“And that leaves us with our remaining duo…” Anne paused for effect. “Frost and Isabella!”
“Frost?” she whispered, testing the wintry name upon her tongue.
“Aye,” his smooth voice responded from right in front of her.
Buffets of wind, amidst bustling and laughing and promises of more instructions once they reached town, battered Isabella from all sides as, now partnered, everyone deserted the hall in a mass exodus that barely granted Isabella enough time to mask her surprise before her left arm was tucked securely along his, her right being abandoned to fidget alone within the warm muff. Well now, she certainly hadn’t planned very wisely for this occurrence!
“What? No gloves?” He made no attempt to hide his surprise.
Who needed them when a human brick burned beneath their hand? “I’m afraid I’ve misplaced them,” she admitted. “I searched everywhere this morn, but my efforts proved futile for they weren’t to be found.”
He placed his leather-encased hand over her bare one, pressing her arm intimately against his side. “I expect they’ll reveal themselves when the maids see to your room.”
“Yes, most likely.”
“Shall we, then?” She heard the undercurrent of laughter. “Note that I used inflection to indicate a question. But I do believe we should be off as we’re currently lagging, being the last of the company to depart.”
Stunned silent by his unexpected manner and her own silly schoolgirl response to it—to him—Isabella found herself clutching his arm and being guided down the front steps—eleven in all, she knew—without having time to utter more than a repetitive, “Frost?”
“Nicholas Winten, Earl of Frostwood,” he confirmed just as their feet met the gravel driveway.
She hesitated, wondering why the impatient stomping of horses and jingle of harnesses didn’t greet her ears. His grip tightened but his pace didn’t slow. Not a fraction. Neither did her heart rate when he added, “I deeply regret how our acquaintance started off with a bit of a contretemps last eve and I shall endeavor to rectify any less-than-perfect impression I may have left you with. I vow to make it up to you by being partner par excellence today at whatever brand of merriment our dear hostess has arranged. In exchange, you must tell me who you are—I only heard your given name—and agree to dance with me this evening.”
His steps flew as fast and as sure as his words. She curved her hand tightly around his muscled forearm and tried to keep up. “Must I? If you continue to order me about, Lord Frostwood, I daresay I shall only continue to refuse everything you desire.”
Oh heavens! Lord Frostwood?
Why had she not cobbled it together sooner? For upon saying the name, her mind instantly conjured the picture painted for her last night—how Harriet had described the friend of Edward’s when Isabella joined her after leaving the ballroom. The conversation she hadn’t been able to put from her mind even after retiring…
“Oh posh! How that silly truffle Brìghde thinks Cousin Aylmer is handsome when Lord Frostwood is in the room, I’ll never know. I vow, he—”
“Frostwood?” Isabella had asked, latching on to the unfamiliar name.
“Oh yes! His countenance is divine, even when he’s scowling. Shall I describe him to you? He has thick black curls and the darkest midnight eyes, and he’s every bit as tall as Edward.” That last part was no help at all, given how Isabella had never so much as touched Edward, much less sought to measure his height. “I vow, he must have his valet take a razor to his cheeks twice a day for there’s always a hint of shadow after an hour or two! He has a strong nose. It quite puts me in mind of those old Roman busts in Papa’s study. He was at the wedding, you know. Frost I mean, not any Roman emperors!” Harriet laughed at her own wit.
“My…” Isabella could envision him so clearly it was disconcerting. She forced a casual observation. “My, but you have studied him, now haven’t you?”
“Only because he’s the most interesting of Edward’s friends. They served together on the peninsula, did you know? Until Edward had to come home, that is. I vow, Lord Frostwood is so handsome I could swoon!”
The histrionics had continued into the night, as had the complaints she wasn’t allowed to stay up and dance, descriptions of Cousin Aylmer’s leg hair—still worthy of a laugh, though most improper—and the occasional detail about Lord Frostwood interspersed among her other diatribes.
Details Isabella drank up like parched earth and committed to memory.