Miss Isabella Thaws a Frosty Lord

by Larissa Lyons

  “He’s remarrying come February and installing his new bride at home.”

  The spins ground to a halt. Anger raged from his voice and his tensed posture. “What? And the sod’s evicting you?”

  “I’m an embarrassment to him, you see. I fear I would be to you as well.” She attempted to tug free. He wouldn’t allow her retreat.

  “Embarrassment? To me? How could you think—?” He leaned close and hissed, “Do you think Ed is an embarrassment to his lady wife?”

  “Edward? Whatever do you mean?”

  His voice turned cold, belying how hotly his breath blasted above her ear. “Does she shun him or gatherings with friends and family because he has only one hand? I should say not! Not the way he beleaguered me—at her behest—to attend!”

  Isabella turned her face toward his, and whispered back, “One hand, you say?”

  After a brief pause, his body unclenched and he led hers in a sweeping circle. “You didn’t know?”

  “She never spoke of it.”

  “You didn’t know!” He barked a laugh. “The irony! Just as I did not know you couldn’t see—you get along remarkably well, you know, have impressed me from the moment your dangling curl cast out a lure I couldn’t resist.” He slowed and nuzzled her cheek. “I wish we were alone. I’d show you how very much I’ve come to adore your defiant ringlets and everything about you.”

  “But—your heir,” she protested weakly, knowing that was the primary purpose of any peer’s wife. “We’ve no guarantee I could birth your heir or…or that he wouldn’t be blind.”

  “Then we’ll love him all the more. All our children.”

  Her heart skipped at the feel of his lips brushing her temple just beneath the sash, skipped more at the realization he was completely serious. “Nicholas…”

  His mouth moved, pressed against hers once, then he straightened. “But that’s for later. I’ve not finished dancing with you. Here now, enjoy yourself tonight. I promise to address and resolve each of your concerns tomor—”

  “What in Hades is the meaning of this?”

  The unmistakable bellow threatened to slay every spark of hope and happiness she’d found.

  “Isabella? Where in God’s name are— Dancing? Redford, how dare you condone such a farce!” The musicians screeched to a halt. The sounds of sashes slipping over heads and couples shuffling back did little to mask the seething tirade spewed their way. “I arrive home early to find you gone…then track you down, making a mockery of yourself? Flaunting my attempts to disguise your deformity…ungrateful wretch!”

  Isabella swallowed audibly but made no move to extricate herself from Nicholas’ embrace. It was the only thing propping her up. “F-father,” she stammered then took strength from the man holding her. Unreasonable fear, she reminded herself. “Father, did you have a happy Christmas?”

  “Isabella!” he roared, and a mile away the goose honked its displeasure at being woken. “Come, girl! We leave for Spierton this instant!”

  She slid her arm from Nicholas’ shoulder and he immediately took her hand between his. “Married?” she whispered. “Are you certain?”

  “Aye.”

  “Come, Isabella!”

  Just as she opened her mouth to refuse to heel like a dog, Edward’s voice broke through the increasing murmurs. “Lord Spier, let us repair to my study, shall we?”

  One arm secure across her waist, Nicholas guided her forward. “I believe that’s best. We’ll conduct—”

  “No, goddammit! What’s best is if my daughter gets herself home where she cannot make such a fool of herself—or me! Come, Isabella! Take off that idiotic scarf and get in the coach. Now!”

  They’d reached him—the ringing in her ears confirmed it. “Nay.”

  “What?” His astonishment was clear. “You dare defy me? Dare shame me in public?”

  “Lord Spier.” Nicholas spoke softly but she swore it sounded like Spider. Imagining the look on her father’s florid complexion at the insult had Isabella biting her cheek to retain her solemn composure. Mayhap that’s why he’d done it… Nicholas, her champion of champions. “The only one shaming themself is you. Let us retreat to the study and conclude our business there.”

  “Who in Hades are you?”

