Snowbound With The Baronet Read online

  It was clear Imogene Calvert did not believe a word Cassandra had said, perhaps because her countenance betrayed her dismay.

  The young lady looked down her nose at Cassandra. “I believe I can manage on my own after all, if I might trouble you to allow me a little privacy.”

  “Of course,” Cassandra replied, equally stiff and correct. “If that is what you wish.”

  As much as Miss Calvert’s contempt distressed her, she could not resent it. She might have behaved the same way to anyone she believed had insulted and hurt Brandon.

  “Is breakfast not to your liking, Sir Brandon?” asked Mrs. Martin as most of the party tucked into the meal with hearty appetites. “I expect you must be accustomed to daintier fare.”

  Brandon roused from his brooding with a guilty start. “No indeed, ma’am. During my army service, I was often lucky to get a morning bite of any kind. I would have been overjoyed to partake of such an excellent repast.”

  To convince her of his sincerity, he shoveled a spoonful of fried egg into his mouth and smiled broadly while he chewed and swallowed it. The effort nearly choked him.

  He imagined this polite performance might make Cassandra question his truthfulness and suggest he should practice what he preached. But it was quite true that Mrs. Martin had prepared a fine breakfast, he assured his conscience. It was not her fault he was too preoccupied to appreciate it properly.

  “You look as if you have a great deal on your mind,” said Mrs. Martin, in a clear invitation to unburden himself.

  Brandon might have considered it if there had not been a table full of other people present. “So I do, ma’am. I am wondering how long this storm will continue and we shall have to impose upon your generous hospitality.”

  That was one of the concerns occupying his thoughts. As Brandon made an effort to look as if he enjoyed the meal, the greater part of his mind continued to dwell on the things Cassandra had told him. Her surprising confession had turned his whole conception of her upside down. Nothing was as he’d believed it to be. When he recalled the day she had refused his proposal, his new insights into her family and her feelings seemed to illuminate his memories. They allowed him to perceive that painful event with true clarity at last.

  He reflected on the wasted years he and Cassandra could have spent together, if only she’d had faith in him to stand up to her father. It made every muscle in his body clench and his fist itch to strike something.

  His own face, perhaps? He was beginning to wonder if he deserved it.

  Cassandra might have lost them the past four years together, but had he forfeited all the years to come? Perhaps she had made an unwise decision four years ago, but she had acted out of concern for him. His masculine pride resented the idea that she had acted without his knowledge in order to protect him. Would he not have done the same for her, though, if he’d been convinced that marrying him would harm her somehow?

  He knew her father had been a man like any other, not some irresistible nemesis with the power to leech his fortune and poison their happiness. Together, they could have stood up to him. If he had proved too great a threat, they could have dismissed him from their lives.

  But how could he expect Cassandra to take such an objective view? Brandon knew from experience the irrational, destructive power a malevolent parent could wield. Would he have been able to make light of the harm his mother could have done if she chose?

  He needed to talk to Cassandra again, to explain why he’d reacted as he did. He needed to discover whether the feelings she’d once had for him were entirely a thing of the past, or whether they had persisted in spite of her efforts to quell them. What he needed most was time with her—time to get reacquainted, to catch up on their years apart. They needed to tell each other more about their early life, which had not always been kind to them.

  But first he needed time to persuade her to speak to him again.

  Preoccupied with his thoughts, Brandon scarcely noticed Tobias Martin rise from his chair and walk over to the kitchen window.

  After standing awhile, peering out toward the well and fields beyond, he spoke. “You needn’t wonder how long the storm will last, Sir Brandon. The snow looks to have stopped. It may take awhile to get the road cleared for coach traffic, but if the weather warms up, you might be surprised how quickly everything can get back to the way it should be.”

  The farmer’s hopeful prediction had the opposite effect on Brandon’s spirits. It appeared the one thing he needed most—time with Cassandra—might become a very scarce commodity.

