Leaving her standing in the hallway, her heart threatening to take flight, her lips throbbing as if they’d never calm, her forehead practically glowing.
And her fingers clutched around a single mistletoe berry.
Chapter Five
A Dreary Morning Made Festive
Wings fluttered and she thought, Let it snow…
At the ungodly hour of a quarter before dawn, Frost came across a maid in the candlelit breakfast room. “What are you doing, pray?”
He’d always been one to rise with the sun but hadn’t expected to chance upon a young servant moving things about that didn’t need moving. A chair previously aligned was now intentionally skewed, and eating utensils that belonged in a tray were instead clutched in her hand.
At his query, she startled and every piece of flatware clanged to the floor.
He waited for the clatter to die down then asked dryly, “You’re not helping yourself to Redford’s silver, now are you?”
“Never, milord! Lady Redford tasked me with rightin’ things for Miss Isabella.” As the girl spoke, she put the fallen utensils in the wash bin and retrieved three new pieces. With hands that shook, he noticed. The girl cast him a quick look then babbled on. “Miss Isabella, she tends to break her fast ’fore anyone else thinks to stir, she does. I make it so things are always in the same place for her. ’Tis all I’m doin’ now, I promise, milord.”
“You’re telling me she serves herself?” he asked suspiciously, seeing the row of warming trays on the adjacent wall, surprised they’d be filled this early. “Does she not simply request what she wants and have it brought from the kitchens?”
“Oh no! Miss Isabella never asks for anything partic’lar, says how she enjoys sampling whatever Cook fixes, but she does like holdin’ her own plate as I tell her about each dish. Says she can tell by how heavy it gets whether I’ve gone and made her portions too big. She doesn’t want the extra goin’ to waste, you see.”
He was beginning to. Beginning to realize the female his body and mind were equally attracted to had hidden depths that he very much wanted to plumb. Not wanting to be wasteful? That sounded much like the independent young woman he’d enjoyed conversing with—and kissing—the day before.
Frost forced his posture to relax for the explanation was a plausible one and he wanted to put the anxious maid at ease. Nor was he above questioning this forthcoming servant about his new enchantment. “Lady Redford charged you? Did Miss Isabella not bring servants or a maid of her own to see to her care? A chaperone?”
“Nay, milord. Arrived alone, she did.”
Alone? How unusual. “How long ago was that?”
“Nigh on three weeks or thereabouts.”
Remarkable, that she’d gained such familiarity about the place in so little time.
The girl slid her eyes toward the door. Ready to escape his clutches no doubt.
“Two more things if you will…”
“Milord?”
“Is anyone else assigned to assist Miss Isabella?”
“Just Sally, as a lady’s maid, fixin’ her gowns and hair and such.”
“And you? What other duties have you been given on her behalf?”
“I keep all the furniture just so an’ clear the hallways thrice daily, makin’ sure no one’s left anything on the floors or blockin’ her footpaths.”
“She moves about much, does she?”
“Yes, milord.”
He took pity on the young girl and smiled as charmingly as he could manage, eyebrows flat, dimples engaged. “Thank you…your name?”
“Lizzie, milord.” She bobbed a curtsy.
“Well, Lizzie, I appreciate all that you’re doing for Miss Isabella. Carry on.”
She flashed him a bright grin now that the inquisition was over and he wasn’t marching her off to Newgate for stealing. “She’s lovely, milord, Miss Isabella is. Everyone below stairs says so. In form and fact. ’Tis been a real treat, it has, helpin’ her an’ such.”
And it would be a real treat to share the falling snowflakes with her, Frost decided after a glance out the window brought the idea to mind, the sun’s hidden rays stretching sufficiently for him to make out the lightly swirling flakes.
Taking the stairs two at a time back the way he’d just come, Frost raced toward the guest wing where everyone else had been abed, for he now had reason to believe one Miss Isabella would no longer be occupying hers.
Seconds later, subduing his eagerness and his voice, he rapped his knuckles against her door twice. “It’s Frost.”
After a moment the door opened a crack, just enough to reveal a sliver of porcelain cheek and ear. Her hair was draped over her shoulder, he saw with a tightening in his gut, not yet arranged for the day. A pink dressing gown covered said shoulder, and just as he was pondering what else—if anything—might lie beneath, she queried, “Lord Frostwood? Are you there?”