Miss Isabella Thaws a Frosty Lord

by Larissa Lyons

  “Aye.” Done with his inspection, he returned her hands to her lap. Unaccountably, she wished she had twisted her ankle. If the heat streaking up her arms was any indication, he’d have her legs warm for a month! “If it’s guilt you seek to heap upon my head—”

  “It isn’t! I assure you. But you did ask…”

  “So I did. Though it doesn’t escape my notice that asking appears to yield results demanding does not, I vow I refuse to budge from your side until your lips share what you insist on keeping so closely guarded—that of how you came to be in such a predicament.”

  He termed her blindness a predicament? What an unusual word choice. She appreciated how very casual he was about it. “I vow,” she gently mocked, “you’re beginning to sound much like Harriet.”

  “Heaven forfend,” he muttered darkly. “I’m more than double her age if I’m a day and certainly don’t need to be sounding like a schoolroom chit, even one so entertaining. But come now. The others shall be returned by the evening meal and at this rate I’ll count myself fortunate to have been granted the letters of your last name, much less a full explanation.”

  “I promise to convey those letters into your safekeeping before our host and hostess arrive and bombard you with more choice descriptors.”

  “Descriptors?”

  “Ah…cork-brained simpleton being one of but a few.”

  “A reminder I could have gone all day without but I shall thank you for it nevertheless.”

  “Generous of you,” she said, having more fun than she’d had during any conversation in recent memory.

  “On the contrary, it is miserly you are, I’m beginning to see.” He sighed deeply as though sorely aggrieved. “’Tis this not the season of goodwill and charity? Can you not share some of your own without scoffing an idiotic imbecile? One who plays the court jester quite well without any help at all?”

  “At least I’ve discovered one of your talents. Do you juggle too?”

  “One of my talents? That of the fool, you mean?” He made a credible cannon-blast noise and jerked into her as if wounded. “Oh! A direct hit!”

  Laughing as he plainly intended, Isabella considered how far she wanted to stretch her newfound bravado, having never had the occasion to flirt with a man before. And by now Isabella recognized full well what she was doing. Recognized it and was loving every second. Not for the first time since he’d joined her, she hoped the housekeeper was delayed in returning with the promised refreshments, having no wish to have their discourse interrupted. “Were I to answer your questions without quibble, do you then agree to answer mine?”

  With a long-suffering but obviously put-upon air, he returned, “If I must, I must.”

  “You’ll tell me why you have such a reputation for…”

  “Being unfeeling? Cold? Arrogant?”

  “Though I’m tempted to let you go on for I find the enumeration of your faults quite illuminating, I was going to say grumpy.”

  He barked a laugh. “Then why didn’t you?”

  “I lacked the courage.”

  “One thing you definitely do not lack, Miss Issybee—nay, I believe I prefer Issybelle—is courage. Though the longer you keep me waiting, the more I begin to doubt that assessment.”

  It was exhilarating, bantering about with a lord—especially one so many found fearsome. Isabella only found him engaging. And appealing. And so many other things that if she let herself, she could easily forget what awaited her at the end of the holiday. Pushing away the unwelcome reminder, she said lightly, “So, you are in dire need of hearing how it happened?”

  “Aye,” he said dryly.

  Some imp made her reply, “I couldn’t keep up with your pace, my lord. My foot—”

  “Not that, you vexing female, as you well know.” His bluster only made her smile more. “Your sight. How did you lose it?”

  “You know, I do believe you’re the first person to ask it of me so directly. Most people either dance around the topic, as if my inability to see doesn’t exist or they fall over themselves with so much solicitousness I’m smothered by it. But you…” She paused, unsure how to proceed.

  How much did he want to know, truly?

  How much did she want to share?

  He retrieved her left arm and it was only then that she became aware of how restless she’d grown, how her fingers had tangled in a loose strip of bandage she’d pulled free from the back of one hand. “Me?” he said. “I’m the nodcock who didn’t even notice by damn—beg pardon.”

