Miss Isabella Thaws a Frosty Lord

by Larissa Lyons

  After dashing the semblance of moisture from her eyes, she slowly raised her hand to his jaw. His lips still throbbed. Blood pounded through his hands—and sundry other parts of his anatomy. But he forced himself to remain resolutely still as her gentle touch met his chin and drifted higher.

  “I wish I could see you and consider your countenance for myself. Could see whether you dally with me most cruelly.”

  As her fingers crossed his mouth just then, he could no more offer the retort that rose to his tongue than abandon his efforts at wooing this delightful creature.

  Too soon she whisked her hand away and tapped his temple, saying as if she believed not a word of his near declaration, “I think the kissing bough and Christmas spirit have addled your wits. Those sticky berries you ply me with have gummed up your garret.”

  “Likely so, but I assure you my intentions are of the purest.” Though his desires were anything but.

  She took her hand away and left him bereft. As though resolved, she said emphatically, “You cannot possibly be as handsome as Harriet would have me believe.”

  “Can I not? Noble nose aside, I am accounted to cut quite a dash.”

  She giggled at his audacity. “For shame, Lord Frostwood. You are entirely lacking in modesty.”

  “Then is that not another foible you can lay at my feet? Another instance of imperfection? Does that not please you mightily?”

  At his good humor in mocking himself, hers seemed to evaporate. “No, for were I perfect I would see you and know for myself.”

  And so the magical holiday continued…

  With Lord Frostwood squiring her about for two more days in his arms—“While your ankle comes up to snuff”—then for several more on his arm—while he scowled at Simon Gregory and any other man who dared approach her. (Both Harriet and Anne made sure to inform Isabella of this repeated occurrence.)

  With Lord Frostwood partnering her at most of the holiday amusements.

  With Lord Frostwood exchanging berries for kisses…

  Oh, Isabella knew not to take his attentions to heart—she was simply convenient and he was simply bored. That had to be why he showered such consideration upon her.

  But oh—his kisses!

  As if he’d recognized the desperation she’d shown ardently responding to him in the ballroom, his kisses changed, became lighter and more playful. Definitely safer. But Isabella felt them no less intensely.

  Whether the proper application of his lips upon her wrist above her glove or the wholly improper slide of his mouth upon the back of her neck just before he escorted her into the dining room—and she gasped loud enough to be heard in Scotland—or the soft press of his lips upon hers before he bid her good night…

  Each of his kisses left her breathless and yearning for more. And clutching the latest berry he’d snuck into her hand.

  At the rate they were proceeding, the kissing bough ought to be almost bare.

  What would he do then?

  What would she?

  Especially since the days marched on toward Twelfth Night…

  With her falling harder and harder for a man she’d never see.

  Because she captured his interest as nothing else, the Earl of Frostwood observed the enticing Miss Isabella most thoroughly. He noticed she tended to play least-in-sight when others were milling about and not yet settled. Saw how she maintained a high degree of dignity and an impressive semblance of independence.

  But was she really? Independent?

  He knew she’d been denied a dowry but beyond that she remained mute, insisting she’d rather not dredge up unpleasant reminders of life outside Redford Manor.

  Questions poked at him like pointy leaves from a sprig of holly. She was too alluring not to have a harping mother or overprotective aunt nearby. Too young not to have a chaperone plastered to her side.

  Too old to still be in the schoolroom.

  Too ideal for his peace of mind.

  It seemed to him that the days flew by with the wretched speed of a swarm of locusts. Though he strove to hold tight to every magical moment, imprint every memory he could, they came at him so hard and so fast he could barely remain standing. And this, from the man who previously loathed Christmastime above every other season to be endured? It was unfathomable—how easily she made him see everything differently with naught but her presence.

  Thank God for Ed. Ed and Lady Redford. Without them and their pestering invitation, where would he be now? Four bottles castaway with the headache and sour stomach and gut full of regret that came with it. Certainly no closer to the feeling of euphoria that drifted just within reach.

