Miss Isabella Thaws a Frosty Lord(24)

He knew what that meant. “Dancing again this evening?”

“Thought you didn’t favor doing the pretty,” Ed put in.

Frost arched one eyebrow but didn’t respond. Didn’t need to when Lady Redford smiled brightly. “Why yes! We told the musicians to play a waltz or two so it should be grand fun.”

“Yes…grand.” He turned to go inside.

“You’re not joining us?” she called after him. “Don’t you want to lead one side against Edward’s team?”

“I’ll join you tonight, but for now I believe I’ll go in and rest myself. One can only endure so much honking and snow-bright revelry before they must retreat.” He touched the brim of his hat and continued on.

“Ah…Nicholas?”

At the first step, he paused and looked over his shoulder at Ed.

“There’s a feather or two affixed to your…posterior.”

Lovely. Blasted lovely.

Heading up the stairs, he brushed a hand over his arse and flicked off the offending feathers, all the while wondering why the action only made him smile.



“Do my eyes deceive me or is that a Christmas angel dancing her way by?”

“Lord Frostwood?” Isabella yelped, and skidded to a halt.

“In the flesh.”

“You gave me a fright!”

Frost didn’t doubt it, given how he’d not only found her flying through a back corridor on two healthy feet, but more importantly, given where he suspected she was heading. “Didn’t hear me, hmm? Should I oblige by stringing a jangling harness round my neck?”

“’Tis not necessary, my lord.” And just when he thought she was turning up stiff and reluctant to banter further, given how their most recent encounter culminated in the exchange of cold berries and heated kisses, she surprised him by adding, “I believe a few jingling bells tied at the end of your neckcloth shall suffice.”

He laughed. “Wench.”

“Scoundrel!” she returned just as quickly then her brow furrowed. “You sound a trifle odd. You haven’t picked up Miss Fairfax’s snuffles, have you?

“Nay.” He wasn’t about to tell her he’d been snooping over her shoulder. “Mayhap ’tis simply a reaction to goose feathers. Now where are you bound so swiftly? I shall offer my arms as escort.” Without giving her time to refuse, he scooped her into his embrace and hefted her close. “Your ankle, you know.”

“Oh do I. It appears I have much to thank it for. But are you not expected elsewhere? I’m told the battlements are choosing sides for a massive snow strike before dinner.”

He fancied he felt the rapid flutter of her heart thumping in time with his. “Nay. I told our zealous hosts I needed to rest after my goose-housing mission.”

“And do you?”

“Need to rest? Only my back against this wall.” He suited action to words, for he had no wish to release her or travel from the secluded hallway.



Isabella knew she should insist he put her down. Their interactions to date were wholly improper. To the devil with proprieties, she thought, choosing instead to curve her arm across the wide expanse of his shoulders and take him to task for another matter entirely. “Do you always brush aside the truth with such cavalier disregard?”

“Do you?” he surprisingly retorted.

“Certainly not! But we aren’t talking about me.”

“Oh no? I thought we were discussing you—your ears, my neck…your ankles, my arms…”

“Obtaining a forthright response from you is more difficult than me sighting in and downing a buck in one shot.”

“Another accurate volley! My dear lady, with or without working top lights, you see more clearly than the rest of us, I vow. So you’d like to know whether I’m in the habit of disregarding the truth?”

She casually swung one foot while her fingertips brushed across the fine texture of his tailcoat. The fit was superb; the quality unmistakable. Her fascination with the muscles cording his shoulder most inappropriate! “I most assuredly would. As it seems a disturbingly frequent habit.”

He took a moment’s forethought before replying, she was pleased to note. “I am generally the most forthright of fellows. Appears ’tis something about being desirous of your company that causes imperfections in my character to come to the fore.”

“Imperfections, Lord Frostwood?” she asked nonchalantly, hoping to disguise how very much the continued references bothered her. “Do you realize that is the third or fourth time you’ve spoken of such?”

“Is it? I’m sure you’re mistaken.” As though the question was an uncomfortable one, he straightened and strode down the hallway with her still in his arms.