Miss Isabella Thaws a Frosty Lord

Dimples, rumors of his surly nature, descriptions of haughty, coal-black eyebrows—raised whenever his ire was piqued… Harriet waxed on and Isabella had provided a captive, if quiet audience.

At the thought of grazing her fingers over bristly whiskers…of searching out a hoarded dimple, Isabella stumbled.

His barked, “Have a care!” brought her firmly into the present. Swoon-worthy dimples aside, there existed positively no reason for her to be intrigued by the reputedly cold, austere gentleman. Though his strong arm beneath her fingertips felt anything but cold…

Silly widgeon! Becoming all breathless over dimples you cannot even see! Or mayhap ’twas his accelerated pace. “Must you trod so quickly?”

“Quickly?” he asked in clear astonishment, making no effort to pause or shorten his stride. “Nay! Step lively now, we’ve fallen behind every other pairing and do not want to lose ere we—”

“Ahhh!” Pain soared across her toes when her slippered foot met resistance. Tottering forward, she jerked her arm free and scrambled for balance.

Which she only found once she’d crashed to the ground. Her only thought—beyond what a wretched time to trip!—was over her new muff. She’d lost it. “Dratted gnats!”

“Isabella!” Anne cried in the distance.

He dropped to her side at once. She’d barely caught her breath, of a certainty considered her composure—along with her muff—still misplaced, when she felt large, bare hands begin combing every inch of her feet and legs. “Lord Frostwood!” Isabella gasped. “Such liberties you—”

“Liberties? Blast it, woman,” he said harshly, “you gave me a fright. Your legs, your ankles—”

“They are fine, my lord.” She could even wiggle her toes now that the initial throbbing had dulled to an annoying ache. “But do you see—”

“You ‘my lord’ me now? Don’t stand on ceremony, woman!” he snarled, taking one palm in hand, a palm she realized stung deeply. “You’re bleeding. Are you injured elsewhere?”

“’Tis nothing more than a flea bite, certainly not worth all this fuss.” She attempted to pull free and gain her feet, but he wouldn’t have it.

“’Tis not a trifle! Both your palms are scraped raw. What else—”

“Isa…bella!” Sounding horribly out of breath, Anne reached them. “Frost…you imbecile! I paired you with Issybee…because I trusted you to look out for her! I trusted you!”

The hands holding hers strained with suppressed force. “Imbecile, Lady Redford?”

“Of course, you cork-brained simpleton! Can you not assist her—”

“Anne.”

Edward’s voice joined the fray and Isabella slumped toward Lord Frostwood, wanting to hide her face—if not her entire body. Her other palm burned too. Her legs and feet, save for one very tender toe, felt fine—if excessively tingly after being stroked by Lord Frostwood’s warm-fingered hands. Had she not been so embarrassed by the fall, she’d be embarrassed by how her insides were now sweating at his proximity. None of the other men she’d met affected her thusly. Why him?

“Anne.” Edward spoke soothingly. “I don’t think he realizes—”

“Realizes?” Anne screeched, and Isabella prayed no one else had joined them.

She straightened away from the surprising comfort of Lord Frostwood’s impossibly hard chest and sought to smooth over any discomfort her clumsiness had caused—smoothing her skirts being out of the question as he still had command of her wrists. “I am fine, truly.”

“Oh Isabella, dear—”

“’Tis nothing but a scratch.” Lord Frostwood angled her hands. “Why the devil you go on—”

“A scratch!”

“Ed, tell your wife to quit harping at me, would you?”

“Harping?” Anne cried, her words shriller than the biting wind. “As if it isn’t warranted! Could you not—”

“Me!?” Lord Frostwood exploded. “Why is this about me, pray? Can the woman not watch where she’s going?”

Sheer silence met his question.

Followed by two indrawn breaths—Anne’s and Isabella’s. He hadn’t known?

Hadn’t asked her to dance last night out of misplaced sympathy? Or flirted with her as a lark? Well now. How interesting.

But neither had he relinquished her hands, and Isabella was more than a little dismayed to realize she didn’t want him to.

Anne recovered her surprise and spoke dryly. “Of course she could, Frost, if she could see. Isabella’s blind, you imbecile.”