  Because he found the more time he spent with Issybelle, the more he realized how very closed off he’d become from everything and everyone save a few choice friends, how very much he’d driven himself beyond perfection and into exhaustion. Recognized how she melted chinks in his crusty exterior, exposed the man beneath—a man who no longer thought of himself as cold, his heart a block of ice. As Frost.

  With every hour he spent in her company, he recalled more of the boy he’d been…Nicky. Christmas memories and blissful recollections of childhood besieged his mind for the first time in decades. And he allowed it. Allowed the reminders to bring comfort instead of pain.

  Allowed himself to become Nicholas. And how he wanted the thawing to continue.

  But time was running out.

  His nose no longer resembled an elephant’s; her palms had healed nicely.

  Nicholas knew because he’d licked the left one just yesterday before opening the door to her bedchamber where Isabella persisted in retiring for her afternoon “restorative”.

  He also knew she always slipped back out of her room after hearing his footsteps retreat—something he’d determined one day when she didn’t leave immediately as he loitered directly across the hall—and sped toward the ballroom using the most circuitous route imaginable. In order to avoid crossing paths with himself or anyone else, he surmised.

  However efficiently she did so, she escaped as regularly as the tick of a clock, retreating to the empty ballroom to move in ways too magical to be termed “dance”. She lifted his spirits with her fluid, elegant motions. With her lithe, alluring grace.

  And that wasn’t all she lifted either.

  At some point Nicholas had come to realize he wanted her with a fervent desire that went beyond any he’d experienced with prior liaisons.

  He wanted her body.

  He wanted her spirit.

  He wanted her love.

  Blast it! He wanted her to be his countess and he had absolutely no idea how to go about securing such a thing.

  Not when she was so deuced elusive about her last name, her parentage, her past. Certainly a single word in Ed’s ear would’ve resolved the mystery to his satisfaction. But he’d been reluctant to do so, only wanting to hear about Isabella from Isabella.

  Not when she didn’t trust him sufficiently to agree to dance with him when he asked. Or to confess the truth about her afternoon lying-in, which was anything but. Not when she repeatedly accused him of being nothing more than a dangler, a rakeshame, interested only in a holiday dalliance.

  It was time for a change in their circumstances.

  Time to convince her of the sincerity of his regard.

  Hell, she’d already changed him, Nicholas thought ruefully, barging past the heavy double doors and into the ballroom—wincing when his left hand hit the ornate wood harder than intended—humming a damn Christmas tune!

  He’d begun enjoying the gaiety of the season again, enjoying life again, and it was thanks to an unassuming scrap of a woman he no longer wanted to live without.

  And it was time she bloody well took him seriously.

  Chapter Seven

  Isabella—gasp!—Rejects a Festive Offer

  Nicholas Michael Henry Winten, Lord Frostwood.

  Isabella Jane Winten…Countess of Frostwood.

  Lovely ring to it, she thought, envisioning th
e wondrous future her daughter would have as his bride.

  Nicholas…so roguishly handsome, even with that dour frown—the one he had difficulty holding on to when Issybelle was near, she’d noticed.

  She also noted how he’d moderated his consumption of spirits after that first night. Most thoughtful of him—one certainly didn’t want their future son-in-law to turn into a corned toss pot!

  Aye, most thoughtful.

  Even more so was how he forbore mocking her daughter for her most unusual pastime as Isabella’s papa had been wont to do—disagreeable toad.

  Also quite unlike the cur she’d been wedded to, when Nicholas barked a command, it was out of habit and a desire for order, not with the intent to feel superior or lord his station over others.

  And Nicholas was an earl, Hervey a mere baron. Ha!

  Ah yes, she’d be smiling nigh until the wedding. If only she had someone to share her joy with…

  “Lord Frostwood? Without doubt I’ve seen—dare I say it?—how pleasant he’s become of late and have you noticed what an attachment he seems to have developed for Isabella?”