  Mrs. Martin seemed nearly as dismayed by the prospect of their departure as Brandon felt. “Surely our guests won’t go away before we’ve celebrated Twelfth Night this evening. I planned to bake a cake, roast a goose and all.”

  “I hate to put you to so much trouble.” Brandon replied. “I can only speak for my own party, but I believe we shall be obliged to enjoy your hospitality for one more night.”

  Now that the snow had stopped, they could likely make their way into the village and put up at the inn. But he would much rather stay here to celebrate Twelfth Night.

  Mrs. Martin’s obvious pleasure at Brandon’s announcement eased any obligation he might feel for continuing to impose upon her and her husband.

  “That’s at least four guests I can count on.” Their hostess turned to the stagecoach driver, who was seated on her left. “What about your lot? Will you be able to stay one more night or will you have to go?”

  Brandon fixed the burly, red-faced man with a concentrated stare, willing him to stay put one more night. He would be prepared to part with a substantial bribe, if necessary to persuade the fellow.

  The driver smiled at their hostess—a good sign, surely. “If there was nothing to consider but my own inclination, ma’am, I should be pleased to stay over, for I cannot recall when I’ve met a warmer reception. But I know my employers will expect me to press on if at all possible. There may be folks waiting for us at the stops ahead and I reckon my passengers are anxious to reach their destination.”

  Were they? Brandon wondered. Mrs. Davis seemed content to linger, having found a new friend in their hostess. But what about Cassandra? A few hours ago she might not have objected to remaining here. She might even have tried to persuade their driver. Now Brandon feared otherwise.

  His only hope might be if she had taken the opportunity to think matters over, as he had, and let her temper cool. Then perhaps she might begin to understand his excessive reaction to her recent revelations. He wondered if she and Imogene might have talked about him and his cousin might have put in a good word. If so, there could still be a chance for them to begin sorting out their differences before they must part ways.

  Brandon had almost made himself believe it was possible when Imogene entered the kitchen. At the sight of her, his jaw dropped and conversation around the table fell into awkward silence.

  His cousin looked a fright. Her dress hung at an odd angle, the cause of which he was at a loss to guess. That might not have drawn so much notice if her hair had been arranged in a neat, becoming style. Instead, it looked as if a flock of small birds had tried to make a nest in it.

  Was this Cassandra’s way of punishing his cousin for making demands on her time? Brandon wondered as everyone at the table began talking louder than necessary. Or was it a means of striking back at him for questioning her decision to reject his proposal?

  If it was, then they could be snowbound at the Martins’ farm for months without any hope of reconciling.

  Chapter Eleven

  BRANDON CALVERT WAS going to marry someone else. Cassandra kept reminding herself of that over and over as she changed clothes and carefully arranged her hair for the day. Each time it stung. But she continued to do it, hoping the exercise might inoculate her against the next time she must face him.

  Not only was Brandon going to marry someone else, the lady in question would be far better suited to him than she could ever hope to be.

  Imoge
ne Calvert had taken great pains to sing Miss Reynolds’ praises. “She is an heiress, you know. So neither of them will have any cause to suspect the other of fortune hunting.”

  Cassandra flinched. Of course Brandon’s cousin could not know the deplorable state of her family’s fortunes. But the fact that she had been travelling by public stagecoach rather than a private equipage must suggest she was no heiress.

  Brandon might have a clearer impression of her situation, now that she had told him about her father’s debts. Even if there were no other obstacles to a renewal of their courtship, he would surely be wary of making the same mistake his father had. How would he ever be able to trust that she could care for him rather than his money?

  What difference did it make though? Cassandra stabbed a hair pin deep into a braided coil high on the back of her head. There were so many obstacles between them that another one scarcely mattered. Whether Brandon understood or not, refusing his proposal was one of the most prudent decisions she’d ever made. She would do it again if he were foolish enough to make her another offer.

