She cocked her head and evaluated him in such a way he felt like a slimy insect about to be dissected. “Well? I’m sure there are thousands, no, make that hundreds more because ever since The Disastrous Accident he hasn’t wanted to look upon his imperfect daughter and orders me from his sight any time I dare cross his path!”
Her tirade had drawn the attention of the musicians. They’d stopped playing and three of them were leaning over the balustrade. Nicholas waved them back. A gold sovereign or two should ensure their silence. He’d see to that after he saw to the mistaken woman trembling before him.
Her heart bled a river of crimson; her wings ceased to sway. If she’d had air to breathe, it would’ve escaped on a sigh, one of despair.
Not once since joining this dimension had hope and happiness seemed so unattainable.
She’d known of course, how he’d spurned their only child, first for daring to be female then with more vehemence once it became clear no male heirs would follow. Had known his anger increased once Isabella was no longer a “perfect” little lady to parade before any marriage-minded lords or their sons as a pawn for his political aspirations.
Had known his contempt raged stronger than compassion, his fury fiercer than love…
But knowing how her precious daughter had been treated and witnessing the effects with the clarity of one in the beyond were two vastly different experiences.
Oh, my darling… What has he done to you?
“Nicky’ll take grand care of her, just see if he doesn’t!”
Startled by the exuberant voice, she turned to behold an adorable golden-haired child. A beaming girl who’d joined her atop the lonely nimbus. “He calls her Issybelle too. Have you noticed? She’s perfect for him, I think.”
Yes, and I think he’s perfect for her.
Marveling at the miracle she’d had no hand in, she extended one feathery wing. The child eagerly nestled beside her. “Are you not delighted?”
Most assuredly she was beyond delighted, for now she had someone to share her hope. “Aye, moppet, I do believe they are rather magnificently suited.” As are we.
So much became clear in an instant.
Why she’d chided him for aspiring to perfection.
Why she hid her love of dancing, though he still believed that particular word to be woefully inadequate for the splendor her limbs wrought.
Why she embraced his kisses—and dare he think him specifically—as she did, so uninhibitedly, so recklessly for one of her quality. So wonderfully. And as one set free for only a short time—with every expectation of being locked away again after a brief reprieve.
“No, no… You have it all wrong.” He pulled her into his arms and hugged her tight, speaking over the sheen of glossy brown ringlets. “Vulgar? Nay! Issybelle, what you do is the most magical thing I’ve ever witnessed. Why do you think I did not confront you that very first day? I could not speak for the lump in my throat clogged it with emotion unlike any I have ever experienced.”
She stirred, and he embraced her more fiercely. “As for your father, whoever the rotter is, he deserves to be whipped—nay, strangled—for all he’s done to harm you.”
She leaned back as if to evaluate his countenance but instead gazed far beyond his shoulder. “You should not say such a thing—even in jest.”
“Who says I’m jesting?” His fingers dug into her hips until her eyes flicked toward his. “It would give me great pleasure to destroy any man who would cause you such pain.”
“Thank you.”
“For what? Barging in and bullying you shamelessly?”
“For championing me wholeheartedly.”
“Will you now tell me how in blazes you lost your sight? Your father isn’t responsible, is he?”
“No, not at all.” She peeled his hand free and he stoically refused to wince, finding solace when she turned in his arms until he stood cradling her backside along his front. Only then did she speak.
“It’s difficult to pinpoint…there was no notable event, no scorching fever or great blow, simply a swift lessening of my vision until it disappeared altogether. My eyes merely failed.”
“They just…stopped seeing?”
“Mama first realized something was amiss when I began knocking into things. Spilling things.” She heaved a sigh and he heard the guilt she’d heaped upon herself.
“The accident, you mentioned?”
Her head nodded beneath his chin. “Spilling things upon important people. I was a year or two younger than Harriet. Father had guests, several men whose favor he curried. I was carrying the tea tray—Mama allowed it after I begged, wanting to see these influential lords Papa spoke so highly of—when my foot snagged. I pitched forward and splashed hot tea all over Lord Wroxley, embarrassing Father to no end.”
“You were but a child!”
He felt her slight shrug. “A child who by this time only saw small slices of what was before her and didn’t realize it was anything unusual. Father accused me of crying false. When physicians confirmed my sight had narrowed and might soon be gone, he called me worthless because who wants a damaged bride likely to develop additional imperfections?”
“Oh, Issybelle, God no…” Her father was a buffoon’s arse, and if he ever had the chance, Nicholas would extract immense satisfaction telling him so. For now, he told Isabella another truth. “Lord Wroxley’s a whining wigsby, one who could stand a good dousing. I’m sure the tea did him— Wait!” He swiveled Isabella around, his gaze seeking the old gash that spliced her eyebrow, that adorable, dangling curl obscuring the worst of it. “What about the scar on your forehead?”
“More of that stupid clumsiness I lay claim to, I’m afraid. I tripped over a pair of Father’s boots and landed against a corner table.” From all she’d told him—and all she hadn’t—he’d wager the damn sod had left them there on purpose.
