Miss Isabella Thaws a Frosty Lord(32)
“No, no… You have it all wrong.” He pulled her into his arms and hugged her tight, speaking over the sheen of glossy brown ringlets. “Vulgar? Nay! Issybelle, what you do is the most magical thing I’ve ever witnessed. Why do you think I did not confront you that very first day? I could not speak for the lump in my throat clogged it with emotion unlike any I have ever experienced.”
She stirred, and he embraced her more fiercely. “As for your father, whoever the rotter is, he deserves to be whipped—nay, strangled—for all he’s done to harm you.”
She leaned back as if to evaluate his countenance but instead gazed far beyond his shoulder. “You should not say such a thing—even in jest.”
“Who says I’m jesting?” His fingers dug into her hips until her eyes flicked toward his. “It would give me great pleasure to destroy any man who would cause you such pain.”
“Thank you.”
“For what? Barging in and bullying you shamelessly?”
“For championing me wholeheartedly.”
“Will you now tell me how in blazes you lost your sight? Your father isn’t responsible, is he?”
“No, not at all.” She peeled his hand free and he stoically refused to wince, finding solace when she turned in his arms until he stood cradling her backside along his front. Only then did she speak.
“It’s difficult to pinpoint…there was no notable event, no scorching fever or great blow, simply a swift lessening of my vision until it disappeared altogether. My eyes merely failed.”
“They just…stopped seeing?”
“Mama first realized something was amiss when I began knocking into things. Spilling things.” She heaved a sigh and he heard the guilt she’d heaped upon herself.
“The accident, you mentioned?”
Her head nodded beneath his chin. “Spilling things upon important people. I was a year or two younger than Harriet. Father had guests, several men whose favor he curried. I was carrying the tea tray—Mama allowed it after I begged, wanting to see these influential lords Papa spoke so highly of—when my foot snagged. I pitched forward and splashed hot tea all over Lord Wroxley, embarrassing Father to no end.”
“You were but a child!”
He felt her slight shrug. “A child who by this time only saw small slices of what was before her and didn’t realize it was anything unusual. Father accused me of crying false. When physicians confirmed my sight had narrowed and might soon be gone, he called me worthless because who wants a damaged bride likely to develop additional imperfections?”
“Oh, Issybelle, God no…” Her father was a buffoon’s arse, and if he ever had the chance, Nicholas would extract immense satisfaction telling him so. For now, he told Isabella another truth. “Lord Wroxley’s a whining wigsby, one who could stand a good dousing. I’m sure the tea did him— Wait!” He swiveled Isabella around, his gaze seeking the old gash that spliced her eyebrow, that adorable, dangling curl obscuring the worst of it. “What about the scar on your forehead?”
“More of that stupid clumsiness I lay claim to, I’m afraid. I tripped over a pair of Father’s boots and landed against a corner table.” From all she’d told him—and all she hadn’t—he’d wager the damn sod had left them there on purpose.
As a child when tragedy occurred, Nicholas had been in no position to offer protest or defend himself and vent his grief at the injustice. Now as a man with considerable influence and the power to have others do his bidding, he could no more take away her past pain or rectify the wrongs she’d suffered. But he could heal her heart as she was healing his.
Fisting his hands together so tightly he swore, Nicholas willed the useless anger to recede. Which it did in a trice for he had more significant feelings to address—hers. Uncoiling his fingers, he slid one beneath the ringlet and caressed the area above her right eye. “I’d thought this was to blame…”
Words failed him and he bent to press his lips to the spot.
“’Tis only an obvious reminder of my wretched clumsiness.”
He growled, knowing instantly whose words she repeated. “Nay, never that.” He moved his lips to her temple. “A mishap, ’tis all.” To her cheek. “Something that simply happens without thought or plan.” To the shell of her ear, causing her to fidget…so back to her cheek. “Not something one intends or ever needs to berate themself over again, just like my unforeseen blunder this afternoon.”
Easier to share his own “wretched clumsiness” than to continue kissing and lose his head.