A Frosty Christmas Kiss

You can find the audiobook of the previous version here.


She’s blind but determined. He’s grumpy but protective. Together? Pure holiday magic.

Isabella Spier feels the walls closing in—but she can’t see them. Dominated by her overbearing father’s rigid ways since a twist of fate stole her sight, Isabella risks his displeasure by stealing away for an adventure of her own when invited to a friend’s Regency house party for the holidays. But she never dared to dream of meeting a formidable lord who discovers all her secrets and still wants her for his own.

Hiding his war wounds beneath a frosty exterior, Lord Frostwood lives up to his name, freezing out everyone who tries to get close. Everyone, that is, until a spirited wench falls at his feet and proceeds to warm his cold existence, thanks to some strategically placed mistletoe and their resulting Christmas kisses.

But when it’s confrontation time, will Frost know the right way to deal with her ogre of a father, granting Isabella the freedom to choose her future?

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

A Frosty Christmas Kiss is a sweet and spicy Regency Christmas novel of 45,000 words (with hot kisses and one sex scene after marriage) perfect for readers who enjoy Historical Romance spiced with a bit of Regency slang. If you like feel-good stories full of wit and wordplay, Larissa Lyons’ heartfelt holiday Christmas Kisses are what you want in your stocking—and ereader!

HEA ~ Standalone ~ Book 2 – Regency Christmas Kisses

Buy A Frosty Christmas Kiss to heat up your chilly evening—and enjoy this heartwarming, feel-good escape!

A Frosty Christmas Kiss is an expanded version of the previously published Miss Isabella Thaws a Frosty Lord; updated with additional chapters and new characters.

No AI contributed to this story; 100% human effort

Release Date:  Dec 20, 2022
ISBNs
• 9781949426762 ebook
• 9781949426380 print
• 9780983471196 large print


Reviews & AWARDS For Miss Isabella Thaws a Frosty Lord

Named a Finalist in the Gayle Wilson Award of Excellence contest.

The Romance Bloke recently named Miss Isabella Thaws a Frosty Lord the first in his list of Best Historical Romance Novels to read this year (to my delighted surprise)!

I admit to rereading this book numerous times, and loving it every single time. Izzybelle and Frost are perfect together, a true love of soul mates, with humor by the bucket full thrown in.” – 5-star Amazon review

“With a fabulous cast of characters, sparkling dialogue and a hint of holiday magic…Miss Isabella Thaws a Frosty Lord by Larissa Lyons is an enchanting and magical holiday romance that is guaranteed to melt your heart.” ~bookreviewsandmorebykathy.com

“I love the way that the book reads as if it were written in Regency times…I’m a fan of Carla Kelly Regency romances and having just read her newest Christmas release right before picking this one up; I was in the mood for another story of that caliber. I definitely got that with Miss Isabella Thaws a Frosty Lord.”
~EKD, BN Review


EXCERPT

The Festivities Begin…and a Certain Frosty Fellow is Blind to the Truth

Dinner was a bore. Everyone in attendance was a bore.

Hell, he was the bore, Frost realized, noticing the downward turn of his thoughts and forcing his lips into a smile. It felt like a grimace so he tried again, ordering his lips and cheeks to cooperate. He was here after all, he could at least attempt to do the pretty, to act the gentleman.

He’d been told he had adorable dimples, might as well release them for the holiday. His gift, as it were.

Adorable, blast and damn, the bane of every male. As a youth, he’d undergone significant practice to eradicate the dreaded indentations, and by the time he needed to scrape whiskers off his jaw, he’d ruthlessly taught himself how to suppress any hint of a damn dimple, adorable or otherwise.

Draining his wineglass for the seventh time—a number that tended to grow each year around this particular date—he resolved to ask at least one of the unmarried females to dance that evening. He could do that, could he not—mask his irritation for a single dance during the night’s promised entertainment? Surely he could, he thought with a smile that likely belonged on a hyena. So long as it wasn’t a bloody Christmas song.

* * *

The dangling ringlet upon Isabella’s forehead swayed with the motion of her feet. She’d requested the maid arrange it just so, and every light brush was a reminder of how pleasing it was to have her wishes regarded.

Spine flush against the wall, Isabella’s toes rose and fell in time with the lively music. Her right hand, snug upon the strap of her fan, tapped against her thigh in tandem with her dancing toes. She itched to be alone. To indulge in her one vulgar pastime—or so Father labeled it, saying the habit made her look no better than a “bingo mort”, a female drunkard—the activity that had earned her more than one bruised shin and worse, Father’s further disdain. But all the same, the obsession beckoned.

But it was not to be. Not now that the other guests had arrived and she no longer had the privilege of finding herself alone in the great ballroom.

