Miss Isabella Thaws a Frosty Lord

by Larissa Lyons

  What? she thought again then could think no more for his lips were on hers, warm and solid and rubbing back and forth. Slowly, enticingly…causing her to murmur in her throat, to purse her lips in response. To rise up on her toes and press more firmly against the hard length of his body.

  “Ah yes,” he rasped against her mouth. Then the teasing exploration changed tenor as he leaned into her and took her lips more fully.

  The back of her head thumped against the door when his tongue licked its way across the seam of her lips.

  She gasped and just as quickly he was gone—his body at least, for she could still hear his breathing. It was every bit as harsh as her own.

  “Dream on me, Issybelle.”

  “On you?”

  “All night long…” And he placed one last, lingering kiss to her forehead.

  Then he was gone. For real this time.

  Leaving her standing in the hallway, her heart threatening to take flight, her lips throbbing as if they’d never calm, her forehead practically glowing.

  And her fingers clutched around a single mistletoe berry.

  Chapter Five

  A Dreary Morning Made Festive

  Wings fluttered and she thought, Let it snow…

  At the ungodly hour of a quarter before dawn, Frost came across a maid in the candlelit breakfast room. “What are you doing, pray?”

  He’d always been one to rise with the sun but hadn’t expected to chance upon a young servant moving things about that didn’t need moving. A chair previously aligned was now intentionally skewed, and eating utensils that belonged in a tray were instead clutched in her hand.

  At his query, she startled and every piece of flatware clanged to the floor.

  He waited for the clatter to die down then asked dryly, “You’re not helping yourself to Redford’s silver, now are you?”

  “Never, milord! Lady Redford tasked me with rightin’ things for Miss Isabella.” As the girl spoke, she put the fallen utensils in the wash bin and retrieved three new pieces. With hands that shook, he noticed. The girl cast him a quick look then babbled on. “Miss Isabella, she tends to break her fast ’fore anyone else thinks to stir, she does. I make it so things are always in the same place for her. ’Tis all I’m doin’ now, I promise, milord.”

  “You’re telling me she serves herself?” he asked suspiciously, seeing the row of warming trays on the adjacent wall, surprised they’d be filled this early. “Does she not simply request what she wants and have it brought from the kitchens?”

  “Oh no! Miss Isabella never asks for anything partic’lar, says how she enjoys sampling whatever Cook fixes, but she does like holdin’ her own plate as I tell her about each dish. Says she can tell by how heavy it gets whether I’ve gone and made her portions too big. She doesn’t want the extra goin’ to waste, you see.”

  He was beginning to. Beginning to realize the female his body and mind were equally attracted to had hidden depths that he very much wanted to plumb. Not wanting to be wasteful? That sounded much like the independent young woman he’d enjoyed conversing with—and kissing—the day before.

  Frost forced his posture to relax for the explanation was a plausible one and he wanted to put the anxious maid at ease. Nor was he above questioning this forthcoming servant about his new enchantment. “Lady Redford charged you? Did Miss Isabella not bring servants or a maid of her own to see to her care? A chaperone?”

  “Nay, milord. Arrived alone, she did.”

  Alone? How unusual. “How long ago was that?”

  “Nigh on three weeks or thereabouts.”

  Remarkable, that she’d gained such familiarity about the place in so little time.

  The girl slid her eyes toward the door. Ready to escape his clutches no doubt.

  “Two more things if you will…”

  “Milord?”

  “Is anyone else assigned to assist Miss Isabella?”

  “Just Sally, as a lady’s maid, fixin’ her gowns and hair and such.”

  “And you? What other duties have you been given on her behalf?”

  “I keep all the furniture just so an’ clear the hallways thrice daily, makin’ sure no one’s left anything on the floors or blockin’ her footpaths.”

  “She moves about much, does she?”

  “Yes, milord.”

  He took pity on the young girl and smiled as charmingly as he could manage, eyebrows flat, dimples engaged. “Thank you…your name?”

