Snowbound With The Baronet (7 page)

Cassandra’s eyes flew open and her gaze ranged around the small, gabled room, still heavily cloaked in shadow. She could make out enough to realize this was neither Rosemeade Cottage nor Noughtly Hall. It must be a farmhouse on the Wiltshire Downs where she was storm-stayed with a party that included Sir Brandon Calvert!

The unmixed pleasure Cassandra had felt when she’d believed the whole experience to be a dream suddenly became very mixed indeed. Pleasure was only a small part of that mixture—one she tried to deny altogether but could not quite.

Everything she’d seen and done the previous day came back to her. It had been one of the most distressing events she’d experienced in recent memory. Yet it had been one of the most exhilarating, too. She could congratulate herself that she had come through it with her dignity intact.

But what would today bring? Would the snow have stopped or turned to rain so she and Sir Brandon could go their separate ways?

Outside, the wind moaned around the eaves, while inside the little room, the air was filled with the drone of soft snoring from Cassandra’s bedmates. Much as she dreaded subjecting herself to the chill morning air and putting on cold garments, she could not continue to lie there not knowing what today would bring. Once she knew whether she would go or stay, she could prepare herself to deal with it.

Moving as quietly as possible, so as not to wake the others, she slipped out of bed, groped about for her clothes and put them on. Shivering, she crept to the tiny window and peered through the shutter slats. Outside, the world was white as if everything had received a thick coating of meringue. Snowflakes swirled on the gusts of wind. Far from abating, they appeared to be falling harder than yesterday. So much for Sir Brandon Calvert and his confident predictions!

Cassandra barely stifled a cry of alarm when she heard a floorboard creak behind her.

“Forgive me for startling you,” Mrs. Davis whispered. “How does it look out there?”

“Worse than yesterday.” Cassandra shook her head. “It is a good thing Mr. and Mrs. Martin are fond of company, for I believe they will have us with them again today.”

“What a blessing we found our way here.” Mrs. Davis wrapped her arms around herself. Her teeth began to chatter. “If we cannot leave today, I might as well go back to bed where it is warm.”

“So you should.” Cassandra chafed her arms to warm them. “Now that I am up, I shall go downstairs and see if there is anything I can do. Stir up the fire and put the kettle on at least.”

As Mrs. Davis started back toward the bed, Cassandra realized this might be their only opportunity for a word in private. “One more thing. Would you mind not mentioning to anyone here the reason for our visit to Aunt Augusta?”

“Of course not, my dear,” Mrs. Davis gave her arm a reassuring pat. “I thought perhaps you did not wish the gentleman to know. You may rely on my discretion.”

“I know I can.” Grateful not to have to explain any further, Cassandra caught the woman’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Thank you. Now get back to bed before you freeze.”

The poor woman was clearly relieved to oblige. She scurried back and quietly slipped beneath the covers.

Cassandra eased the bedroom door open and crept out into the narrow hallway. From one of the other rooms came the rumble of heavy snoring. Could that be Sir Brandon? Somehow she could not imagine him making such a ridiculous racket.

With bated breath and tentative footsteps, she groped her way down the winding, uneven stairs, hoping she would not wake the entire household by tumbling down. After what seemed like a very long time, she reached the parlor safely. A few stubborn embers of last night’s fire cast a faint, ruddy glow over the room. Two men dozed in their chairs covered up with greatcoats. Another lay curled up on the window seat. Cassandra thought it might be Sir Brandon.

A disturbing temptation lured her to tiptoe over and watch him while he slept. She managed to resist by picturing him waking up and catching her. How humiliating that would be!

Instead she turned her steps toward the kitchen. The nearer she drew, the warmer the air seemed to grow. Cassandra thought she smelled a fire burning. Perhaps Mrs. Martin was up already, preparing to feed a houseful of unexpected guests.

“Good morning,” she called softly. “What can I do to help you?”

It was not the farmwife’s high-pitched voice that replied but a familiar bewitching baritone. “If you have any ability to control the weather, you might make it stop snowing. Otherwise you may refrain from criticizing my pitiful attempts to predict the future.”

