Miss Isabella Thaws a Frosty Lord(3)
“Disdain? I’ve done no such thing.” But neither had he responded to the three separate missives.
“Ignore, then. In truth, man, I want you with us as well. Were it not for you, I wouldn’t have made it home for the wedding. Or at all.” Granted, Frost had ridden in and rescued his fallen comrade at Albuera when a blade from a French dragoon found its mark, knocking Ed from his horse and severing the lower part of one arm clear off in the process, but he was uncomfortable with the reminder.
“You know I always observe Christmastide here.” Alone. In actuality, he spent the days just as he did any other…if colder of heart and chillier of soul.
“Then it’s time for a change, by damn. I’m sure it won’t equal the level of revelry you’re used to but be assured we’ll try.” Little did Ed know the traditions of Nicholas’ youth, the ones he’d spent so much time at Oxford blathering on and on about, were nothing more than figments of a guilty imagination. He’d last celebrated a true Christmas when he was eleven, and he had no intention of ever doing so again. He despised the holidays and everything they stood for—family and merriment and memories.
God, how he detested the memories. The only way he could muster through the wretched season was if he faced it more soused than sober.
“Nothing on the grand scale you enjoyed growing up, ours is simply a little gathering of friends and family, and we want you with us. Come now, how can you deny Anne’s request when it is one I myself echo a thousand times over?”
How indeed?
“Aye, I’ll be there,” Frost finally conceded just as they reached their destination, anticipating the ale more than ever, needing to drown the taste of cider and spices that coated his tongue, almost strangling him with the reminder of the sugary wassail he and his sister had loved sneaking sips of as children. “Be forewarned, I do have other invitations.” Which was true, although he’d declined every single one with no hesitation whatsoever. “Other commitments. So I’ll likely not arrive until the eve of Christmas or the morning of and don’t expect me to stay the full twelve days.”
“Aww, Nick—”
“Or I could not come at all,” he added coldly, wondering when he’d started living up to the appellation Frigid Frost, assigned by his former mistress directly after she bid him adieu with a flying porcelain figure—straight to his head. Decapitated the poor flute-playing shepherd with his hard rock of a noggin, he had, splitting his eyebrow open in the process.
“Your brusque ways hold no sway with me, old friend. You said you’d be there, ergo, I’ll tell Anne to expect you.”
So it was with ill-disguised dread that Nicholas Michael Henry Winten, seventh Earl of Frostwood and despiser of everything merry, made his way downstairs for the evening’s entertainments, having arrived as late as he dared at Redford Manor.
The first of twelve supposedly festive nights he’d be forced to endure before departing on the celebrated day of Epiphany, January 6th. Unless he decided to decamp earlier…
“Thunderation!” he muttered beneath his breath, pounding down the ribbon-and-ivy-bedecked stairs. How he abhorred Christmastime.
How she adored Christmastime!
The sounds, the scents, the very feel in the air that fostered such a beautiful sense of exuberance and harmony.
Isabella let the warmth from the fire soothe the chill in the air and the companionship soothe the one in her bones, finally losing the apprehension that had gripped her during the first days of her visit. The anxiousness that spiked once the guests began arriving and she’d feared tripping over someone, being in the way and generally making a nuisance of herself.
She’d been relieved to discover her fears were all for naught as her first weeks at Redford Manor passed without mishap. She really had been imprisoned at Spierton, Isabella was dismayed to realize. Anne had claimed it was so, ever since Isabella’s mama went to her heavenly rewards four years ago and Isabella’s father neglected to do the same—or so Anne accused, saying if he had any consideration for his sole progeny at all, he would’ve been generous enough to depart for his own hellish rewards.
Isabella could snicker over the thought now, after time away from his overbearing presence. But with no dowry (Father refused to spend a cent of his blunt “advertising a defective wife likely to breed defective heirs”) and no chance of receiving callers (he generally turned visitors away before they reached the gate), Isabella had long since faced the certainty of her situation. She had no hope of marriage and little hope of a happy ending to match her friend’s.