Dimples, rumors of his surly nature, descriptions of haughty, coal-black eyebrows—raised whenever his ire was piqued… Harriet waxed on and Isabella had provided a captive, if quiet audience.
At the thought of grazing her fingers over bristly whiskers…of searching out a hoarded dimple, Isabella stumbled.
His barked, “Have a care!” brought her firmly into the present. Swoon-worthy dimples aside, there existed positively no reason for her to be intrigued by the reputedly cold, austere gentleman. Though his muscular arm beneath her fingertips felt anything but cold…
Silly widgeon! Becoming all breathless over dimples you cannot even see! Or mayhap ’twas his accelerated pace. “Must you trod so quickly?”
“Quickly?” he asked in clear astonishment, making no effort to pause or shorten his stride. “Nay! Step lively now, we’re lagging behind every other pairing and do not want to lose ere we—”
“Ahhh!” Her slippered foot snagged on something. She jerked her arm free and scrambled to regain her balance to no avail, crashing into the ground. “Oh!”
Her only thought—beyond what a wretched time to trip!—was over her new muffler. She’d lost it. “Dratted gnats!”
“Isabella!” Anne cried in the distance.
He dropped to her side at once. She’d barely caught her breath, of a certainty considered her composure—along with her muffler—still misplaced, when she felt large, bare hands begin combing every inch of her feet and legs. Isabella gasped. “Lord Frostwood!”
“Blast it, woman,” he said harshly, “you gave me a fright. Your legs, your ankles—”
“They are fine, my lord. But do you see—”
“You ‘my lord’ me now? Don’t stand on ceremony, woman!” he snarled, taking one palm in hand, a palm she realized stung deeply. “You’re bleeding. Are you injured elsewhere?”
“’Tis nothing more than a flea bite, certainly not worth all this fuss.” She attempted to pull free and gain her feet, but he wouldn’t have it.
“’Tis not a trifle! Both your palms are scraped raw. What else—”
“Isabella!” Breathless, Anne reached them. “Frost! You imbecile! I paired you with Issybee because I trusted you to look out for her!”
The hands holding hers strained with suppressed force. “Imbecile, Lady Redford?”
“Of course, you cork-brained simpleton! Can you not assist her—”
“Anne.”
Edward’s voice joined the fray and Isabella slumped toward Lord Frostwood, wanting to hide her face—if not her entire body. Her other palm burned too. Her legs however, felt fine—if excessively tingly after being stroked by Lord Frostwood’s strong-fingered hands. Had she not been so embarrassed by the fall, she’d be embarrassed by how her insides were now sweating at his proximity.
“Anne, I don’t think he realizes—”
“Realizes?” Anne screeched, and Isabella prayed no one else had joined them.
She straightened away from the surprising comfort of Lord Frostwood’s impossibly hard chest and sought to smooth over any discomfort her clumsiness had caused—smoothing her skirts being out of the question as he still had command of her wrists. “I am fine, truly.”
“Oh Isabella, dear—”
“’Tis nothing but a scratch.” Lord Frostwood angled her hands. “Why the devil you go on—”
“A scratch!”
“Ed, tell your wife to quit harping at me, would you?”
“Harping?” Anne cried, her words shriller than the biting wind. “As if it isn’t warranted! Could you not—”
“Me!?” Lord Frostwood exploded. “Why is this about me, pray? Can the woman not watch where she’s going?”
Sheer silence met his question.
Followed by two indrawn breaths—Anne’s and Edward’s. Thank goodness. It seemed they were the only ones close enough to witness her embarrassment. Along with her companion—who’d yet to relinquish her hands.
Anne recovered first. “Of course she could, Frost, if she could see. Isabella’s blind, you imbecile.”
Throughout the story Lord Frostwood believes an accident is to blame for the blindness experienced by Miss Isabella, to learn the truth, scroll down…
Though the disorder wasn’t recognized during Regency England, Isabella exhibits an aggressive form of retinitis pigmentosa, the term assigned to a collection of degenerative eye diseases. It wasn’t until the 1850s when a Dutch ophthalmologist coined the name. RP is hereditary and affects one in 3500+ people worldwide. Fortunately for our heroine, she has a thoughtful—and hunky—hero at her side! >^..^<
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