  He smoothed her palm and fingers over something solid and warm—his thigh? Her hand fluttered beneath his but Isabella made no move to retract it, consciously making an effort to relax her muscles against his hard flesh with every bit as much effort as she attempted to regulate her breathing.

  “Pardon granted,” she whispered. “Go on.”

  “I’m… I…” He shifted against her as though his limbs were all a rumpus. Much like her quivery midsection. “I’m— Bloody hell. I just noticed they seated you directly beneath…put us below…”

  Eyes wide, she leaned toward him, seeking to understand. “What? The ceiling? Is something broken or not to your liking?” He growled and she gave a decisive nod as if everything were suddenly clear. “That’s it…the hanging candelabra! I was placed beneath sputtering candles that have now burned out and earned your ire, but no… I don’t smell any remnants of smoke. Do tell me, are we about to be set upon by a flock of rebellious wicks?”

  “You think I’m so grumpy as to complain about a trifling chandelier?”

  “Trifling? I daresay you would not call them so if the light they shed allowed you to see.” Realizing what she’d said, she tacked on, “Which they do, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “You aren’t,” he groaned. “You have the right of it and I no doubt deserve to be bashed on the head with a heavy chandelier…only that is not what hangs above us.”

  “Then, pray, what is the source of your consternation? Did Mrs. Parksen guide me to a perilous location?”

  “Perilous for my sanity,” he muttered darkly. “We’re sitting directly beneath a kissing bough.”

  “Noooo…” Oh, the possibilities that brought to mind!

  “Yes. An emphatic yes.”

  Was he angry? She couldn’t tell. “Yet had you not mentioned it, I would have remained oblivious.”

  “True.”

  Her lips tingled.

  Her whole body burned.

  A clock somewhere in the room ticked away the seconds.

  Yet for Isabella, time stood still.

  His touch along the back of her hand firmed. “I cannot help but notice you make no move to, ah…move.”

  Her breath whooshed out. “Nor do you.”

  Now what? Did he place his lips against her trembling own? Cup her cheek and smooth his thumb down her temple and get slapped for his efforts?

  The innocent feel of her hand upon his thigh brought forth all manner of anything-but-innocent urges. Had since he’d secured it there.

  By damn, if a slap was in the offing, he wanted to do significantly more than steal a simple kiss. “But I also want my bloody questions answered.”

  “Pardon?”

  Reluctantly, Frost released her hand and stood. “Appears to me as though this particular kissing bough has been dedicated for our use, or at least that’s what I’m deciding, given its propinquity and position.”

  He bit back a smile at her exclaimed, “Oh!”, hearing both disappointment—that he wasn’t making use of it now, perhaps?—and anticipation—that he had definite plans to in the future—if he didn’t miss his guess. Stretching, he freed the beribboned mistletoe. “I’ll just pocket this beauty and we’ll make use of it at a later date, shall we? Hmmm?”

  Not that it would fit in his pocket, not without squashing it to a pulp, but she didn’t need to know that. So he tossed it on the settee, out of her reach.

  “But that’s not how it works!”

  Frost reseated hi
mself, closer this time if that were possible. “I know full well how they work—”

  “Of a certainty, a man like you would.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Exasperated with her now, he nudged her chin until she faced him fully, noting the flush on her cheeks and the impressive gash slicing through one eyebrow and up part of her forehead…last night’s dangling curl had disguised the mark then this morning’s bonnet had done the same. Noting too the spark glinting in her blinking eyes.

  Stupidly, he sliced one hand in front of her. Nothing. Not a flinch nor a flicker. “Never mind that. How did you lose your sight?” He suspected the several-year-old scar told the story, but wanted to hear it from her. “I gather you haven’t always been blind.”

  “Nooo,” she sighed. “No. I…”

  “I’m a brute for asking.” Or demanding. But he didn’t retract nor regret the need to know.

  “No. Well, yes,” she said amid a soft smile then ducked as if afraid he’d seen too much. “But that isn’t why I hesitate.”

