath their hand? “I’m afraid I’ve misplaced them,” she admitted. “I searched everywhere this morn, but my efforts proved futile for they weren’t to be found.”

  He placed his leather-encased hand over her bare one, pressing her arm intimately against his side. “I expect they’ll reveal themselves when the maids see to your room.”

  “Yes, most likely.”

  “Shall we, then?” She heard the undercurrent of laughter. “Note that I used inflection to indicate a question. But I do believe we should be off as we’re currently lagging, being the last of the company to depart.”

  Stunned silent by his unexpected manner and her own silly schoolgirl response to it—to him—Isabella found herself clutching his arm and being guided down the front steps—eleven in all, she knew—without having time to utter more than a repetitive, “Frost?”

  “Nicholas Winten, Earl of Frostwood,” he confirmed just as their feet met the gravel driveway.

  She hesitated, wondering why the impatient stomping of horses and jingle of harnesses didn’t greet her ears. His grip tightened but his pace didn’t slow. Not a fraction. Neither did her heart rate when he added, “I deeply regret how our acquaintance started off with a bit of a contretemps last eve and I shall endeavor to rectify any less-than-perfect impression I may have left you with. I vow to make it up to you by being partner par excellence today at whatever brand of merriment our dear hostess has arranged. In exchange, you must tell me who you are—I only heard your given name—and agree to dance with me this evening.”

  His steps flew as fast and as sure as his words. She curved her hand tightly around his muscled forearm and tried to keep up. “Must I? If you continue to order me about, Lord Frostwood, I daresay I shall only continue to refuse everything you desire.”

  Oh heavens! Lord Frostwood?

  Why had she not cobbled it together sooner? For upon saying the name, her mind instantly conjured the picture painted for her last night—how Harriet had described the friend of Edward’s when Isabella joined her after leaving the ballroom. The conversation she hadn’t been able to put from her mind even after retiring…

  “Oh posh! How that silly truffle Brìghde thinks Cousin Aylmer is handsome when Lord Frostwood is in the room, I’ll never know. I vow, he—”

  “Frostwood?” Isabella had asked, latching on to the unfamiliar name.

  “Oh yes! His countenance is divine, even when he’s scowling. Shall I describe him to you? He has thick black curls and the darkest midnight eyes, and he’s every bit as tall as Edward.” That last part was no help at all, given how Isabella had never so much as touched Edward, much less sought to measure his height. “I vow, he must have his valet take a razor to his cheeks twice a day for there’s always a hint of shadow after an hour or two! He has a strong nose. It quite puts me in mind of those old Roman busts in Papa’s study. He was at the wedding, you know. Frost I mean, not any Roman emperors!” Harriet laughed at her own wit.

  “My…” Isabella could envision him so clearly it was disconcerting. She forced a casual observation. “My, but you have studied him, now haven’t you?”

  “Only because he’s the most interesting of Edward’s friends. They served together on the peninsula, did you know? Until Edward had to come home, that is. I vow, Lord Frostwood is so handsome I could swoon!”

  The histrionics had continued into the night, as had the complaints she wasn’t allowed to stay up and dance, descriptions of Cousin Aylmer’s leg hair—still worthy of a laugh, though most improper—and the occasional detail about Lord Frostwood interspersed among her other diatribes.

  Details Isabella drank up like parched earth and committed to memory.

  “His papa died three years ago then his mother last spring…the deepest dimples adorn his cheeks—if one can catch him smiling…his skin is very bronze, as if he spends hours in the sun or is part gypsy. Would that not be something? Imagine if he were a gypsy! We could prevail upon him to foretell our futures…”

  Dimples, rumors of his surly nature, descriptions of haughty, coal-black eyebrows—raised whenever his ire was piqued… Harriet waxed on and Isabella had provided a captive, if quiet audience.

  At the thought of grazing her fingers over bristly whiskers…of searching out a hoarded dimple, Isabella stumbled.

  His barked, “Have a care!” brought her firmly into the present. Swoon-worthy dimples aside, there existed positively no reason for her to be intrigued by the reputedly cold, austere gentleman. Though his strong arm beneath her fingertips felt anything but cold…

  Silly widgeon! Becoming all breathless over dimples you cannot even see! Or mayhap ’twas his accelerated pace. “Must you trod so quickly?”

  “Quickly?” he asked in clear astonishment, making no effort to pause or shorten his stride. “Nay! Step lively now, we’ve fallen behind every other pairing and do not want to lose ere we—”

  “Ahhh!” Pain soared across her toes when her slippered foot met resistance. Tottering forward, she jerked her arm free and scrambled for balance.

  Which she only found once she’d crashed to the ground. Her only thought—beyond what a wretched time to trip!—was over her new muff. She’d lost it. “Dratted gnats!”

  “Isabella!” Anne cried in the distance.

