He liked that, how watching her secret, sinuous dance, experiencing it with her—even without her knowledge—made it seem as if the two of them shared an illicit bond.
Though the more he observed, the more he realized she didn’t so much dance as blend her body with the music. When one of the violinists botched a section and the entire quartet began the piece anew, she barely registered the interruption, her feet faltering only a moment before the sweeping, flowing motion of her limbs overtook her again.
Each time she spun near, he gazed upon the elation brimming from her face—the visage of pure, unadulterated joy, the exhilaration…the innocence. It pained him to watch.
Frost knew she counted herself alone, knew he violated her trust as much as he dishonored himself by remaining, but he could no more leave than sever his own tongue.
Her beauty, her grace…her spirit. They touched him as nothing had in almost twenty years. For some unaccountable reason, simply the act of watching her joyous freedom expressed through uninhibited movement made him feel free, happy almost.
Nay, this wasn’t mere happiness surging through his veins, exciting his heart and quickening his breath. Nothing so mediocre. This…this was the spirit of Christmas, somehow embodied in a sightless girl, that was causing him to see his own past—and future?—in ways he’d been blinded to previously.
His eyes stung from straining in the obscure light—any other reason was unfathomable. He closed them for a moment…imagining he was dancing with her, holding her; imagining she could behold him, unhindered by her lack of sight…
At the thought of embracing her again, his pulse leapt and his arms burned. Eyes blinked open…and still the vision that was Isabella continued to captivate.
Frost took a single step forward, intent on joining her.
But something made him hesitate and he stilled, reluctant to disrupt the scant minutes of liberty, to mar the freedom the music and private place afforded this unique woman, simply because of his selfishness to spend them with her.
He thought of her rebuff the prior night when he’d asked her to dance—demanded a dance, were he being honest. He thought of her unease after declining—and the look of longing he’d glimpsed on her features even as she pertly denied him.
He thought of their aborted conversation in the parlor, of how he still had no answers, and how she’d lied in order to claim this time for herself. To be alone. To be free.
But most of all, he thought of the countless berries on that kissing bough still sitting on the settee.
He thought of her mouth and how she’d blushed.
He thought of the ten days of Christmas still to come—the eleven nights including this one—and how for the first time since Althea died he wasn’t dreading tomorrow. Was, in fact, anticipating it with all the undue enthusiasm of an untried buck.
As silently as he’d entered, Frost exited the ballroom with but one destination in mind.
The settee in the parlor.
Chapter Four
A Festive Berry Changes Hand
“Would you be gracious enough to explain how I was to ‘fully participate’ in a searching game?” Isabella asked Anne from her reclined position—foot propped on two pillows—in the corner of the formal drawing room where she’d been carried after partaking a simple repast in her bedchamber.
Isabella felt a complete charlatan but couldn’t bring herself to put lie to Lord Frostwood’s claim that she’d injured her ankle. Neither was she accustomed to such subterfuge. Feigning an injury niggled her conscience—but not enough to confess all.
“You conversed with Frost, did you not?”
“Yessss…” Isabella trailed off, uncomprehending how speaking with the engaging gentleman had anything to do with participating in Anne’s holiday fun. She heard the trod of feet and the low rumble of approaching conversation and realized other guests were joining them, dinner officially over.
“Well, dearest, that was exactly what I had planned for you! Though the fall was completely unplanned, I assure you.”
Isabella lowered her voice, thankful no one had yet made their way to her corner. “You’ve contrived all of this to what end? What can you expect by pairing me with—”
“Expectations, my dear. You have the right of it—expectations.”
“You think to gain a marriage proposal from your machinations?” Her stomach slid to her feet—actually, beneath her posterior, seated as she was—at the fanciful notion. “I fear you are destined for disappointment, then.” So was Isabella, but her friend need not know that. “You’re aware of what Father intends for me come February—”