  Abruptly, she jerked her head up and stared straight at him. More precisely, within half an inch of straight at him. “Do you know, this is the first time I’ve been away from home since the accident, other than traveling to physicians and such?”

  Frost shifted until his face was framed directly between those pale emerald peepers. “Why is that?”

  Rather than respond, she shuttered her eyelids. Hiding from him?

  “Isabella?”

  “You asked how it happened,” she said instead of answering his most recent question. “I was not yet Harriet’s age…”

  “A mere babe, then,” he said, subduing the gut-clenching sorrow he experienced at imagining this spirited woman suffering at any age. He manufactured a laugh for her benefit. “Ah yes, Harriet. I met the vivacious sprite soon after Ed became enamored of his lady wife. Harriet again entertained me at their wedding. Which you didn’t attend. I would’ve remembered.”

  “That’s…flattering of you to note. I think.”

  “It is,” he confirmed then sought to soften it when he realized how pompous he sounded. “I mean, you may think it so.”

  “Glad am I to have your permission on the direction my thoughts take.” Why was it her simple sentence only compounded his unintended pretentious air?

  “I meant it as such. Flattering, I mean.” How the deuce did she end up making him stumble around? “Are you always this evasive? You’ve yet to really tell me—”

  “Oh!” Her head snapped to the side, her entire body tensing. “Do you hear that?”

  Only silence presented itself. “Hear what?”

  “They’re rehearsing!” She gripped the fabric of his jacket just beneath his shoulder, at once impassioned. “No one is returned yet, are they?”

  Flummoxed at the wild change of topic, Frost’s brows drew together as he puzzled her meaning…then finally…a distant howl resolved itself into the high-pitched screech of a horsehair bow scraping across catgut. “The musicians, you mean? And to answer your question, the rest of our party is still chasing after whatever items are on those blighted lists Lady Redford distributed.” He patted his pocket and heard the crumple. “Appears I still have ours. Good tinder for the fire if you ask—”

  “May we continue our discourse later, do you think? I’d like to…to…lie down and rest for a bit, I believe.”

  Lie down, his arse. She was lying right now, that much he knew, but to what end? “Certainly,” he agreed with false equanimity, having no desire to relinquish her company. But he was good at reading the opposition and predicting their next move. The two of them might not be in a true battle but if it was a battle of wills—or wits—she wanted, he’d give it to her. “Let me escort you to your room.”

  “Oh, there’s no need for that,” she exclaimed brightly for one so suddenly exhausted, standing and smoothing her gown over her hips.

  He’d wager his team of matched grays she had no inkling how very alluring the gesture, how very lured he was to ferret out her secrets. For some strange reason he wanted to be her confidant and much, much more.

  Damn blasted Christmas spirit! It was blighting his soul with hope unlike any he’d known for years.

  With a slight curtsy, she quit the room, leaving him slack-jawed at the poise and confidence with which she did so, gaining her bearings and stepping precisely from the settee. When her outstretched fingertips met the doorframe, she made a slight adjustment and sailed on through.

  He was astonished. And impressed. “Deuced amazing.”

  Not only how well she got on but that he’d finally met a female he wanted to know more about, and for the second time in as many days, she’d abandoned him mid-conversation—and this one couldn’t even see him frown!

  Not that Frost felt as though he’d been frowning earlier. He was now, that was a certainty.

  On silent feet he quickly followed, watching her trail one hand along the wall as she navigated the stairway and corridors of Redford Manor until coming upon the ballroom.

  As graceful as an ethereal spirit, she slipped past the heavy double doors and disappeared inside without once making a sound—Frost knew because he was doing his damnedest to remain equally as quiet.

  A second later he slipped inside after her.

  With the drapes pulled shut and hanging candelabras and mounted wall sconces unlit, the cavernous room was dim. The only shaft of light came from the windows in the musicians’ gallery overhead, the dedicated alcove concealed from direct view by a long curtain.