  He dropped to her side at once. She’d barely caught her breath, of a certainty considered her composure—along with her muff—still misplaced, when she felt large, bare hands begin combing every inch of her feet and legs. “Lord Frostwood!” Isabella gasped. “Such liberties you—”

  “Liberties? Blast it, woman,” he said harshly, “you gave me a fright. Your legs, your ankles—”

  “They are fine, my lord.” She could even wiggle her toes now that the initial throbbing had dulled to an annoying ache. “But do you see—”

  “You ‘my lord’ me now? Don’t stand on ceremony, woman!” he snarled, taking one palm in hand, a palm she realized stung deeply. “You’re bleeding. Are you injured elsewhere?”

  “’Tis nothing more than a flea bite, certainly not worth all this fuss.” She attempted to pull free and gain her feet, but he wouldn’t have it.

  “’Tis not a trifle! Both your palms are scraped raw. What else—”

  “Isa…bella!” Sounding horribly out of breath, Anne reached them. “Frost…you imbecile! I paired you with Issybee…because I trusted you to look out for her! I trusted you!”

  The hands holding hers strained with suppressed force. “Imbecile, Lady Redford?”

  “Of course, you cork-brained simpleton! Can you not assist her—”

  “Anne.”

  Edward’s voice joined the fray and Isabella slumped toward Lord Frostwood, wanting to hide her face—if not her entire body. Her other palm burned too. Her legs and feet, save for one very tender toe, felt fine—if excessively tingly after being stroked by Lord Frostwood’s warm-fingered hands. Had she not been so embarrassed by the fall, she’d be embarrassed by how her insides were now sweating at his proximity. None of the other men she’d met affected her thusly. Why him?

  “Anne.” Edward spoke soothingly. “I don’t think he realizes—”

  “Realizes?” Anne screeched, and Isabella pr
ayed no one else had joined them.

  She straightened away from the surprising comfort of Lord Frostwood’s impossibly hard chest and sought to smooth over any discomfort her clumsiness had caused—smoothing her skirts being out of the question as he still had command of her wrists. “I am fine, truly.”

  “Oh Isabella, dear—”

  “’Tis nothing but a scratch.” Lord Frostwood angled her hands. “Why the devil you go on—”

  “A scratch!”

  “Ed, tell your wife to quit harping at me, would you?”

  “Harping?” Anne cried, her words shriller than the biting wind. “As if it isn’t warranted! Could you not—”

  “Me!?” Lord Frostwood exploded. “Why is this about me, pray? Can the woman not watch where she’s going?”

  Sheer silence met his question.

  Followed by two indrawn breaths—Anne’s and Isabella’s. He hadn’t known?

  Hadn’t asked her to dance last night out of misplaced sympathy? Or flirted with her as a lark? Well now. How interesting.

  But neither had he relinquished her hands, and Isabella was more than a little dismayed to realize she didn’t want him to.

  Anne recovered her surprise and spoke dryly. “Of course she could, Frost, if she could see. Isabella’s blind, you imbecile.”

  “Blind?” The word was a growl. The hands surrounding hers tensed almost imperceptibly but she felt the subtle change nevertheless. Felt his strong hold skate along her arms, skitter over her legs, and somehow, flitter low about her belly. She was grateful for the new and distracting sensations; her embarrassment over falling in front of everyone paled to insignificance against the backdrop of his touch.

  “Yes, blind,” Edward confirmed. “As in her pretty glimms don’t see you making an arse of yourself, old chap, but her wattles are working fine and can surely hear you being an arse. Speaking of which—Anne, I really must insist you stop calling my friend names.”

  “Not when I deserve them. Hel-mmm.” He bit off the curse and shifted, releasing her at last. She stifled a mew of disappointment. Before she knew what he was about, he thrust one arm around her waist, the other beneath her legs, and hoisted her against his chest. Then he stood, bearing the entirety of her weight, without any apparent effort.

  “I’ve got you,” he said with a silky tone she hadn’t heard from him before at her instinctive squirm. She hadn’t been held like this in…well, ever!

  While her body happily acclimated to its new position, her lips protested automatically. “This isn’t nec—”

  “It is.” He summarily cut her off, tightening his hold. “She twisted her ankle when she fell. I’ll return to the house with her and see that she’s cared for properly.”

  “But—”

  He hefted her to hush the instinctive objection. “Ed, Lady Redford, you may be assured now that I’ve been informed of facts I lacked previously, I will be at great pains to ensure that Isabella comes to no further harm. Begone, both of you. See to your guests and their amusement. We shall find our own for the day.”

  Isabella opened her mouth to issue forth a complaint then thought better of it and snapped her lips shut. Scraped palms and smarting pride were a small price to pay for being carried in such strong arms, against such a broad chest and beneath such a tantalizingly scented neck. She inhaled and could swear her sore toe smiled in response.

  Lord Frostwood’s long, powerful strides carried her quickly away from familiarity and into the realm of wonder…of possibility. Smiling toes aside, her course was set after this idyllic, magical holiday. She knew that, had even managed to resign herself to her upcoming fate. So, what would be the harm in indulging in a bit of idle flirtation during the interim? If that was even something on his mind. But somehow she had a firm inkling that it was—and Isabella had long since learned to trust her senses.