  Isabella cringed but Nicholas handled the introduction with an aplomb that had her smiling despite her bit-upon cheek. “Nicholas Michael Henry Winten, seventh Earl of Frostwood, ninth Viscount Haverleigh. The man who will be marrying your daughter. Now do we discuss settlements in front of everyone or in the privacy of Redford’s study?”

  “Can you make anything out?”

  At the whispered words, Isabella muffled a shriek and scrambled to her feet. “Anne?”

  “Of course it’s me, silly.” Her friend’s voice held laughter. “You’re listening under the door? What happened to keyholes?”

  Isabella’s face heated. “These blasted doors are thick!”

  “Think you I don’t know it?” Anne touched her arm and indicated she should follow. “That’s why I learned to listen via the chimneys. Let’s get you settled in the library. I know Frost will want to speak with you privately. What a grand night this turned out to be!”

  “Oh Anne, is it really true?” Isabella chafed one upper arm as they sped through the hallway. Chill bumps pebbled her flesh. “Can it be?”

  “True as a tuppence, dearest.” The fire crackling in the hearth of the room Anne led her to spread its warmth over every inch of exposed skin the instant they crossed inside. The scents of old books overrode that of the holiday greenery and Isabella inhaled deeply, the smell reminding her of learning and her mother. A sense of calm came over her.

  Things would work out now; they had to.

  Anne guided Isabella to the leather sofa where both women sat down. “Now listen to what else I learned—your father refused to dower you and Frost fairly snarled in his face, saying Spier’s bloody blunt wasn’t what he wanted. He refused to accept anything but your hand, vowing to stand in favor of some bill your father’s been trying to raise but only if he swears to demonstrate absolute support of you in public. It was that or never show his ‘puffed-up pompous arse’ in London again!”

  Isabella smiled past her remaining unease. “Pompous arse? Nicholas said that, did he?”

  “And much more.” Anne leaned sideways and hugged Isabella, taking one hand and placing it upon her belly. “Just think, by our next Christmas celebration, you could be the one enceinte.”

  Isabella’s face blazed with the heat of a thousand candles, heat that quickly spread downward. Nicholas’ child…in her womb. Easily could she envision such a thing. “Aye, and I’ve you to thank.”

  “Pshaw! Think noth—”

  “Ladies,” Lord Redford spoke from somewhere near the doorway. “Anne, now that your plans have come to fruition and you’ve proffered felicitations, we still have a great many curious guests to reassure.”

  “Your plans?” Nicholas exclaimed as Isabella sputtered silently.

  Anne jumped up. “Blame Harriet! She put the notion to me the first time she met Frost.”

  “Harriet?” Isabella found her voice.

  “She said you’d not be frightened by his scowl and Frost was surely fierce enough to overrule your father.”

  “Smart sprite, that Harriet.” Her body listed toward his when Nicholas lowered onto the sofa and drew her close. “Now I’m doubly grateful I salvaged her damn—ah, deuced goose. Please tell the scamp she retains my unending gratitude—after you see your way to shutting the door behind you.”

  “Yes, sir!” Edward snapped smartly.

  “’Night, Frost. G’night, Issybee!”

  The latch clicked. Enshrouded in deafening silence, she turned toward Nicholas. “My father?”

  “Won’t trouble you further. You have my word.”

  Not at that knowledge so much as the realization that the man at her side would always be so—a true champion, she’d somehow stumbled in front of—Isabell
a felt her heart take flight. Her fear too. “I do believe I could levitate, you’ve made me so happy. I should’ve known if anyone could out order my father, it would be you.”

  “Well, now that I know what a rotten arse you’ve been subjected to, I shall do my utmost never to issue another command within your earshot again.”

  She wanted to graze her fingertips over the shadowed jaw of his face. The masculine stubble Isabella had felt during their kisses a time or two had made her breasts and body burn wildly. She wanted to turn toward his chest and touch him in ways no maiden should ever dream, but she contented herself with snuggling deeper into his embrace. “’Tis all right. From you I’ve come to feel cherished by them. No one but Mama ever treasured me the way you do. Only she never stole kisses.”

  “Paid with berries, I’ll have you know.”