Sir Brandon rose from his seat at the kitchen table and greeted her with a bow.

Hard as she tried, Cassandra could not suppress a smile. She had forgotten what a comical twist Sir Brandon could put on the most commonplace remark. Perhaps she had willed herself not to recall because it would be one more thing to regret about losing him from her life.

As she approached the table, Cassandra strove to make her tone sound as carefree as his. “If I had any ability to control the weather, you may be certain I would have employed it as you suggest. I have no intention of reproaching you for hoping for the best, especially when all past experience supported your prediction.”

Caution urged her to sit as far away from him possible, but she did not want them to have to speak too loudly in order to carry on a conversation. Neither did she want Sir Brandon to suppose she was afraid of him. So she sank onto the nearest chair, which happened to be beside his. “You are an early bird this morning.”

“As are you.” He did not sit back down at once but first fetched a cup from the sideboard. “Who would think a baronet and a duke’s daughter would rise before the sun? I took the liberty of starting a fire and preparing a pot of tea. I hope the result is drinkable.”

Resuming his seat, he filled the cup and slid it toward Cassandra. She raised it to her lips and took a sip. “Rather strong, but I count that in its favor. I am certain Mrs. Martin will not resent your liberties in the least, though she may be surprised to discover a baronet acting as her scullery maid. Where did you learn to make a fire and a pot of tea?”

Even before he replied, she guessed the answer. “In his Majesty’s Army, of course. Military service can render a gentleman not entirely useless.”

“Did you fight in many battles?” Cassandra wrapped her hands around the cup, grateful for the warmth it provided.

Sir Brandon nodded. “Talavera, Ciudad Rodrigo, Salamanca and a great many more you may never have heard of. But I will not bore you with soldiers’ tales.”

Cassandra doubted any such account would prove a bore. But she did shy away from hearing about any danger he had endured.

“While we have a moment alone,” he continued, “I wanted to ask about something you mentioned last evening.”

“What exactly?” She tried to recall their conversation.

“You told my cousin you knew the grief an unhappy marriage could cause, based upon your observation. Were you referring to your family?”

Of all the questions he might have asked her, this was the last Cassandra had expected. She chided herself for letting that private comment slip out. “Is this your idea of behaving like new acquaintances to ask such a personal question?”

Sir Brandon flinched. “I suppose not, but I should like to know just the same. Particularly if your observation of an unhappy marriage influenced your response to my proposal.”

It had certainly influenced her answer to his proposal, though not in the way he might presume. Cassandra seized her cup and took a long, slow drink to keep from having to reply right away.

Sir Brandon did not push her for an answer, but neither did he try to fill the awkward silence by changing the subject, as she’d hoped he might. Instead, he sipped his tea and waited.

Perhaps she could have turned their conversation in another direction, remarking on the weather again or asking what he thought of their chances for resuming their journeys tomorrow. But part of her wanted to confide in him, in spite of the risk to her pride.

“Like many noblemen, my father was anxious to sire a male heir,” she ventured at last. “If you recall your Tudor history, you may understand how that particular desire can place a strain upon a marriage.”

She recalled overhearing someone jest that her father would rival Henry VIII for wives if he kept on. At the time, she’d been too young to understand what they meant. Later she understood all too well. “The strain increased with the birth of each daughter until it became desperation. My mother died giving birth to a stillborn son.”

Before she knew what was happening, Sir Brandon reached out and grasped her hand. “I beg your pardon. I should not have asked a question that was bound to prompt painful memories.”

His touch brought back some of the most pleasant memories of her life. Memories of stolen moments when her chaperone’s attention was diverted and Sir Brandon took advantage of it to clasp her hand. How much that brief, chaste contact between them had communicated—admiration, affection and a desire to protect her. If her touch had conveyed her true feelings to him, no wonder her rejection had puzzled him. Had it driven him to seek a reason that made more sense than the one she’d given him?

His present touch communicated different feelings, but ones Cassandra valued no less—regret, compassion and a wish to provide comfort.