As a child when tragedy occurred, Nicholas had been in no position to offer protest or defend himself and vent his grief at the injustice. Now as a man with considerable influence and the power to have others do his bidding, he could no more take away her past pain or rectify the wrongs she’d suffered. But he could heal her heart as she was healing his.
Fisting his hands together so tightly he swore, Nicholas willed the useless anger to recede. Which it did in a trice for he had more significant feelings to address—hers. Uncoiling his fingers, he slid one beneath the ringlet and caressed the area above her right eye. “I’d thought this was to blame…”
Words failed him and he bent to press his lips to the spot.
“’Tis only an obvious reminder of my wretched clumsiness.”
He growled, knowing instantly whose words she repeated. “Nay, never that.” He moved his lips to her temple. “A mishap, ’tis all.” To her cheek. “Something that simply happens without thought or plan.” To the shell of her ear, causing her to fidget…so back to her cheek. “Not something one intends or ever needs to berate themself over again, just like my unforeseen blunder this afternoon.”
Easier to share his own “wretched clumsiness” than to continue kissing and lose his head.
“Yours?”
“Aye.” He held his left hand between them and brought hers to it so she could feel the wrapping. “Sliced a good inch along my palm earlier.”
“Nicholas! Why did you not say something sooner? Has it been stitched?”
He smiled at her concern. “After spending years serving king and country and seeing all manner of wounds, I can assure you ’tis nothing that a bit of time and clean dressings won’t heal.”
Her fingers were gently frantic upon his hand. “You do not bam me? It truly isn’t serious?”
“How could you think I lie?”
Her ministrations faltered, head lifted toward his. She cocked one eyebrow and pursed her lips. “Ahem.”
He coughed self-consciously. “Well yes…I take your point, but did I not already confess I am the modicum of truthfulness everywhere but around…ah…”
>
“Me?”
He coughed again. “Peck my eyes with a deuced goose if I do not tell the truth. Now and forevermore.”
“And what truth is that?”
“That no one ever muddled my mouth as you do. That I want to be muddled forever and—blast it—though it grieves me to no end, I know I need to speak with your father before I offer—”
“No!” She covered his lips with her hand. Well, first his chin then his lips. “You must not speak thus. My course is set after Twelfth Night and does not—”
“With another?” he mumbled against her fingers. “Have you plans with another?”
“Nay. But what you speak now… Leave off spinning castles betwixt us, if you please. Come now, we have two nights remaining of this glorious holiday. Let us not mar it with talk of anything else.”
He licked her fingers and she removed them at once. “Even when it is our future happiness I speak of?”
“Oh, Nicholas…”
“I shall change your mind and claim your hand, of that I promise you.” Before she could protest further he added, “And you will promise me a dance.”
“Will I now?” She gave a saucy tilt that sent those enticing ringlets bouncing. “Orders who?”
Chapter Eight
Nicholas Commands a Festive Ending
Blast and damn, the vexing chit still refused to dance with him.
I do not know how to waltz. Everyone will be watching… Oh, I just cannot! Please understand!
He understood one thing with surety. She would be dancing with him—and in mere minutes—and she wouldn’t be concerned with where anyone else was directing their gaze either.
January 5th, 1814 ~ Twelfth Night
“As tomorrow marks the end of our time together—” A chorus of good-natured boos interrupted Anne’s statement. She made consoling noises until the clamor died down. “It has been a splendid holiday, has it not? And tonight, it promises to only get better!”
From her seat near the corner, Isabella spared not a thought to what was in store, too embroiled in her own turbulent musings.
What Nicholas alluded to—a future between them—was all she’d ever dreamed of, more than she’d dared conceive, but Father would never agree to her marrying a peer. To her marrying anyone. For it equated to advertising her defects. He’d never allow it and, as a female, she had no right to gainsay him. No authority to do as Nicholas decreed.
And she must stop thinking of him as such! He was Lord Frostwood.
Oh, but how it hurt to deny him and her own heart.
You don’t have to, some rebellious imp whispered. The same imp she suspected who had encouraged her to come to Redford Manor. The same imp who kept urging her to admit to Nicholas how she felt. But how could she? They were from different worlds, different—
“Because…” Anne’s voice rang out, louder than before. “Everyone will be blindfolded for the duration of the evening!”
Blindfolded?
Pardon?
Excited murmurs erupted throughout the crowded ballroom. “Not the men of course—they need to know where they’re going so they can lead, but all ladies will have their eyes covered! A truly masked ball, if you will.” Anne clapped her hands. “Silk scarves are being distributed by the servants. Once yours is on—”
A butter-soft sash was thrust into Isabella’s restless fingers. “But I’m not—”
“Yes, miss. Lady Redford said specifically you was to have one,” the servant told her before departing.
“Each dance will be gentleman’s choice,” Anne continued. “Are you ready, ladies? Gentlemen, snare your partners!”
Amid giggles and titters and the shuffling of many feet, Isabella sat there bewildered and baffled and not blindfolded. What was Anne about now?
“Come now,” said a velvety-smooth voice from behind her just as the sash was snatched away. “You must do as your hostess instructs.”