  Then what right did she have to object if he intended to wed another lady? Cassandra drew several slow, deep breaths and practiced a gracious smile. She would have given anything for a mirror to check whether her expression looked convincing.

  She must stop dithering! If she stayed up here much longer it would look as if she was deliberately trying to avoid another encounter with Brandon. Cassandra refused to give him any grounds to suspect that.

  Drawing confidence from her appearance, she marched downstairs with her head held high and her countenance serene. It remained that way until she spotted Sir Brandon Calvert standing at the foot of the stairs with his arms crossed. Cassandra’s knees threatened to buckle and send her tumbling down the last few steps.

  Pride saved her from landing at his feet in a pathetic heap.

  She stopped and looked down at him. Then she swept a glance over the rest of the parlor and found it empty of guests, much to her relief. From the kitchen came the muted rattle of cutlery and a buzz of conversation.

  “Did you wish to speak to me, Sir Brandon?” She strove to keep her voice cool and correct, unlike the way he’d last heard her speak. How pitiful she must have sounded.

  He gave a curt nod. “You look very well, Lady Cassandra.”

  She should have been flattered, except that his compliment sounded more like an accusation.

  “Why, thank you,” she replied with wary civility. “Was there something else you wished to say? I cannot imagine you waited here simply to praise my appearance.”

  “Quite true.” He stepped back to allow her to descend the rest of the stairs.

  Cassandra would have preferred to stay looking down on him, but she could not ignore the pointed invitation.

  “Well?” She raised her eyebrows as she carefully descended. “Pray do not keep me in suspense.”

  How she wished his fierce scowl was not so compelling!

  “You look very well,” he repeated. “I wish I could say the same of my cousin. I am surprised and disappointed that you would vent your vexation with me upon a young person who looks up to you and has never done you any harm.”

  “You think I committed that?” Cassandra waved her hand wildly around her head to suggest Miss Calvert’s efforts at hairdressing.

  “Did you not?” The baronet’s expression collapsed from grim severity into abject bewilderment so swiftly, the result was almost comical.

  How could he believe her capable of committing such a grooming atrocity? Cassandra bridled. But Brandon’s slack gape and the recollection of his cousin’s scarecrow appearance made it nearly impossible to keep from laughing.

  Somehow, she managed to master her mirth.

  Shaking her head vigorously, she held up her hand, palm toward him. “On my honor, I had nothing to do with it.”

  Her assurance did not lessen his confusion. “But... you were going to help her get dressed.”

  “So I would have if she’d let me. I asked several times but she was determined to do it herself. Perhaps if you speak to her, she might reconsider.”

  “Why did she refuse your help?”

  Though Cassandra had expected this question, it wiped the grin of amusement from her face. “Your cousin guessed that you and I once had a closer acquaintance than we admitted to. She accused me of breaking your heart. After that she wanted nothing more to do with me. I must say I admire her loyalty if not her hair.”

  Her quip provoked a faint grin from Brandon, but his expressive blue eyes held no hint of amusement.

  With tension bristling between them, she had nothing to lose. The least she could gain from their remaining time together was the answers to some important questions. Those answers might help her truly make peace with the past.

  “Was your cousin correct?” she demanded, knowing Brandon would have no choice but to answer truthfully. “Did I break your heart?”

  His eyes widened as if she had shoved the barrel of a loaded pistol into his ribs. But after a moment’s hesitation, he replied in a self-deprecating tone. “In the young, that organ is particularly fragile, but time is a great healer.”

  What had she hoped he would say? Cassandra scarcely knew. Of course she did not want the burden of knowing she had hurt him do deeply. Especially now that she’d begun to suspect her motives for rejecting him might not have been as unselfish as she’d once believed. Yet it pained her to hear him speak of his feelings in that off-hand manner, as if they had been nothing more than a youthful whim he’d outgrown.

  Before she could decide how to reply, Brandon spoke again. “It seems I owe you an apology—more than one, in fact.”