Yet she was receiving all this bounty from his generous heart under false pretenses. “I have no memories of my mother, painful or otherwise. I was too young when she died. However, I am informed my sister Viola is very like her.”

To her surprise, Sir Brandon did not release her hand, but tightened his grasp. “I believe it might be worse to have no recollection at all.”

Cassandra shook her head. “I assure you it is not. I recall my father’s second wife very well—Miranda and Evelina’s mother. She was as devoted to Viola and me as our own mama could have been if she’d lived. Losing her was very hard indeed, but no worse than knowing how unhappy Father made her because she bore him only daughters.”

More than half her life she had locked that knowledge and those emotions away in her heart. She had concealed them even from Vi, who had loved their father and been loved as she and the others had never been. Though it affronted her pride to betray such vulnerability, it brought Cassandra an unexpected sense of relief to unburden herself.

“Poor Letty had it worst of all,” she continued, forced by some bewildering compulsion to confess fully once she had begun, “because she bore him no children at all. Much as she regretted it, that misfortune probably saved her life.”

There was more she could reveal, but it was far more humiliating and she had vowed never to speak of it.

“Forgive me. I do not know what to say.” Sir Brandon’s gaze, more compassionate than she had ever beheld it, seemed to caress her face and her very heart.

If she allowed him to continue, Cassandra feared she would be lost. “Perhaps that is because you have no experience of such bitterness within a family.”

By a resolute act of will, she pried her hand from his strong, comforting grasp. “After all, your father had two sons to safeguard his family title.”

Sir Brandon flinched as if she had struck him. A cold wave of remorse washed over her, though Cassandra did not understand its cause.

His features and his eyes betrayed an inner struggle of a kind she knew all too well. A struggle between the irresistible compulsion to speak and the immoveable safeguards put in place to prevent it.

“Believe me...” The words burst out of him. “... that provided no guarantee of family harmony!”

Cassandra suspected once the stout wall of silence had been breeched, further confidences would follow, as they had with her. But before Sir Brandon could say more, the sound of approaching footsteps sealed his lips.

“Well, well, what’s this?” Mrs. Martin bustled in. “To think I should lie abed while a lady and gentleman were up lighting the fire. Good morning my dears. Why did you not strike a light? We can afford candles, you know.”

Sir Brandon quickly recovered his composure and began to chat with their hostess most amiably. It took Cassandra longer to recover hers. A dozen questions clamored in her mind that she longed to put to him. But would she find another private moment before the storm abated and they were obliged to part company again?

Brandon welcomed the sudden appearance of Mrs. Martin as he once had greeted the arrival of reinforcing troops to lift a desperate siege. He could scarcely bear to contemplate what he might have revealed to Lady Cassandra, if not for the timely intervention of their hostess.

And yet, part of him resented the intrusion on a precious moment of mutual confidence between them. Never during the weeks of their courtship, had he suspected the bruised spirit hidden behind Cassandra Whitney’s gallant smiles and challenging banter. He had envied her seemingly devoted family. Clearly the affection among the sisters and their stepmother had been sincere. But he’d also believed her father was proud of Cassandra and that she had been eager to please him. Now Brandon knew better.

Mrs. Martin lit a candle from the fire and placed it on the table. Then she took a seat opposite Brandon and Lady Cassandra. “It looks as if you will be staying with us another day at least. I fear your poor cousin will not be pleased to miss more of that fine house party.”

“Don’t mind Imogene, I beg you.” Brandon rose and fetched a cup for Mrs. Martin, who beamed at him with more approval than he had ever received from his own celebrated mother. “She is young and not as sensible as she might be. To be quite truthful, I find
this
house party more congenial than I expect to find the one at Everleigh.”

Mrs. Martin chuckled as she poured herself tea. “I reckon you find the
company
here more to your liking.”

She cast a significant glance toward Lady Cassandra.

Were his feelings that obvious? Brandon fought down a rising wave of alarm. How could that be when he did not know his own feelings? Did he not know them, his conscience demanded, or could he not bring himself to admit what they might be?