Snowbound With The Baronet Page 2

  Her well-shaped chin tilted upward ever so slightly. “I am Lady Cassandra. My father survived his father long enough to confer that distinction upon my sisters and me.”

  “Forgive me.” Brandon felt himself growing more rattled by the minute, which vexed him. “I have been abroad... with General Wellington’s army. I had not heard of your father’s death.”

  During their exchange, Imogene looked from Brandon to Cassandra and back again. The moment their conversation paused, she broke in. “The two of you are acquainted, then? What a small world it is that you should meet again under these circumstances.”

  A small world? So it was—far too small for Brandon’s comfort.

  He cursed his ill fortune. Since coming home from his three years of fighting on the Peninsula, he had avoided anywhere he might meet up with Cassandra Whitney. He should have been safe on a country road in winter.

  “Lady Cassandra and I were quite well acquainted at one time.” As he answered Imogene’s question, Brandon endeavored to smooth the bitter edge of his tone.

  Four years ago, he had hoped to be even more closely acquainted with the lady. At the time, he had been certain she would welcome such a development. But when he’d summoned the nerve to offer his heart in exchange for her hand, he had discovered she’d only been toying with his affections. How could he have been such a blind fool?

  Seeing her again so unexpectedly provoked the surge of painful resentment he’d expected. But he was not prepared for the intense flare of attraction that revived within him as well. If he had any sense, he ought to jump out of the coach and take his chances with the blizzard.

  A sharp jab in the ribs from Imogene made Brandon realize all three women were staring at him expectantly.

  “I... suppose under the circumstances, introductions are in order.” He strove to sound calm and controlled. “Imogene, may I present Lady Cassandra Whitney. Lady Cassandra, Imogene Calvert.”

  As the two women exchanged subdued greetings, Brandon sensed the avid curiosity radiating from Imogene. It was much more difficult to tell how Cassandra might feel. Clearly his skill at guessing the state of her emotions had not improved with time. At least now there was no danger of mistakenly assuming she entertained any affection for him.

  Her tone was cool and correct as she returned the introduction. “Allow me to present my travelling companion. Mrs. Davis, Sir Brandon and Lady Calvert.”

  “Lady Calvert?” Imogene burst into tinkling laughter that reminded Brandon of wind rustling through ice-laden tree branches. “No, no, I am not Brandon’s wife, only his cousin!”

  “Cousin?” At last Cassandra’s cool poise appeared shaken. “Forgive me. I assumed...”

  “No need to apologize.” Imogene was prepared to be gracious now that she realized Cassandra’s connections were more elevated than they appeared. “My dear cousin is certainly in need of a wife as I have often reminded him.”

  “That’s quite enough, Imogene!” Brandon chided her, though he was not certain why it flustered him to have his cousin raise the subject of marriage.

  “I was only teasing.” His cousin shot him a sulky frown. “I’m sure the ladies can see you are quite capable of attracting a wife.”

  This was getting worse and worse. Brandon wondered how soon they would reach the inn. What must Lady Cassandra think of him, knowing he had remained unwed in the years since his disastrous proposal to her?

  With forced heartiness, he sought to steer the conversation in a different direction. “So... you are going to visit the viscountess? Do you often spend the winter with her?”

  Lady Cassandra shook her head. He could not tell whether she welcomed his change of subject or not. “This is my first visit in many years. I am looking forward to it.”

  She seemed to throw down those words as a challenge, daring Brandon to doubt her.

  “Everleigh is not far from Bath,” Imogene chirped. “Perhaps we shall see you there if our party ventures into town to attend a concert or an assembly.”

  “Perhaps.” Lady Cassandra did not sound anxious to meet up with them again.

  Brandon heartily concurred with that sentiment. It was deucedly awkward being forced into her company again after so many years. And yet... he felt as if this encounter had jolted him fully awake from a long half-sleep.

  “Heaven knows when we shall ever reach Bath at this rate.” Lady Cassandra cleared away a patch of frost from the window and peered out into the thick-swirling snow. “I believe we could walk faster than the horses are moving.”

