“Come now,” said a velvety-smooth voice from behind her just as the sash was snatched away. “You must do as your hostess instructs.”
“Musicians…begin!”
As the first notes of a lovely, slow waltz commenced, fabric was stretched tight across her eyes and wrapped snugly about her head. “This was your idea, was it not?” she accused. “Do not answer. I know that it was.”
Isabella started to fight him when he fashioned the knot. Started to, but chose instead to sit compliantly and offer only a token protest. “This is absurd! I cannot see anything as it is.” For though anxious, she desperately wanted to know where this might lead.
With Nicholas taking her hand, pulling her to her feet and leading her onto the dance floor. That’s where.
“Very necessary,” he intoned, replicating their positions from a couple days prior. Only this time when he took her in his arms, she willed the instinctive fear to recede. There was no cause for alarm. She was in a ballroom where one was expected to dance, at a private house party no less and—perhaps most importantly of all—for once in her life, every other female was blinded too.
What an odd circumstance he’d created on her behalf. Isabella wasn’t sure what to make of it.
“Don’t hold yourself so stiffly,” he ordered, and she caught the hint of cloves on his breath.
“Been sampling the wassail again?” her lips asked while her mind battled conflicting desires—staying put or wrenching away. And finding a place to hide.
“That I have.” Giving her no chance for escape, he firmed his grip at her waist and around her hand and they were off. “It’s every bit as delicious as I remembered.”
Though her upper body remained rigid within the unfamiliar waltzing hold, her feet felt at home and she concentrated only on Nicholas, his strength, and his silent direction. Concentrated on Lord Frostwood, her stubborn conscience reminded.
After a single stumble, her legs stretched instinctively to match his longer strides and Isabella soon found herself soaring backward across the dance floor.
Not once did he clomp upon her toes. Not once did she allow any old refrains to mar her joy.
She was…dancing. Actually dancing!
Dancing with Lord Frostwood while other couples swirled about—she heard the rustle of long, fancy dresses circling nearby and the low murmur of conversations ebbing and flowing as she and her partner glided across the ballroom as graceful as swans on a lake… And she was part of it all thanks to this wonderful, magical man. Christmastime had never been so marvelous.
Eventually the music slowed and Anne instructed everyone to exchange partners.
Their feet waned to a stop and a dip of fear tumbled through her belly.
“Miss Isabella?” Simon Gregory queried. “Will—”
“Will be dancing with me for the duration.” To emphasize, Lord Frostwood pulled her closer. His possession warmed her and calmed the knot of nerves—but it wasn’t done. She couldn’t dance with him and only him. It would be tantamount to an announcement.
It simply wasn’t done! What else wasn’t done was the objection Isabella knew she should offer but chose not to. In the lengthening silence, her eyelashes flickered strangely against the foreign sash.
“Very well, but be advised I may ask again,” Mr. Gregory graciously acceded.
The music started yet Lord Frostwood remained in place. “Then I shall be forced to deny your request again. And again. Isabella will only be partnering me tonight and I her. Special circumstances, you know. Future wife and all.”
Isabella gasped but the sound was covered by Mr. Gregory’s cough. “Thought that might be the way of it. May I wish you both happy, then?”
“You may.” Not a moment later he guided her backward, instantly taking up the one-two-three rhythm.
“My lord?”
“Call me Nicholas, darling Issybelle. Future husband and all.”
She laughed with a combination of sheer amazement and pure panic. “When Anne pronounced you an imbecile, I didn’t realize she had the right of it. You cannot claim we are to be wed!”
“Oh? Thought I just did.”
“It’s terribly forward of you.”
He hummed a tune nowhere near the waltz and spun her in a fast circle. “Most likely.”
“As were all your kisses.”
“But you like my forward kisses.”
“So I do, but Father will never—”
“You have an unreasonable fear of your father, have you considered that?” He spun her again.
An unreasonable fear. What a simple, succinct way to describe the emotions that roiled through her at the mere mention of the man.