  He waited by the door while his eyes adjusted. The moment they did, his heart caught. Frost knew he was being granted a vision few mortals ever had the fortune to behold—that of an angel in human form gliding across an empty floor…uninhibited, unencumbered by either her own—or society’s—rigid standards.

  Pure magic. Isabella’s movements were pure magic. Keeping to the center of the room, which wasn’t difficult given its enormous size, she swayed and stretched, skipped and soared, her body turning and twisting in ways he’d never dare conceive, much less imagine being a witness to, especially under what seemed clandestine circumstances.

  He liked that, how watching her secret, sinuous dance, experiencing it with her—even without her knowledge—made it seem as if the two of them shared an illicit bond.

  Though the more he observed, the more he realized she didn’t so much dance as blend her body with the music. When one of the violinists botched a section and the entire quartet began the piece anew, she barely registered the interruption, her feet faltering only a moment before the sweeping, flowing motion of her limbs overtook her again.

  Each time she spun near, he gazed upon the elation brimming from her face—the visage of pure, unadulterated joy, the exhilaration…the innocence. It pained him to watch.

  Frost knew she counted herself alone, knew he violated her trust as much as he dishonored himself by remaining, but he could no more leave than sever his own tongue.

  Her beauty, her grace…her spirit. They touched him as nothing had in almost twenty years. For some unaccountable reason, simply the act of watching her joyous freedom expressed through uninhibited movement made him feel free, happy almost.

  Nay, this wasn’t mere happiness surging through his veins, exciting his heart and quickening his breath. Nothing so mediocre. This…this was the spirit of Christmas, somehow embodied in a sightless girl, that was causing him to see his own past—and future?—in ways he’d been blinded to previously.

  His eyes stung from straining in the obscure light—any other reason was unfathomable. He closed them for a moment…imagining he was dancing with her, holding her; imagining she could behold him, unhindered by her lack of sight…

  At the thought of embracing her again, his pulse leapt and his arms burned. Eyes blinked open…and still the vision that was Isabella continued to captivate.

  Frost took a single step forward, intent on joining her.

  But something made him hesitat
e and he stilled, reluctant to disrupt the scant minutes of liberty, to mar the freedom the music and private place afforded this unique woman, simply because of his selfishness to spend them with her.

  He thought of her rebuff the prior night when he’d asked her to dance—demanded a dance, were he being honest. He thought of her unease after declining—and the look of longing he’d glimpsed on her features even as she pertly denied him.

  He thought of their aborted conversation in the parlor, of how he still had no answers, and how she’d lied in order to claim this time for herself. To be alone. To be free.

  But most of all, he thought of the countless berries on that kissing bough still sitting on the settee.

  He thought of her mouth and how she’d blushed.

  He thought of the ten days of Christmas still to come—the eleven nights including this one—and how for the first time since Althea died he wasn’t dreading tomorrow. Was, in fact, anticipating it with all the undue enthusiasm of an untried buck.

  As silently as he’d entered, Frost exited the ballroom with but one destination in mind.

  The settee in the parlor.

  Chapter Four

  A Festive Berry Changes Hand

  “Would you be gracious enough to explain how I was to ‘fully participate’ in a searching game?” Isabella asked Anne from her reclined position—foot propped on two pillows—in the corner of the formal drawing room where she’d been carried after partaking a simple repast in her bedchamber.

  Isabella felt a complete charlatan but couldn’t bring herself to put lie to Lord Frostwood’s claim that she’d injured her ankle. Neither was she accustomed to such subterfuge. Feigning an injury niggled her conscience—but not enough to confess all.

  “You conversed with Frost, did you not?”

  “Yessss…” Isabella trailed off, uncomprehending how speaking with the engaging gentleman had anything to do with participating in Anne’s holiday fun. She heard the trod of feet and the low rumble of approaching conversation and realized other guests were joining them, dinner officially over.

  “Well, dearest, that was exactly what I had planned for you! Though the fall was completely unplanned, I assure you.”