  “Lizzie, milord.” She bobbed a curtsy.

  “Well, Lizzie, I appreciate all that you’re doing for Miss Isabella. Carry on.”

  She flashed him a bright grin now that the inquisition was over and he wasn’t marching her off to Newgate for stealing. “She’s lovely, milord, Miss Isabella is. Everyone below stairs says so. In form and fact. ’Tis been a real treat, it has, helpin’ her an’ such.”

  And it would be a real treat to share the falling snowflakes with her, Frost decided after a glance out the window brought the idea to mind, the sun’s hidden rays stretching sufficiently for him to make out the lightly swirling flakes.

  Taking the stairs two at a time back the way he’d just come, Frost raced toward the guest wing where everyone else had been abed, for he now had reason to believe one Miss Isabella would no longer be occupying hers.

  Seconds later, subduing his eagerness and his voice, he rapped his knuckles against her door twice. “It’s Frost.”

  After a moment the door opened a crack, just enough to reveal a sliver of porcelain cheek and ear. Her hair was draped over her shoulder, he saw with a tightening in his gut, not yet arranged for the day. A pink dressing gown covered said shoulder, and just as he was pondering what else—if anything—might lie beneath, she queried, “Lord Frostwood? Are you there?”

  “Aye,” he answered as quietly as she had but with more urgency, unwilling to rouse any nearby guests yet not wanting to dally lest the snowfall come to an end. “Get dressed and bundle up. There’s something I would show you out—”

  “Show me?” He saw the curve of her inviting mouth when she turned to speak through the crack.

  He laughed softly. “My apologies, but what can one expect from a cork-brained simpleton? Experience with me, then. Please?”

  “A ‘please’ from the man who issues the order to bundle up? This must be serious indeed.”

  He growled. “Serious punishment if you do not comply, woman. Now attire yourself properly and let’s be off.” She opened the door a fraction more and he realized what he’d thought a dressing gown was in truth day dress. One sans chemisette, he was pleased to note, giving him an exceedingly enjoyable view of the top of her bosom. “Good. Very good. Now—”

  “What manner of punishment, my lord?” The odd inflection in her voice drew his gaze upward to find her evaluating him, her glinting eyes banked for once. There was no possibility she knew where his had settled, was there? “I’m most curious,” she continued, and her tone conveyed her seriousness, “would you banish me from your presence? Exile me to a convent, an institution? Or merely lock me in my room with neither food nor water?”

  “Only if I locked myself in there with you.”

  Her cheeks flamed. “For shame.”

  He stood there, taking in her blushing response to his pert reply. Appreciating her pert nose and farther down, her pert br— “Ahem. Yes…well, that’s me. A shameless, experienced rake. Or so you’ve indicated a time or two—which is not entirely accurate, by the way. But if you insist on debating word choices and decline to accept my invitation—for that’s what it is, you know—alas, I shall be forced to enjoy the dancing snowflakes alone. What a pity, do you not—”

  “Snowflakes?” Her eyes once again sparkled like rain-drenched holly.

  “Mind you, they weren’t respectably large nor plentiful when I saw them just now so I cannot guarantee how long they’ll last, but yes, snowflakes. Meandering down from yon clouded sky this very moment.”

  As if that knowledge lent
steel to her spine, she smartly came to attention. “Wonderful! You wonderful man!” Her smile made him feel ten feet tall. “I’ll be but a trice!” And she snapped the door shut against his nose.

  Ow!

  Damn. He’d have a bruised conk by nuncheon.

  It was no more than he deserved, though, given how he’d peered over her head and into her room, seeking more information about the intriguing, interesting, exceptionally enchanting Miss Isabella.

