Snowbound With The Baronet Page 9

  Indeed it would. Yet, as he spoke with such conviction, Brandon wondered why he had never considered her refusal in that light until this moment. Though he had not been able to hate Cassandra, he had privately blamed her, just as she now blamed herself, for making him go to war.

  That had been grossly unjust.

  He alone was responsible for his actions, however reckless. He must do everything in his power to convince her of that. She might not have cared for him enough to risk marriage, particularly after watching her father make three wives miserable. Yet he now sensed that Cassandra had not been altogether indifferent to his fate either. She had worried about him and regretted any hardships he’d suffered. She did not deserve to carry the burden of his imprudent choices.

  But before he had a chance to tell her any of that, she seized upon his final words. “What do you know about the worst kind of failure in a marriage? You told me this morning that having plenty of male heirs did not insure a happy family. Were you speaking from intimate observation, as I did last evening?”

  Once, during a skirmish in a Spanish village, Brandon had been ambushed by a French infantryman. He would never forget the way the Iberian sun glinted off the muzzle of that Charleville musket aimed at his chest. The soft click of the flintlock hammer striking the frizzen had told him he would be dead before he could take any evasive action. By some miracle the weapon had misfired, giving him vital seconds to raise his like a club and knock the musket out of his enemy’s hands.

  Cassandra’s question reminded him of that soft but ominous sound. Only this time he had no hope of a reprieve. Nor was he certain he deserved one.

  Chapter Eight

  SIR BRANDON CALVERT did not hate her for the way she had treated him? Cassandra’s mind and heart dwelt on that improbable notion as she savored the sweet memory of his unexpected embrace.

  How she had longed to surrender to it and cling to him for every last instant his kindness would permit. Pride had refused to let him see her so vulnerable. What if he’d sensed the feelings she once had for him—feelings she had been forced to deny for his sake? She could bear his contempt better than his pity. If he learned the truth, she would probably have to suffer both.

  So she’d pulled away from him, pretending it was propriety that demanded such action, rather than pride. But neither of those things could make her forget the sensation of his arms encircling her, his broad shoulder offered to lean or weep upon, whichever she needed. Not to mention the provocative whisper of his warm breath through her hair.

  Cassandra raised Brandon’s handkerchief to her face, pretending to wipe away a tear. Instead she inhaled the faint scent of him that clung to the damp square of linen.

  From her seat at the Martins’ kitchen table, she watched Brandon stare out the tiny, frosted window into the night. The snow did not appear to be falling as hard as earlier, but neither had it stopped. Cassandra wished he would come back to kneel or sit beside her again. What had she said to drive him away? Whatever it was, she would gladly take it back.

  Ah, yes. She had tried to assume the blame for driving him away to war. Then she had mused aloud about how differently she might have acted if she’d foreseen the consequences of her refusal. For some reason, that seemed to vex him. Perhaps despite the way her rejection had wounded his pride, Brandon Calvert was not sorry to have escaped wedding her after all. If that were true then he might not care to be reminded of what his life could have been.

  His reply had prompted her to ask about his family. Until now she had given no thought to what circumstances, other than an unbroken string of daughters, might destroy a marriage.

  “I suppose I owe you an answer.” Brandon continued to gaze out the window as if it held a sight of far greater interest than snowflakes dancing in the darkness. “After all, you gave me one to an equally personal question.”

  Cassandra held her tongue. She owed him more than he could ever owe her, but she still wanted to hear what he might say. When the time came for them to part again, at least she would have the minor consolation of knowing him a little better than she had before.

  Brandon inhaled a deep breath then began to speak. His tone was wooden, as if he’d deliberately severed his emotions from his memories. “To the rest of the world, my parents’ marriage must have appeared a brilliant match. But that is all it ever was—appearance. My mother wed my father for his fortune. He married her because her beauty and wit made her sought after by other men. She got the life of luxury that a bountiful income can provide and he became the envy of every gentleman of his acquaintance. But as the years went by, my parents came to realize they had paid too high a price for the advantages they’d gained.”

  Though he was not looking toward her, Cassandra nodded just the same. She understood the ultimate cost of a mercenary marriage. And yet, her family’s present circumstances reminded her that such sacrifices might sometimes be necessary.

  “By the time I was old enough to notice, my parents heartily despised one another,” Brandon mused. “When one did address the other, which happened seldom, it was usually a bitter quip laced with poisonous hidden meaning. Only when they appeared in public together did they make an effort to behave as if all was well between them. Then their performances would have put Mr. Kemble and Mrs. Siddons to shame.”

  It was clear from his tone that Brandon did not approve of his parents cordial behavior in public. But Cassandra thought she understood why they had acted that way. Was it not bad enough to endure the private acrimony of their marriage? Being the subjects of gossip or objects of pity would have rubbed salt in the wounds.

  She wanted to ask Brandon whether he would have preferred his father to make humiliating remarks about his mother in public, as she had seen hers do to poor Letty. But before she could get the words out, she heard the patter of footsteps approaching down the passage from the parlor.