  Senses that clamored a moment later when she took stock of how fiercely her body responded to his nearness, jostled about with his forceful footsteps. She raised her right arm and stretched it over his head. Her fingers fluttered then found a perch above his collar…barely touching the strands of hair at his nape.

  He hadn’t said a single word. Not since capturing her person against his own as easily as he issued commands from that dimple-adorned mouth.

  Isabella swallowed the knot of nervous excitement welling from her stomach to ask, “Why did you lie? Tell such a clanker about my ankle when I’d told you it was uninjured?”

  Why had he lied?

  Because he felt the fool, the jester, the veriest of halfwits and needed to apologize and make amends, only he knew not how to begin.

  Because she was fetching and fascinating and it had been countless years since he’d been fascinated by anything.

  Because when she was near, he felt anything but cold. The memories anything but painful.

  “Because it was expedient,” Frost informed her.

  “Expedient?” she queried softly, and he fancied he felt her fingers caressing his neck.

  “We need to have your injuries tended. This seemed the simplest way.”

  “Oh.”

  Blast. She sounded disappointed.

  “And because I wanted you to myself for the day.”

  “Oh!”

  “Edward? Should we let them return alone?” Anne questioned, concern prodding her conscience. “What if he—”

  “Calm yourself. This is what you wanted to happen, is it not?”

  “At the wedding. Not here—like this!”

  “These things happen in their own time. Let it be.”

  Edward pulled her around and added, “Nicholas is trustworthy, just…frosty.”

  “Frosty?” She left off gazing at the rapidly departing figure carrying her friend and skewered her mate with a glance full of righteous ire. “You jest? At a time such as this?”

  “She’ll come to no harm, that I can promise.”

  “She better not.” Anne spied the ermine muff off to the side and bent to retrieve it. “Why did you not tell him? I cannot believe you—”

  “Me? In case it escaped your awareness, we have other guests to attend.” Indicating the churning clouds above, Edward took her arm and began guiding her reluctant form toward town. “We’ll all do well to enjoy our time outside before sleet chases us in. As to Nicholas and Isabella, I witnessed the two of them in conversation last eve and assumed you had already done so.”

  “I hadn’t a chance, given how late he appeared, but…” Recalling how very protective Frost had been just now and the way Isabella had tucked herself against his chest, Anne allowed herself to relax. “It does appear that’s of no consequence now. Forgive me. You’re right—I’m sure things between them will be fine as five pence in no time.”

  “Which is more than I can say for you if you insist on belittling my friends.”

  Anne heard his piqued tone and leaned into his side, brushing the silky fur over the stump of his missing arm. “I was worried about her, ’tis all.”

  “I know.”

  “I shall apologize to him.”

  Edward hugged her tight. “I know that too.”

  A satisfied smile curved lips no longer human.

  Nudging the maid tidying Isabella’s room to put away the gloves had been inspired! Though perhaps not her best idea, given the condition of her daughter’s hands. At least the act had necessitated Nicholas draw close to Issybelle—though it appeared he’d needed little prodding on that score!

  A gentle wing fluttered behind her back in the nonexistent breeze. She brought its mate around and nestled her head within its softness, much as her daughter was doing against the man’s neckcloth.

  She watched him carrying her precious offspring and warmed at the sight, though she did wish she had someone to share her hope with. For now that Isabella had finally escaped the environs of her uncompromising father, there was much hope to be had.

  Ah yes…skinned palms aside, a day well conceived.

  Chapter Three
>
  A Festive Berry Comes to Hand

  “Tell me how it happened.”

  Isabella considered reminding him not to order her about. But on some strange level she liked it—the way he paid her such focused attention. It was flattering after being all but ignored by her father for so long. And contrary to the sometimes smothering, sometimes doltish way—as if being blind somehow blinded her brain’s ability to comprehend—strangers often prattled about in her presence, she rather liked how he treated her as she surmised he treated everyone else. In fact—

  “Well?” his velvety voice intoned from far above her position on the settee. Her posterior had barely connected with the upholstery before he barreled into the room, barking orders. “Prevaricate no more. We’re alone now so have at it.”

  His obvious impatience made her smile. He’d given no quarter from the moment he’d set foot inside—still carrying her—quickly summoning a maid to put away their coats and scarves, and the housekeeper to clean, apply salve and bandage her palms. Noting how competently he made demands of servants who had no allegiance to him and even more, how quickly they complied with each of his wishes, caused her to realize what an imposing man she’d somehow collected as her champion.

  Her entire left side came alive when he settled beside her and gingerly lifted each wrist, turning them hither and yon, scrutinizing the wrappings, or so she assumed when he complimented, “She is to be commended, that Mrs. Parksen. Did a fine job of it. How do they feel?”

  Better now that he was holding them. “As though I dispatched my gloves, kicked my feet in the air and ran barehanded across the gravel path.”

  “Well, call me a cur’s cracker!”

  She subdued the urge to laugh out loud as he’d just compared himself to a dog’s hindquarters. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t.”