  “What a glorious beginning to a new day!” Isabella didn’t care that her hair was stuffed haphazardly into the nearest bonnet at hand and her ears were fairly freezing, didn’t care that she’d exhibited no decorum whatsoever when Lord Frostwood came knocking upon her door—now that had truly been a glorious beginning!—didn’t care that she’d made no effort to disguise her excitement in the unexpected outdoor excursion…

  Didn’t care that she was falling for—had already fallen, if one took into account her meeting with the ground yesterday—a completely inappropriate man. Inappropriate not because of who he was, but because of who she was. Inappropriate because of where her future lay. But for once she didn’t give a fig for that either—not now. All she cared about at the moment was the powerful man at her side with his strong arm about her back, guiding her over the manicured lawn, “Crisp and brown, complements of Old Man Winter,” he’d just told her.

  “I don’t care if we trod within a muddy ditch,” she said truthfully, feeling the thin layer of moisture seep inside her slippers with every crunching step. “Don’t believe I’d care if my feet turn to blocks of ice—this is worth it a thousand times over!”

  “I promise to whisk you inside ere your feet freeze in truth. I don’t need another mishap of yours laid at my doorstep. The ones I was responsible for yesterday are quite enough, I assure you.”

  “How you go on, Lord Frostwood. No one blames you for my clumsiness.” While she spoke, a flurry of wind blew a flake or two past her lips and into her mouth. Isabella was instantly reminded of the sensation of his tongue gliding toward that same destination the night before. She ducked to hide her increased awareness of him.

  “Yes of course, because everyone can easily see what a gummy gollumpus you are,” he chided with no little irony, gently leading them in another direction. “Miss Isabella, clumsy you most certainly are not!”

  “You say that with such certainty given how short our acquaintance. I cannot help but think you champion me simply because you think it’s required as a gentleman.”

  He coughed softly. “Yes, well…ahem. I will grant my surety of your gracefulness comes not from a wish to curry favor, nor do I choose to continue defending myself against your unfounded accusation and attempt to convince you of the truth of my observation, for indeed I have something of greater interest to share with you.”

  “I am upon thorns and needles awaiting whatever it might be.”

  “Woman, you mock me thoroughly.” He sounded so exaggeratedly aggrieved she could do naught but unsuccessfully muffle a laugh. “You’ll be happy to note the flakes are growing larger and what’s more, they aren’t that beautiful color of soot one tends to find in London.”

  “So…big white fluffy ones are coming down now?”

  “Aye, I ordered them to. How else could I shield our excursion from any curious onlookers? You must agree, traipsing the grounds isn’t recommended for one with so egregiously a wounded ankle.”

  “Even the heavens obey your orders? Then they are much better behaved than I!” She curved her elbow around his forearm so she could tug the glove free from her opposite hand. The gloves had been on her nightstand when she retired last evening though Isabella was certain she’d searched there initially. Discounting the perplexing mystery, she held up a bare palm, having removed the bandages that morning, and laughed when the cold chill met her flesh. “Guide me, oh He Who Rules the Weather,” she intoned. “I’ll catch some of these prodigious flakes you commanded into existence.”

  She expected him to direct her with words. Instead, he cupped his large hand beneath hers and tilted and swayed her arm—and their aligned bodies—bringing her flesh into contact with wispy bits of icy nothing. Again and again.

  Isabella laughed when several delicate flakes hit her palm, eager to savor each moment of this spectacular morning. The flakes soon melted into a freezing drop that slid toward her wrist. Her entire arm came alive as never before—or perhaps that was his nearness, enlivening her very existence. “This is truly lovely! I haven’t been outside in years.”

  “Not outside?” He sounded astonished.

  “Not like this!” She relinquished her hold on his forearm and spun in a slow circle, confident he wouldn’t have allowed the move had the way not been clear. “Glorious! Glorious!”

  Isabella raised her face to the sky, squinted then blinked when gossamer shards of ice hit her eyes, and laughed some more. Free, she realized. She hadn’t felt this free since The Accident and resulting…imprisonment imposed by her father.

  But this? Racing outside to enjoy an early morning snowfall with Lord Frostwood? Pure Christmas magic with a magical lord, one she’d give anything to see…

  Blinking incipient tears now as well as snow, she drew the bracing air into her lungs and spun faster, allowing her feet to cross in front of each other, whipping her body round and round. It was the closest she could come to running full-out. Her chest strained with the effort, her head reeled from the motion.