  The corners of her mouth did levitate then. “They’ll be free from here on out.”

  One finger trailed over her cheek. “Issybelle, was there no one else to deflect his wrath? No siblings or…anyone?”

  She gave a slight shake of her head. “None who lived. After me, Mama carried five more babes. Two were stillborn. The others abandoned her body too soon. You…you don’t think that will happen with ours?”

  “Nay! Somehow those little babes knew the time and place wasn’t right for them. They knew…”

  “That my father’s a pompous arse?”

  She heard a snort of laughter then he sobered. “Issybelle, I begin to think in you I’ve found my guardian angel, one who will soar at my side and correct me when needed, one who I cannot wait to share my life and love and the seed from my body with. But now I must address one more item before we proceed into the unending bliss I hope we advance toward with our every breath.”

  He sounded so very solemn…almost unsure for once. She craved the sight of him, wished with all her heart she knew his countenance and could match inflection with an image. “What concerns you so?”

  “You’ve no doubt heard how very uncaring I am? How even my mistress found me so lacking she gave me my congé? How my own mother died from despair over never seeing her neglectful, coldhearted bastard of—”

  She did touch him then. Rammed her pointy elbow in his side. “Stop it, Nicholas! Whatever people may say, we both know those are untruths.”

  “Do we?” She imagined the lift of an eyebrow at his flippant tone and wanted to clobber him then.

  “I cannot answer as to the mistress part and cannot help but think that topic shall be one best left in the past—”

  “Forevermore and gladly. Who needs a mistress when they have a goddess in their lap?” He suited action to words, pulling her close and leaning back into the corner nook of the sofa. “In their life, one can only pray…”

  Ready to assure him he misread nothing, Isabella paused when he tensed beneath her. “But I find I must elucidate for my own peace of mind. May I?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Before I begin, share with me what you’ve been privy to so I may know the depths of grievances I must account for.”

  Her heart melted at the seriousness with which he took the accounting she truly didn’t require. “Only that of your…” She bit her lip before proceeding, unwilling to wound him with her words. “Forbidding, unfeeling nature, which kept you apart from your mother. That and your propensity to glower.”

  He blew out a frustrated-sounding breath. “You must understand the woman who delivered me of her loins considered her duty ended there. Nannies saw to my care and I enjoyed the sporadic attention of my papa, but my mother was an unpleasant shrew who criticized everyone and everything around her…with one sole exception. My sister Althea.”

  “You have a sister! That’s—”

  “I don’t, not…any longer.” He spoke so quietly, so gravely, Isabella knew not to interrupt again. Whatever burdens this man had been carrying, they chilled him to his soul. It was time he released them once and forever.

  But though she waited patiently, further explanation failed to greet her ears. Finally, after another full minute of silence, Isabella encouraged, “Nicholas? Tell me what happened. I need to know.”

  As though being given permission freed them, his words flew swiftly then. “Althea personified perfection in our mother’s eyes. I adored her as well, which might have been counted a surprise, given the disparity with which we were regarded. My sire confided to me years later that Althea had been conceived on the wrong side of the blanket while he was away.” Isabella felt a tug and realized she still held tight to the silk sash; now Nicholas held tight to it as well. “After delivering the requisite son on her first attempt, she banished Papa from her bed…but I digress. Althea was the only living person Mother had any affection for. Actually, it was an unreasonable attachment my mother showed her second born. For Althea did all she could to escape the confining clutches of her governess and Mother, plastering herself to my side any time I was home from school.”

  His fingers slid up the sash until they intertwined with hers.

  “During one such visit, I transferred the cough going round Harrow, and before I knew it, Althea was gone. Mother blamed me and in her grief exiled me from Frostwood. I was eleven at the time and didn’t realize how cruel a woman she could be, simply accepted the punishment as my due.”

  “But what of your father? Why did he not step in and take her to task?”

  “My father?” Nicholas squeezed her fingers and gave a snort of something that could possibly be taken for laughter. “Because that would have involved exerting himself. He wasn’t a bad man, just indifferent most of the time, more interested in fox hunting and ferreting out pheasants than dealing with what he considered petty household squabbles.