  “Why certainly! One would have to be blind to miss it.” There was a slight snicker, instantly subdued. “Oh, I did not mean that, truly. She’s a lovely girl but one who best take care ere she lose more than her heart.”

  Isabella paused on her way to the ballroom. By now she knew exactly when the musicians started their rehearsal and she’d easily excused herself from an afternoon of charades—a most difficult game, to be sure, when one had only the shouted guesses of others to base their own wild conjectures upon.

  Winding through the great manor, she’d come upon Anne’s mother and some of the other women in a side parlor, gossiping over tea and cakes—gossiping over her and Lord Frostwood.

  They didn’t know Isabella sufficiently to be concerned about her feelings. Well, perhaps Martha did, Anne’s mama, but it had been a good many years since she’d seen the carefree Isabella who grew up romping with her daughter.

  Hovering near the doorway, Isabella couldn’t bring herself to continue on, not yet. She should’ve anticipated something like this…she chose to keep to herself more often than not and rarely joined in large, convivial conversations. When too many people spoke at once, it was simply too much to keep up with, identifying who said what and who was about to jump into the fray, to know when it would be appropriate to add whatever comment might be flitting through her mind.

  Compounded by her solitary existence at Spierton, it only made sense she tended to seek the privacy of her own company or that of a single cherished friend rather than actively participate in the larger assemblies.

  Justified or not, none of that made hearing comments about her life being bantered about so blithely any easier…though she was curious how others saw her, and how they might view her current association with Lord Frostwood.

  Praying no one would cross her path in the hallway, Isabella pressed against the wall, pushed away the guilt, and listened with all her might.

  “Lose more than her heart? You don’t mean to imply she’s light-heeled or free with her favors?”

  Mistletoe berries aside, she wasn’t…

  “Oh, not at all. What I meant was everyone knows how he treated his mother all those years, consigning the poor woman to the country, never bringing her to London and never—”

  “Never visiting her, not once!” another voice finished in astonishment. “So cruel! So cold and heartless!”

  Someone else put in, “Well, I for one can hardly countenance his reputed treatment of her, not the way Lord and Lady Redford speak so highly of him.”

  “Be that as it may,” the first voice again, “what shall we do about dear Isabella? We cannot let a green girl fall for a man who hasn’t any feeling. It would be completely remiss of us.”

  “Unfeeling? How can you say that?” Martha queried. “Have you not seen the way he fixes himself to whichever corner of the room she’s inhabiting, glowering at anyone who dares approach?”

  Warmed at having that last bit confirmed, Isabella listened only a bit longer before moving on.

  Hearing additional speculation wasn’t necessary; what others thought didn’t skew her own feelings toward Lord Frostwood in the least—for the man who spent time with her was anything but unfeeling.

  Although their comments did make her doubly curious about his life outside of Redford Manor, and doubly certain she had no place in it.

  “You’re late,” he accused when she finally appeared. “They’ve been practicing nigh on twenty minutes now.”

  Nicholas watched his words stop Isabella cold.

  With every second that elapsed and the woman he’d expected failed to materialize, his agitation had surged, sinking his patience faster than eight stone tied to a goose feather.

  After pulling wide every drape the cavernous room boasted—which hadn’t done a damn bit of good, more winter clouds having rolled in—he’d paced the empty dance floor unceasingly.

  The dismal sky and gloomy ballroom only reinforced his grim mood. Even curdled the first taste of wassail he’d braved earlier, when hope held him in its thrall. By the time she silently eased through the doors, he was annoyed with her for concealing this part of herself from him and annoyed with himself for not confronting her sooner.

  But she was here now, frozen just inside the double doors. And looking woefully uncertain.

  “No, you’re not hearing things.”

  Isabella opened her mouth, gave a little squeak, then clamped it shut. She hung her head, making no move to retreat or to explain.

  He stood there, not ten feet away, and waited. For about two seconds then he blurted, “Aye, I know about your afternoon restoratives.”