  As if in response to her pronouncement, the plodding stagecoach lurched to a dead halt.

  “What now?” Imogene wailed.

  “Do not fret.” Brandon turned up the collar of his greatcoat and prepared to jam on his hat. “I shall find out what is going on.”

  He welcomed any diversion from the brittle tension inside the stagecoach.

  As he climbed out, his feet sank into snow well past the tops of his riding boots. When the coachman scrambled down from his perch, Brandon gave a violent start. The man was so thickly coated in snow, he scarcely looked human.

  “Why have we stopped?” Brandon demanded.

  “Do you have to ask?” The driver shot back with a broad sweep of his arm that was almost lost in the impenetrable whiteness around them. “The horses cannot go another step in this or they’ll fall dead in their traces, poor beasts.”

  The alarm that had eased when the stagecoach stopped to pick up him and his cousin returned with a vengeance. Brandon peered around in every direction, but found it almost impossible to distinguish the sky from the ground. The only thing he could tell with any certainty was that daylight was beginning to fade.

  “Could you switch in my carriage horses and let them pull for a bit?”

  The coachman shook his head, sending a shower of snow tumbling from his tricorne hat. “They’re fine horses, sir, but they haven’t the size and strength to pull this great contraption under the best of conditions. I doubt they could budge it a foot in snow this deep. Even if they could, by the time we unharnessed these and put yours in their place, it would be dark.”

  “What are we to do, then?” Brandon wracked his brain for ideas. “We cannot stay here all night. We would perish!”

  His anxiety increased tenfold now that he felt responsible for the safety of three women. Hard as he tried to persuade himself that Lady Cassandra Whitney was not his responsibility, his heart refused to heed.

  “We could ride my carriage horses,” he suggested, “and take shelter at the first house we come to.”

  The coachman considered Brandon’s idea for a long moment before he finally replied. “I reckon it’s worth a try, but this is a lonely stretch of road.”

  He sounded doubtful they would succeed in finding shelter.

  Brandon wasn’t certain how the venture might turn out either, but he could not sit by and do nothing. Being trapped in close quarters with the woman who had broken his heart while they slowly froze to death was one of the worst endings to his life that he could imagine.

  Chapter Two

  AS MRS. DAVIS and Miss Calvert tried to assure one another that all would be well, Cassandra wondered what she had done to deserve this calamity.

  Her troublesome conscience was quick to provide an answer. She had refused Sir Brandon Calvert’s proposal four years ago after giving every indication that she was smitten with him. She had made a fool of him and perhaps destroyed his faith in women. If that was not bad enough, she had lied to him about her reasons and her feelings, pretending she did not care for him when nothing could have been further from the truth.

  If she had cared for him less, she might have been able to accept his proposal, concentrating on the benefits to herself rather than the cost to him. As it turned out, the cost might not have been as high as she’d feared. But there was no way she could have known that when Sir Brandon asked her to marry him.

  After four long years, during which he had been in her thou
ghts far too often, seeing him again today had come as a shock... though not entirely unpleasant. The moment she recognized his deep, melodic voice, Cassandra had wished she could shrink to the size of a mite and crawl into some inconspicuous cranny of the coach box. Since that was impossible, she’d sought to delay the awkward moment when Brandon would recognize her.

  At first it had seemed possible he might never guess her identity as long as she said nothing and kept her face averted. But when Mrs. Davis mentioned Aunt Augusta, Cassandra knew she dared not keep silent any longer. If she had, her companion might have divulged the reason for their visit. Cassandra did not want Sir Brandon to learn that she would be acting as a glorified servant to her disagreeable great-aunt. He might despise her for refusing his proposal but she could tolerate his hatred far easier than his pity.

  The price for salving her pride had been to face his frank scrutiny and barely-concealed disdain. What had been harder to bear was the agonizing pang when she’d assumed his pretty travelling companion must be his wife.

