“Be that as it may,” the first voice again, “what shall we do about dear Isabella? We cannot let a green girl fall for a man who hasn’t any feeling. It would be completely remiss of us.”
“Unfeeling? How can you say that?” Martha queried. “Have you not seen the way he fixes himself to whichever corner of the room she’s inhabiting, glowering at anyone who dares approach?”
Warmed at having that last bit confirmed, Isabella listened only a bit longer before moving on.
Hearing additional speculation wasn’t necessary; what others thought didn’t skew her own feelings toward Lord Frostwood in the least—for the man who spent time with her was anything but unfeeling.
Although their comments did make her doubly curious about his life outside of Redford Manor, and doubly certain she had no place in it.
“You’re late,” he accused when she finally appeared. “They’ve been practicing nigh on twenty minutes now.”
Nicholas watched his words stop Isabella cold.
With every second that elapsed and the woman he’d expected failed to materialize, his agitation had surged, sinking his patience faster than eight stone tied to a goose feather.
After pulling wide every drape the cavernous room boasted—which hadn’t done a damn bit of good, more winter clouds having rolled in—he’d paced the empty dance floor unceasingly.
The dismal sky and gloomy ballroom only reinforced his grim mood. Even curdled the first taste of wassail he’d braved earlier, when hope held him in its thrall. By the time she silently eased through the doors, he was annoyed with her for concealing this part of herself from him and annoyed with himself for not confronting her sooner.
But she was here now, frozen just inside the double doors. And looking woefully uncertain.
“No, you’re not hearing things.”
Isabella opened her mouth, gave a little squeak, then clamped it shut. She hung her head, making no move to retreat or to explain.
He stood there, not ten feet away, and waited. For about two seconds then he blurted, “Aye, I know about your afternoon restoratives.”
Nicholas heard how much venom the last word contained and hated that it bothered him so—her hiding from him. Hated more how easily such an occurrence never had to happen. “Why, Isabella? Why did you not tell me that initial day we conversed and you abandoned me for this that you needed to hear the musicians? That you needed to dance? Think you I would begrudge—”
“Please, Lord Frostwood. Please do not…do not…” She took several steps into the room and held out her hands beseechingly. “Please don’t be angry with me. I know it’s vulgar and despicable and I have no right to contort my limbs, no right…”
Now he was the silent one. Listening to her jabber on about her horrid actions and coarse demeanor and could he ever forgive her… On and on she implored, taking tiny, halting steps toward the area where he’d spoken from.
Having paced several strides to the left, she was far off the mark. It mattered not that she continued to reach out for him as she pleaded, mattered not that she should have been accusing him of spying on her, yelling at him for questioning her right to do anything she damn well pleased. For violating her trust and trapping her this way…
Nothing mattered except gaining an understanding of how the vivacious and confident woman he’d come to know had been transformed into an incomprehensible milk-and-water miss with nothing more than an irate sentence. One he had no right to even utter. “Isabella! Halt!”
She jerked as if struck then angled sharply until she faced him, her impassioned appeal trailing off.
He stood mute, struggling to comprehend the dichotomy with which they each viewed her actions.
Starkly…hesitantly, she queried, “Lord…Frostwood…are you still here?”
Propelled, he strode forward and gripped her shoulders. “‘Lord Frostwood’ be damned. Call me Nicholas. Call me an idiot, an imbecile or Lady Redford’s favorite, a cork-brained simpleton. Call me anything you desire, sweetheart, but tell me why in the name of heaven would you think the sublime dance you engage in every afternoon could be considered vulgar? Then tell me you’ll dance with me tonight. With me, by God.”
She listed toward him. “What did you say?”
He tightened his hold on her, mentally cursing his bandaged left hand when it protested. “Are your lugs out now like your lamps? I spoke clearly enough. I want to know why you keep this beautiful, magical part of yourself from me. From the world. Why mask it at all? And why in blazes won’t you dance with me?” His voice had roared to a crescendo.