  Nicholas heard how much venom the last word contained and hated that it bothered him so—her hiding from him. Hated more how easily such an occurrence never had to happen. “Why, Isabella? Why did you not tell me that initial day we conversed and you abandoned me for this that you needed to hear the musicians? That you needed to dance? Think you I would begrudge—”

  “Please, Lord Frostwood. Please do not…do not…” She took several steps into the room and held out her hands beseechingly. “Please don’t be angry with me. I know it’s vulgar and despicable and I have no right to contort my limbs, no right…”

  Now he was the silent one. Listening to her jabber on about her horrid actions and coarse demeanor and could he ever forgive her… On and on she implored, taking tiny, halting steps toward the area where he’d spoken from.

  Having paced several strides to the left, she was far off the mark. It mattered not that she continued to reach out for him as she pleaded, mattered not that she should have been accusing him of spying on her, yelling at him for questioning her right to do anything she damn well pleased. For violating her trust and trapping her this way…

  Nothing mattered except gaining an understanding of how the vivacious and confident woman he’d come to know had been transformed into an incomprehensible milk-and-water miss with nothing more than an irate sentence. One he had no right to even utter. “Isabella! Halt!”

  She jerked as if struck then angled sharply until she faced him, her impassioned appeal trailing off.

  He stood mute, struggling to comprehend the dichotomy with which they each viewed her actions.

  Starkly…hesitantly, she queried, “Lord…Frostwood…are you still here?”

  Propelled, he strode forward and gripped her shoulders. “‘Lord Frostwood’ be damned. Call me Nicholas. Call me an idiot, an imbecile or Lady Redford’s favorite, a cork-brained simpleton. Call me anything you desire, sweetheart, but tell me why in the name of heaven would you think the sublime dance you engage in every afternoon could be considered vulgar? Then tell me you’ll dance with me tonight. With me, by God.”

  She listed toward him. “What did you say?”

  He tightened his hold on her, mentally cursing his bandaged left hand when it protested. “Are your lugs
out now like your lamps? I spoke clearly enough. I want to know why you keep this beautiful, magical part of yourself from me. From the world. Why mask it at all? And why in blazes won’t you dance with me?” His voice had roared to a crescendo.

  Hers was a light breeze. “You…you don’t think it’s shameful?”

  “Damn shameful I cannot hold you in my arms and waltz across the floor as I’ve dreamed for days. And nights—oh, the nights!”

  She tried to tug away.

  When he held firm, she turned her head to the side and he saw moisture dampening her lashes. He shook her to bring her head around. “Why?”

  “Why do I behave like a heathen?” she fairly spat at him, going rigid beneath the grip of his hands. “Why do I contort my body in vulgar ways befitting a damn hedge whore?” He gasped at her language. Not so much stunned at hearing the words, but stunned at hearing her speak them—and in regard to herself! Before he could protest, she railed at him. “Or why do I hide from you? From everyone? Why won’t I dance with you? Is that what you demand to know?” Her body went slack, all the fight and flame drained from her. “Because I’m nothing but a wretched, damaged female whose only purpose in life is to draw in air that better belongs to another!”

  With that, she wrenched from his slackened hold and jerked back only to round on him, suddenly breathing fire again. “Is that what you wanted to hear? What Father disciplines into my head every time he catches me moving in any manner he considers unbecoming—which means anything not sitting prim, back starched straight, hands folded, feet on the floor—and still as a grave!—in a bloody chair!”

  “Isabella…” he murmured, but she wasn’t finished.

  “Do you know he released my governess the moment the physicians told him my sight would never be normal? That the quote you so admired and everything else I’ve learned since is whatever Mama could bring to hand and share with me?” Her pale eyes flashed sparks at him. “That the first time Father caught me moving to music in my head he locked me in my room for three days so I could ‘contemplate upon whatever reprehensible actions had drawn this particular punishment to me’? What else do you demand to know?”