“Lord Frostwood!” She’d never been a sauce box before, couldn’t believe she was being so bold now. Isabella knew their enthralling association would go nowhere once Twelfth Night signaled the end to this wondrous, magical holiday. And while part of her was loath to surrender even a second of his company, the more sedate, demure part—the stifled self she typically portrayed at home—thought it best to shoo him away before she became any more enchanted. “I am used to solitude, I assure you, my lord. You need not sacrifice your holiday attempting to engage and amuse the quiet wallflower in the corner.”
“How can you describe yourself thusly?”
“I only give voice to the facts.” A new thought occurred, one that threatened to put a pall over their entire exchange. “Did Lord Redford persuade you to—”
“Nay, he did not!” Frost said with such vehemence she could do naught but believe. “I spend time at your side only because I choose to. It is not some dull swift’s errand I’m on! You are a most confounding wench to broach such a dismal topic, particularly when I had substantially different things in mind.”
“Oh! That’s right. You searched me out at Anne’s behest. Pray, what is her message?” Though it didn’t matter. Truly, she suspected nothing could elevate her mood any more than it was now. He liked spending time with her!
“Eh?”
Even his grunts sounded smooth and inviting, any noise he made or tone he chose to employ swirling into her ears, sliding down her spine and causing her toes to fair dance in her slippers. Pished fish, but he made her equilibrium go all higgledy piggledy. Isabella scooted one foot backward until her heel touched the door. Feeling more secure, she prompted, “Matter of great importance, my lord? I believe that’s what you claimed.”
“I lied,” he said promptly. “Rotten thing to do, but there you have it. Dare I hope you have no great aversion to liars?”
How did one answer a question like that? Of course she had an aversion to liars! Didn’t everyone? “Mmm…I’m certain liars, much like sinners, deserve our charity and forgiveness especially at this time of year.”
She thought she heard a snort of laughter. “Well said. Did you enjoy your trip to nod?”
“My trip to nod?” She breathed deeply, intentionally inhaling him again.
“Your nap. This afternoon, remember? You needed to rest, if I recall correctly. Directly amidst our conversation.”
Where were you seated earlier? she wanted to ask, having wondered all through the merriment after dinner. It was excessively strange, thinking she felt his gaze upon her person but being in no position to ask anyone for confirmation. Nor was she in a position to ask now. She blushed, recalling how intently she’d listened for his voice among all the others, blushed more fiercely, realizing he’d sought out this private moment with her. And blatantly admitted it, along with his interest in her—at least she thought he had—which only made her burn hotter.
He stepped closer. She heard the rustle of his clothing, sensed him along every inch of her being.
Instinctively, she retreated. Her back bumped into the door.
“Your face reddens, dear Isabella. Does your conscience perhaps trouble you?”
Her conscience? Nay, but his nearness…
“Ah well, mayhap now isn’t the time for confessions, eh?”
“That’s a peculiar thing to say.”
“At least it’s not a command,” he quipped then, before she could respond, he ordered, “Close your eyes.”
“What?” Why were they whispering?
“Close your eyes.”
She did, just as he placed something against her bandaged palm, curled her fingers around it and brought her hand to his chest. “Push me away if I be too bold.”
What? she thought again then could think no more for his lips were on hers, warm and solid and rubbing back and forth. Slowly, enticingly…causing her to murmur in her throat, to purse her lips in response. To rise up on her toes and press more firmly against the hard length of his body.
“Ah yes,” he rasped against her mouth. Then the teasing exploration changed tenor as he leaned into her and took her lips more fully.
The back of her head thumped against the door when his tongue licked its way across the seam of her lips.
She gasped and just as quickly he was gone—his body at least, for she could still hear his breathing. It was every bit as harsh as her own.
“Dream on me, Issybelle.”
“On you?”
“All night long…” And he placed one last, lingering kiss to her forehead.
Then he was gone. For real this time.