“Musicians…begin!”
As the first notes of a lovely, slow waltz commenced, fabric was stretched tight across her eyes and wrapped snugly about her head. “This was your idea, was it not?” she accused. “Do not answer. I know that it was.”
Isabella started to fight him when he fashioned the knot. Started to, but chose instead to sit compliantly and offer only a token protest. “This is absurd! I cannot see anything as it is.” For though anxious, she desperately wanted to know where this might lead.
With Nicholas taking her hand, pulling her to her feet and leading her onto the dance floor. That’s where.
“Very necessary,” he intoned, replicating their positions from a couple days prior. Only this time when he took her in his arms, she willed the instinctive fear to recede. There was no cause for alarm. She was in a ballroom where one was expected to dance, at a private house party no less and—perhaps most importantly of all—for once in her life, every other female was blinded too.
What an odd circumstance he’d created on her behalf. Isabella wasn’t sure what to make of it.
“Don’t hold yourself so stiffly,” he ordered, and she caught the hint of cloves on his breath.
“Been sampling the wassail again?” her lips asked while her mind battled conflicting desires—staying put or wrenching away. And finding a place to hide.
“That I have.” Giving her no chance for escape, he firmed his grip at her waist and around her hand and they were off. “It’s every bit as delicious as I remembered.”
Though her upper body remained rigid within the unfamiliar waltzing hold, her feet felt at home and she concentrated only on Nicholas, his strength, and his silent direction. Concentrated on Lord Frostwood, her stubborn conscience reminded.
After a single stumble, her legs stretched instinctively to match his longer strides and Isabella soon found herself soaring backward across the dance floor.
Not once did he clomp upon her toes. Not once did she allow any old refrains to mar her joy.
She was…dancing. Actually dancing!
Dancing with Lord Frostwood while other couples swirled about—she heard the rustle of long, fancy dresses circling nearby and the low murmur of conversations ebbing and flowing as she and her partner glided across the ballroom as graceful as swans on a lake… And she was part of it all thanks to this wonderful, magical man. Christmastime had never been so marvelous.
Eventually the music slowed and Anne instructed everyone to exchange partners.
Their feet waned to a stop and a dip of fear tumbled through her belly.
“Miss Isabella?” Simon Gregory queried. “Will—”
“Will be dancing with me for the duration.” To emphasize, Lord Frostwood pulled her closer. His possession warmed her and calmed the knot of nerves—but it wasn’t done. She couldn’t dance with him and only him. It would be tantamount to an announcement.
It simply wasn’t done! What else wasn’t done was the objection Isabella knew she should offer but chose not to. In the lengthening silence, her eyelashes flickered strangely against the foreign sash.
“Very well, but be advised I may ask again,” Mr. Gregory graciously acceded.
The music started yet Lord Frostwood remained in place. “Then I shall be forced to deny your request again. And again. Isabella will only be partnering me tonight and I her. Special circumstances, you know. Future wife and all.”
Isabella gasped but the sound was covered by Mr. Gregory’s cough. “Thought that might be the way of it. May I wish you both happy, then?”
“You may.” Not a moment later he guided her backward, instantly taking up the one-two-three rhythm.
“My lord?”
“Call me Nicholas, darling Issybelle. Future husband and all.”
She laughed with a combination of sheer amazement and pure panic. “When Anne pronounced you an imbecile, I didn’t realize she had the right of it. You cannot claim we are to be wed!”
“Oh? Thought I just did.”
“It’s terribly forward of you.”
He hum
med a tune nowhere near the waltz and spun her in a fast circle. “Most likely.”
“As were all your kisses.”
“But you like my forward kisses.”
“So I do, but Father will never—”
“You have an unreasonable fear of your father, have you considered that?” He spun her again.
An unreasonable fear. What a simple, succinct way to describe the emotions that roiled through her at the mere mention of the man.
“That’s understandable.” Nicholas stroked his thumb over her fingers, clasped her hand snugly and swung her the opposite direction. “As a boy, I suffered an unreasonable fear of my mother. I’ll tell you about it sometime, but for now, do not forget that you’re a grown woman, one eminently capable of making her own decisions.”
“A ruined woman,” she retorted, her head, impossibly, more topsy-turvy than her feet, “practically on the shelf where I am expected to stay.”
“You’re so far from the shelf you aren’t even in the same room.” He faltered mid-spin. “Did you say ruined? Has some dastard taken advantage of you, Isa—”
“Besides you?”
That stopped him short. But not for long. With a deep chuckle, he was off again, twirling her about the floor with long sweeping strides. “Those were ordained Christmas kisses I’ll have you know, Issybelle. I was commanded by tradition and moved by the holiday spirit.”
“Aye, and I was moved by your lips,” she confessed, holding tight to him and reveling in the whirling sensation that overtook her. Between their conversation and his magnificent dancing spins, dizziness made her careless. “But now I’m to be removed to one of Father’s northern properties.”
“Removed? Like a side of uneaten veal?”
Miss Isabella Thaws a Frosty Lord Page 9