  Over the years, she’d often wondered if he had found a wife capable of returning his bountiful affection without reserve. In magnanimous moments, Cassandra had hoped he would wed a lady who could make him happy and give him the children he yearned for. It was quite another matter to confront the reality of a whining, nagging girl for whom he appeared to feel little more than fond tolerance. Yet how much worse it might have been to see him looking at another woman the way he had once looked at her.

  Her relief upon learning that he was still unmarried had been so intense Cassandra feared she might humiliate herself by bursting into tears. Fortunately, she had been saved by her pride... and the sudden halt of the stagecoach.

  While Sir Brandon went to investigate, she did her best to marshal her composure. She had almost managed when the carriage door opened again and he clambered back inside. Snow clung to his hat and the broad shoulders of his greatcoat. The sculpted planes of his face had been nipped by the winter wind. Somehow, it made the deep, steadfast blue of his eyes gleam all the brighter.

  Though he had only been gone a few minutes and Cassandra was prepared for his return, the sight of him still ignited a powerful blaze of awareness within her. Her skin prickled with gooseflesh as if a trickle of melting snow had slithered down her back. Her breath seemed stolen way, as if by a fierce gust of icy wind.

  “The snow is too deep,” Sir Brandon announced in a ragged, breathless voice. “The horses cannot drag this coach another inch.”

  “What can we do?” Imogene Calvert demanded in a terror-stricken squeak. “If we stay here, we will freeze to death!”

  Her cousin did not try to pacify her with a comforting falsehood, as some men might have done. Instead he gave a grim nod. “That is why we must set out to find shelter before darkness falls. You ladies can ride my carriage horses. The other men and I will lead them on foot.”

  Before the ladies could respond to his plan, a series of loud knocks thumped on the carriage door. Miss Calvert gave a half-strangled scream.

  “The horses must be ready.” Sir Brandon inhaled a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “Come now, we haven’t a moment to waste.”

  Pushing the carriage door open again, he climbed out. Cassandra glimpsed the large, sturdy shape of a horse behind him, its chestnut coat glistening with melted snow.

  “Come quickly, ladies!” Sir Brandon thrust a hand in.

  His cousin cowered back in her seat. Mrs. Davis looked equally reluctant to abandon the dry carriage box for the cold, swirling whiteness outside.

  In truth, Cassandra was no more anxious to venture out than they, but it must be done and delay would not make it easier. Perhaps if she set an example, the others would follow. Pulling the hood of her cloak up over her bonnet, she rose and moved to take Sir Brandon’s gloved hand.

  The wind-driven snow struck her as she emerged from the carriage. An icy blast blew up her skirt, making her shiver and long to retreat back into the relative comfort of the carriage. Fortunately, pride came to her rescue, as it had so often. Whatever else Sir Brandon Calvert might think of her, she refused to appear a coward in his eyes.

  So she gritted her teeth against the cold and squinted against the glare from the snow. She found it easier to ignore those discomforts when she concentrated on Sir Brandon’s firm, reliable grasp. Even with the layers of his gloves and hers between their hands, Cassandra sensed heartening warmth radiating from his touch. Dire as their situation might be, she trusted that he would do everything in his power to see her safely through it... in spite of his personal animosity toward her.

  Before her feet sank into the snow that came up past his knees, Sir Brandon leaned toward her and raised his voice to carry over the keening wind, “Forgive me for taking this liberty. It cannot be helped.”

  As she tried to puzzle out what he could mean, Sir Brandon released her hand and slid both of his beneath her cloak to grasp her around the waist. Though he did not squeeze hard, all the air rushed from Cassandra’s lungs, just the same. Somehow she retained the presence of mind to brace her hands against his broad shoulders.

  The next thing she knew, she was swept upward as if she weighed no more than one of the wafting snowflakes, and deposited on the broad back of a carriage horse. The beast shifted uneasily, not accustomed to bearing a rider. Acting on instinct, Cassandra reached out and gave it a reassuring pat on the neck.

  “Are you securely seated?” Sir Brandon inquired. His voice seemed to come from a long distance, even though he still held her around the waist.