  One foot slid on the icy ground.

  But Frost was there in an instant, sweeping her against his chest and brandishing his lips across hers.

  Mouths pressed intimately together, her feet dangling in the air, his arms secure about her waist and hers wound over his shoulders, Isabella surrendered to the man before her, gave everything she had to matching his kiss, unwilling to think of all the reasons why she shouldn’t.

  Her lips tasted of a fresh spring morning. Of new life and pure innocence. And that’s what stopped him—the innocence.

  She hadn’t a clue how much deeper he wanted to take their kiss, how he’d envisioned taking her to bed with him last night, baring her body before his hungry gaze and showing her all the passion he’d kept locked inside until chancing across an unassuming, utterly beguiling miss…

  Passion that now threatened to rise to the surface, heating him to boiling on a cold winter’s day with nothing more than the taste of innocent frosty lips beneath his own.

  With a groan, he tore his mouth from hers and lowered her feet to the ground. Breathing hard and attempting to mask it, Frost said lightly, “There now, we can’t go ruining the perfect morning by having you take a tumble.”

  “A tumble, my lord?” She licked her lips, tasting him one last time if he wasn’t mistaken. It was while watching those glistening, now-swollen lips, while watching snowflakes land upon them and leaning in to kiss her again—his conscience be damned—that her words registered, as did his own.

  “Blast and da— Dratted gnats! Take a tumble, as in fall, not tumble as in…the other. Blast!”

  Flushed pink but with a saucy smile and her arms still about his neck, she rocked backward on one leg then came forward again until their chests almost touched. “Gratified am I, you made that clear.”

  Though it seemed reluctant to him, she slowly took her arms down and stepped completely away. “Although…should I behave as I ought, I would now be taking to the snow in a swoon and crying, ‘Lord Frostwood, you dastard! What if someone chances by?’”

  He fought the urge to take her into his arms again. “Then I would behave as I ought not and assure you, ‘There’s no one around, my dear. And if there were, I wouldn’t care.’”

  As if embracing the role, she magnified her pseudo-protest, pressing both hands to her throat and exclaiming, “But… We can’t! We shouldn’t!”

  Convincing himself as well as her, Frost stood his ground in the increasing snowfall and demanded in a mock-gruff voice, “Whyever not? There’s a spray of mistletoe
directly overhead, I’ll have you know.”

  “There is?” she asked in her regular tone, lowering her arms. “Oh. I didn’t realize we were under a tree.”

  They weren’t.

  “Of course there is,” he lied without qualm. What was it about her that drove him to do so? He’d never been one to spout clankers before—not since embellishing nonexistent holidays at school.

  Frost quickly fished a berry from his pocket—he’d had the forethought to stash several there earlier—and made a great show of stretching toward the cloud-studded sky, which was all that hung over them at present. “Here—don’t bite down now.”

  He placed the white berry between her lips then immediately covered them with his own lest she swallow the damn thing. The only thing he wanted in her mouth that didn’t belong there was his tongue.

  What was he thinking? His tongue did belong there!

  Sucking the berry into his mouth and tucking it alongside his cheek and out of the way, he applied himself to convincing her of the truth of that thought—how very much his tongue belonged upon her person. Inside her person.

  How very much he was beginning to believe he belonged inside her heart. As she was swiftly melting his.

  Chapter Six

  A Slew of Festive Berries

  “You are returned from delivering your new feathered friend?” Ed had the audacity to inquire when Frost marched up the drive after his errand later the same day.

  The wet clouds had departed and the sun now sparked off the three inches of snow that blanketed the ground from that morning, very few footprints—save his own and a webbed pair alongside—marring its pristine condition.

  “Stuff it,” he said. “Have you any idea the look a farmer bestows upon a man who pays him not to butcher prime livestock? ‘Queer titled pudding-head’, I think I heard him mutter.”