  The abrupt shift in his manner caught her off-guard. “Do you? What for?”

  “For suspecting you would deliberately make my cousin appear ridiculous.” There could be no denying his sincerity. “I should have known you would never stoop to such vengeful behavior.”

  “So you should.” Cassandra refused to let him off too easily. “But I accept your apology. I hope you will be able to accept mine.”

  Brandon’s brow furrowed. Was it possible he did not know what she wanted to apologize for?

  Just then, heavy footsteps and loud voices approached from the kitchen. The stagecoach driver and guard strode into the parlor.

  Grateful as she was that they had found shelter in the Martins’ snug cottage, at that moment Cassandra wished she and Brandon were the only inhabitants of a large mansion. Perhaps then they could finish a conversation without being interrupted.

  When they spied Cassandra and Brandon, the two men froze. “Pardon the intrusion Sir... and Miss. Now that the snow has stopped, we need to check the state of the roads to figure how soon we can be on our way again.”

  “No need to apologize.” Cassandra moved out of their path so the men could reach the entry hall, where their coats and cloaks hung. “Do you suppose we shall get back on the road today?”

  It would be better if she did not linger here, common sense informed her like a pedantic governess. She and Brandon had taken the opportunity to revisit the past and discuss her reasons for refusing his marriage proposal. Now he was on his way to propose to someone else, so there was nothing more to be said.

  Nothing? Her heart rebelled. What about the fact that she still cared for him? For years she had tried to convince herself otherwise, but the past two days had shown her those feelings were not dead, only slumbering. The slightest encouragement had roused them awake again. Brandon’s revelation about his family had made her feel she knew him better than ever. His experiences in the army had made him more mature and self-reliant, qualities she found potently attractive.

  “I cannot swear to it, Miss.” The coach driver’s gravelly voice intruded upon Cassandra’s thoughts. “But I hope we shall be able to get under way in the next few hours. With luck we should reach Bath before the day is out.”

  “I hope so,” Cassandra heard herself reply, though her
heart protested it was a lie. “My friend and I can be prepared to leave at a moment’s notice whenever you are ready to go.”

  “Very good, Miss.” The two men made their way past Cassandra and Brandon, their eyes politely averted as if they might be intruding on an intimate moment.

  But that was ridiculous, of course.

  “What about you, Sir Brandon?” Cassandra strove to keep her tone crisp and impersonal. “You and your cousin must be anxious to join that house party we have heard so much about.”

  “Imogene will be eager to continue our journey as soon as possible, of course.” Though Brandon did not refer to his own wishes, Cassandra assumed they must be the same as his cousin’s. “But there is still the matter of our broken wheel. Even if the carriage can be dug out and a local blacksmith can repair it, I doubt we will be able to leave today. Besides, Mrs. Martin has invited us to stay for their Twelfth Night celebrations. After all her kindness, I cannot disappoint her.”

  “Twelfth Night, of course.” Cassandra could imagine her great-aunt fuming if she and Mrs. Davis failed to arrive in time. By contrast, she pictured the Martins’ kitchen table heaped with food while everyone talked and laughed as they feasted.

  Even if Sir Brandon Calvert meant to marry someone else, Cassandra could not resist the desire for one more evening of his company—an evening untainted by silent recrimination or expectations. It would be an opportunity to replace the poignant memory of their last encounter with a more agreeable one that she would be happy to revisit in the years ahead.

  Of all the days of Christmas, Twelfth Night was traditionally the merriest.

  Brandon reflected on that while he and Cassandra made stilted conversation and the coach driver and guard donned their wraps to venture outside.

  Twelfth Night was an occasion for feasting and exchanging gifts. It was a time for singing and dancing, for drinking punch and eating rich, lavishly decorated cakes. For as long as he could remember, his parents had hosted a grand ball on Twelfth Night, which was famed for its festivity.