The beginnings of the third set reached her ears. Everyone not already breathless with exertion rushed onto the dance floor at Anne’s prompting. As mistress of the assembly, Anne presided over the dances and called the steps, just as they’d played and practiced when they were younger. Her friend’s happiness was evident.

More than ever, Isabella yearned to join in.

“Dance with me.”

Her head jerked toward the speaker. Startled by the abrupt command, as well as by the rich voice that pronounced it, she blinked. Was he talking to her? Or someone else nearby?

Anne had instructed her guests to mingle and make merry as they saw fit. This wouldn’t be the first man to take pity on her and offer to escort her around the floor. But he would be the first to do so without at least introducing himself or extending a greeting.

“Pardon?” Isabella inquired softly, testing her perception.

He shifted closer. She felt his presence fairly sizzle along her front. “I said, ‘Dance with me’.”

“That is what I thought you said. Well, sir…” Isabella began with true regret, for she longed to dance and for some odd reason given his inexcusable curtness, she especially longed to dance with the owner of the velvet-voiced commands. She certainly hadn’t entertained such longing when declining the four previous, courteous offers she’d received, but then each of those men had been known to her. “I fear I must decline your less-than-polite dictum.”

In direct contrast to his abrupt tone, she gave a gracious nod then turned toward the open doors she knew to be on her left, running her corresponding hand lightly along the wall.

What?” he snapped the same instant she felt his fingers encircle her opposite wrist, halting her progress. “You reject me?”

Had not her fan been affixed to her arm she surely would’ve dropped it at the unexpected touch—and her reaction to it.

“Reject you? Nay,” she said, trying to dismiss the nuance of hurt she detected in his haughty voice. Just as she tried to dismiss how the fingers above her glove seared her skin. Had she ever felt the touch of a man not family on her flesh before? Why certainly she had… Physicians for one—

Shaking herself free of his hold and her own disturbing thoughts, Isabella reiterated, “Nay, but I do reject your tone for I dislike intensely being ordered about.”

“Ah…then it is I who must beg your pardon,” he said smoothly—too smoothly. It was a rakeshame she had the misfortune to be bantering with, Isabella feared, feeling how the subtle shift in his demeanor caused her insides to riot. “For though I have been returned from war these two years past, I fear old habits of barking commands have yet to leave my lips. Would you perchance care to dance? Perchance to dance?” he self-mocked. “From commander to pitiful poet, I fear. I only ask because you…”

“I…what?”

“You…”

Why was he still hesitating? Though his unexpected humor distracted her mightily, she heard plainly what he refused to voice. So she said it for him. “I am the only pitiable female not yet engaged?”

“No! You…you have a curl in your eye,” he accused as though she’d committed a crime and the pillory awaited.

“Mayhap I like it there.”

“Well, I do not.”

Subduing the urge to twitch her head and dislodge the curl he somehow found so offensive, Isabella wondered why, if she irritated him so, he remained. And why, a foxed pox on her sudden boldness, was conversing with him exhilarating beyond belief?

This daring side she’d released was wont to land her in trouble.

Thanks to her father, she’d learned early and well to hide her love of music and movement. A lesson she’d best not allow a domineering stranger tempt her into forgetting. “Well, sir, as much as I like my curl’s present location, mayhap I wish you gone.”

She thought he sputtered a protest but didn’t give her ears time to decide. “Because I most certainly do not care to dance, especially not with you,” she lied, for she irrationally wished it above all things. “Good evening, sir.”

Quickly, she quit the room before he could—shameless rake or gruff commander, she knew not which—blast through her common sense and have her agreeing. To dance with him of all things.

I am the only pitiable female not yet engaged?

Damn and blast! That wasn’t what he’d been about to say. Not even close.

You have a curl in your eye.

Blast and damn, that wasn’t what he’d meant to say either. She muddled his tongue, this obstinate, enchanting miss.

An uncommon beauty, at least to him, Frost thought now, recalling her wistful expression as she held up one side of the ballroom. A lone, confident figure who invited and intrigued…

I only ask because you stare so longingly at the dance floor…with just a hint of sorrow. I thought perhaps you were reliving an earlier time and we might banish our memories together, if only for a song.

But he hadn’t been able to bring himself to utter such romantic drivel.

The lack of courage had cost him. Cost the acquaintance of the most promising miss present and there certainly wasn’t a lack, Ed and Lady Redford having invited half the shire from what he could tell. “Little gathering for the holidays” indeed. Had to be close to ninety revelers in his estimation. Might as well have been five hundred for all the maggoty “cheer” such a crush harkened upon his person.

Hell, he’d only promised himself a single dance as a singular act of charity, little expecting to be captivated and then outright rebuffed, but that’s exactly what happened. Perhaps the saucy baggage did it on purpose, to snare his interest?

HISTORICAL ROMANCE