Miss Isabella Thaws a Frosty Lord(27)

Her untried kisses and hesitantly bold responses told the truth—she’d never taken a lover, and Frost wasn’t so far gone he’d steal her innocence.

If a dalliance was all he wanted, there were no doubt other, more experienced females present or wenches available in the nearest village willing to accommodate his ardor.

But he feared the Latin-quoting, deceptively dancing miss in his arms had ruined him. He feared no one else would do.

And he feared he might expire from oxygen neglect if he didn’t remember to breathe.

Groaning with the effort, Frost gentled his sucking motions, forced his hands to unclench. Told his chest to forget the imprint of her breasts and went back to nuzzling her lips…her jaw…

And damned if he didn’t find himself dipping past the neckline of her gown and his lips pressed between the shadowed cleavage before he’d ever thought to take in air.

Her fingers weaved through his hair, and he felt her mouth grazing lightly against his bent head as she deposited wispy kisses wherever she could reach. He thought he heard her sigh “Frost”, a tiny benediction, as she stood tall and tendered her body and breasts up to his lascivious attentions.

Nay! Not yet! Not like this, some honorable part of him clamored. Not standing in a ballroom. Not when he longed to explore her every curve at his leisure, in the privacy of his own bed. In the privacy of his own home.

His own home? So it seemed he did know what his intentions were.

Her restless fingers plucked at his ears when he stopped moving. And Frost realized his tongue had sought and found a beaded nipple.

Nay!

Dangerous kisses, these were, the ones they couldn’t seem to stop giving each other. Dangerous to his formerly withdrawn existence. Dangerous to her virtue. Definitely dangerous to his elephant trunk of a nose.

He eased back, his tongue reluctantly relinquishing its prize. When he looked at her, he saw tears brimming in her eyes. Wasn’t sure if his rascally hide was the cause or the cure. “Slap my face if you’re of a mind to.”

She blushed and shook her head. “Never.”

Now she blushed?

He straightened her dress, relieved to note he’d not exposed anything more than the luscious upper swells. Which were reddened from his stubble, by damn. “Tell me, Miss Issybelle…” Was that his voice shaking like a choir boy’s? He cleared his throat. “Are you this enticing to all of your suitors?”

“I wouldn’t know. Father always forbade— Suitors? Does your query imply…?”

“I do believe it must.” He couldn’t mean anything else. Isabella wasn’t the type of woman one toyed with, and he’d made up his mind to have her in his bed. Might as well do it right. “Well? Can I confidently assume a slap isn’t coming my way now that I’ve stated my intentions?”

After dashing the semblance of moisture from her eyes, she slowly raised her hand to his jaw. His lips still throbbed. Blood pounded through his hands—and sundry other parts of his anatomy. But he forced himself to remain resolutely still as her gentle touch met his chin and drifted higher.

“I wish I could see you and consider your countenance for myself. Could see whether you dally with me most cruelly.”

As her fingers crossed his mouth just then, he could no more offer the retort that rose to his tongue than abandon his efforts at wooing this delightful creature.

Too soon she whisked her hand away and tapped his temple, saying as if she believed not a word of his near declaration, “I think the kissing bough and Christmas spirit have addled your wits. Those sticky berries you ply me with have gummed up your garret.”

“Likely so, but I assure you my intentions are of the purest.” Though his desires were anything but.

She took her hand away and left him bereft. As though resolved, she said emphatically, “You cannot possibly be as handsome as Harriet would have me believe.”

“Can I not? Noble nose aside, I am accounted to cut quite a dash.”

She giggled at his audacity. “For shame, Lord Frostwood. You are entirely lacking in modesty.”

“Then is that not another foible you can lay at my feet? Another instance of imperfection? Does that not please you mightily?”

At his good humor in mocking himself, hers seemed to evaporate. “No, for were I perfect I would see you and know for myself.”



And so the magical holiday continued…

With Lord Frostwood squiring her about for two more days in his arms—“While your ankle comes up to snuff”—then for several more on his arm—while he scowled at Simon Gregory and any other man who dared approach her. (Both Harriet and Anne made sure to inform Isabella of this repeated occurrence.)