  “As secure as I can be without a saddle,” she called back.

  Before her family’s fortunes had fallen, she’d been a skilled and intrepid rider. One of the hardest things she’d been obliged to do after her father’s death was sell her beautiful thoroughbred mare.

  “I’m certain you will manage.” In contrast to the warmth and care his touch conveyed, the baronet’s voice sounded as fierce and icy as the gusts sweeping over the Wiltshire Downs.

  He wrenched his hands away from her and turned back to the stagecoach. A whimper broke from Cassandra’s lips. It felt as if his fingers had been frozen to her flesh and ripped away bits of it when he removed them. Fortunately the high-pitched howl of the wind whipped the sound away before anyone else could hear.

  Ordering herself not to be so foolish, she threaded the gloved fingers of one hand through the coarse hair of the horse’s mane. With the other, she tugged her cloak closed as best she could against the elements. Through the fast-falling snow, she could make out the shapes of the other passengers being helped down from the coach.

  Then she heard voices raised loud enough to pierce the shriek of the storm. “Don’t be ridiculous, Imogene! You must come. The driver assures me we are no more than a mile from shelter.”

  “Then go find it and come back to fetch me.” Miss Calvert cried in a voice sharp with panic.

  “Who knows if we could find you again in this?” Her cousin seemed to be fast losing patience. “We must stay together! It is our best hope. We cannot afford to delay!”

  “But it’s cold out there.” The lady continued to resist. “What if we get lost?”

  “Do come, Miss Calvert!” Cassandra called during a lull in their argument. “You can ride with me. It will be an adventure!”

  She was not certain her appeal would work but it was all she could think of at the moment. Sir Brandon was right—they could not afford to wait any longer. But neither could they leave his stubbornly terrified cousin behind to freeze.

  Perhaps her coaxing worked or perhaps Sir Brandon took advantage of the momentary distraction to seize his cousin and hoist her up behind Cassandra. Miss Calvert gave a terrified scream which Cassandra feared might spook the horse. Luckily, the creature was too tired or too miserable to care.

  “What if I fall off?” she squeaked.

  “It will be a soft landing in the snow,” her cousin snapped. “Then you shall have to walk. So I suggest you m
ake an effort to keep your seat.”

  “Hold on to me,” Cassandra urged the girl. “I have a good grip on the horse’s mane.”

  Not good enough to keep them both from sliding off the beast’s back if it moved at anything faster than a sedate walk. But she had no intention of betraying her doubts to Imogene Calvert.

  The lady’s fear overcame any reservations about being too familiar. Miss Calvert threw her arms around Cassandra’s waist and locked them there by stuffing her hands into either end of her fur muff.

  When the horse took a lurching step forward, Imogene Calvert emitted a choked cry and plastered herself tight against Cassandra’s back. At least it provided a little warmth, as did the body of the horse beneath her. She would have given anything for a hot brick under her icy feet, however.

  The driving snow stung her face like an endless series of pin pricks. Her nose began to run but she did not dare relax her hold on the horse’s mane to wipe it. Instead, she sniffed as quietly as she could, hoping Sir Brandon would not hear and assume she was weeping.

  As the snow swirled around them and darkness descended, Cassandra prayed they would not stray from the road. If they did, their party might wander in the empty downland until they all perished. Though she could no longer make out the shape of Sir Brandon leading the horse, she heard him now and then address an encouraging word to the creature. Even when he did not speak, she sensed his presence and took courage from it.

  They could not have met again under worse circumstances. Relations between them could never be anything but strained and awkward. Yet part of her still warmed with gratitude to have seen and spoken to him again after all this time. Even if she dared not tell him any of the things that were in her heart.

  Was Lady Cassandra Whitney as brave as she seemed?

  Brandon mulled over that question as he trudged through the deep snow in the fast-fading light. Or was she simply too proud to show her fear?

  If the latter, then her behavior was a form of deception—something he had long abhorred. He’d grown up in a family where appearance was all that signified no matter what corruption festered beneath the carefully cultivated surface.