  “It was easier to relocate himself to his favored hunting lodge and me to school. He told me once, when we were grouse shooting and he’d taken to avoiding his wife by choice, that he thought I was better off not having to listen to Lady Miserable shriek her cutting insults any longer. I think in some ways he may have been right. I’d learned by then it was safer to rely only on myself. Easier that way—no chance of rejection. I refused to allow anyone close save a comrade or two until…you.”

  Isabella ached for the little boy he’d been. “Nicholas, tell me you realize what happened with your sister was not your fault, none of it.”

  “I do now, from the vantage point of more years and, alas, more wisdom. It was Christmastime when I last returned home…and played with Althea. Ever since, at the first hint of the season, I shove away the memories, attempt to regard the holidays as nothing…nonexistent. Which, until this year, meant denying memories of Althea as well.” As if noticing the intensity with which he spoke, his voice gentled. As did his grip upon her fingers. “With Mother gone, I wanted to spend this Christmas at Frostwood Hall but just the merest reminder of the holiday froze me in place. I couldn’t fathom going…alone.”

  “Then we’ll go together.”

  A clock chimed somewhere in the room. “Midnight,” he murmured, stroking one hand up her arm. “January 6th, the day of Epiphany…and I do believe I’ve had one myself. It wanted your presence, your love.” His fingers gripped her shoulder. “I wanted your presence and love, did I but know it. That’s what was missing before I could return home.”

  Feeling more secure—in his presence and love—than she would’ve believed possible a fortnight ago, Isabella confidently vowed, “You have both, my scoundrel. My Nicholas…”

  He went on to explain how after selling his commission, he resided in London, not having enough fight left in him to challenge his mother and have her bodily removed to the dower house. “My solitary visit to the estate was greeted with a barring of the door and orders, via a lowly footman no less, to never show my face again. After being subjected to bloody battles abroad, I didn’t see the need for causing one at home. Which isn’t to say I haven’t made other attempts at reconciliation for I have, especially since Papa died. Coming into the title I felt a sense of
responsibility to put the past to rights. Yet just as they’d been twenty years ago, my letters were rejected—all returned with the seals unbroken. And there you have it, why I’m accounted a horrid son—a combination of her preference and my own stiff-rumpled pride…”

  “Pride? Another foible?” Isabella turned in his arms and kissed his whiskered jaw, running her fingertips over his cheek—sans dimples, she couldn’t help but discern. “Well, Nicholas Michael…was it Harry? Winten, I think you are the very best of men and would have made the very best of sons, had she allowed you.”

  “Henry,” he corrected without inflection. “So you don’t think I’m a coldhearted bastard, eh?”

  Was he jesting? Or serious? She tapped his chin. “I know a man who goes out at night to stable a goose of all things because he cannot abide the downtrodden look of another is not unfeeling. A man who befriends a lonely, blind woman—”

  “Now you stop it! How dare you term yourself such?”

  For one so smart, he’d fallen into her trap quite nicely. “You just termed yourself a cold bastard, did you not?”

  He cuffed her wrist and slid her arm down until her palm sheltered his rapidly beating heart. “Does this feel cold to you?”

  “Nay.” It was a whisper.

  “I’m on fire for you, have been since the moment you declined to dance with me. A common occurrence I’m none too pleased to note.”

  She flexed her fingers against his chest then crawled them higher to pluck at his neckcloth. Once a fair amount of skin was exposed, she tucked her face into the curve of his neck. “I’ll never refuse you again.”

  “You better not.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Impudent wench.”

  “Aye…sir.”

  The last was sighed and Nicholas, finally feeling the weight of his own guilt lessen, expelled a matching one. That was when he noticed the sash twined within his fingers. On a whim, he lifted the silk to his forehead and knotted the fabric after securing it over his eyes.

  Sensing his odd movements, Isabella propped herself up on his chest—or so the dual points of her elbows told him. “May I ask what you’re doing?”