  Imogene Calvert flounced into the kitchen. “What are you doing Brandon, pressing apples for cider?”

  Cassandra glanced from Miss Calvert to her cousin, puzzled.

  “I came out to fetch more cider for myself and Mrs. Martin.” Brandon explained before answering his cousin’s question. “Lady Cassandra and I fell into conversation. Is that a crime? When did you become so concerned about the comfort of our hostess?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Miss Calvert sniffed. “You may talk all you like, only please do it in the parlor where I may join in the conversation. Nobody else there has anything to say that is of interest to me.”

  “You are quite right, Miss Calvert.” Cassandra rose from the table. She and Brandon had been away from the rest of the party for longer than was proper. She did not care to become the subject of gossip. “I’m sure we would be much more comfortable carrying on our conversation in the parlor.”

  It would be impossible for them to discuss such personal subjects as they had been, but perhaps that was for the best. What good would come of talking about the past? What was done was done and no amount of conversation would change it.

  “I’m certain you will, Lady Cassandra.” Imogene Calvert locked arms with her and started back toward the parlor. “At least such comfort as may be found in a place like this.”

  “That is enough, Imogene.” Brandon started after them with an air that seemed to mingle relief and regret. “We are fortunate to have found such a warm welcome here.”

  “I know. I know.” His cousin heaved an impatient sigh. “Mr. and Mrs. Martin are very kind. It is warm and dry here and we have plenty to eat and drink. I am not as ungrateful as you believe. But you must admit, it lacks the refinements of Everleigh... or Noughtly Hall. I do hope the weather will improve soon so we can all get to where we are meant to be.”

  She should want that too, Cassandra told herself. The longer she stayed in this house with Brandon, becoming more intimately acquainted than they had ever been, the harder it would be for her to part from him again. Yet no matter how often or how strenuously she reminded herself of that, p
art of her still wished the snow would not stop until Easter!

  Brandon’s cousin began waxing lyrical about the charms of Everleigh and the various guests who would be attending the Norrington’s house party. She and Cassandra settled into the empty window seat. They were joined by her cousin after he had fetched Mrs. Martin her cider.

  “Was it a partner in conversation you wished, Imogene, or an audience?” Brandon teased as he squeezed in beside his cousin. “You have scarcely given Lady Cassandra the opportunity to get a word in.”

  Miss Calvert made a face at him. “I did ask her about the festivities she expects to enjoy at Noughtly Hall. She said Everleigh sounded much more amusing. Then she asked me to tell her who else would be there. Isn’t that right, Lady Cassandra?”

  “Indeed it is.” Cassandra tried to sound suitably interested in what Miss Calvert had to say. She would rather hear about the most tiresome subject in the world than tell the truth about her impending ordeal serving as a companion to her great-aunt. She did not want Brandon to know how far her fortunes had fallen, but neither did she dare try to make her visit to Noughtly sound more agreeable than it would be. Brandon seemed to possess a special intuition for detecting falsehood. Better to avoid the subject altogether.

  “Your cousin tells me there will be quite a number of eligible ladies and gentleman attending the party,” she continued. “I wish you good fortune in your mutual match-making endeavors, though I doubt you will need it. I am certain you will both have many admirers from whom to choose.”

  She made a determined effort not to let her smile falter as she pictured Brandon surrounded by a bevy of fawning ladies eager to make a conquest of him.

  Miss Calvert appeared flattered by the compliment but her cousin’s lip curled in a sneer. “I much prefer quality over quantity. If I am able to secure the sincere regard of one lady, I would rather have that than empty flirtations with half-a-dozen.”

  Though he spoke as if it were a general remark, Cassandra felt his contempt aimed directly at her. Clearly he believed she had felt nothing more for him than an empty flirtation. She had no right to take offense for that was precisely the impression she had sought to convey when she rejected his proposal. The sweet relief she’d experienced when Brandon assured her he did not hate her suddenly turned sour. No doubt he had meant she was not even worthy of his hatred.

  Lady Cassandra wished him luck in finding a wife, even after he had held her in his arms and confessed one of the most painful secrets of his past? Could there be any clearer indication that she did not want him to get any foolish ideas that she cared for him?

  She might not wish any harm to come to him. She might regret the possibility that her rejection had driven him to war. That did not mean she had developed tender feelings toward him... only a guilty conscience.

  In response to his remark about preferring quality of romantic attention over quantity, Cassandra replied. “If the ladies possess sufficient sense and taste, I have no doubt at least one will lose her heart to you.”

  Was she patronizing him now—trying to reassure him that even though she had not been willing to wed him, others might be?

  Brandon gave a self-deprecating shrug to show that he was not a child who needed to be coddled. “Perhaps they will have higher standards than you suppose. They may wonder why I remain a bachelor at my present age. They may suspect I am concealing some secret defect that would make me a thoroughly unsuitable husband.”

  His rebuff ignited a flash of indignation in her dark eyes. But Brandon glimpsed an unaccountable sparkle in them as well. “A woman who suspects you of concealing anything must not know you at all, Sir Brandon. Your insistence on strict truthfulness is the trait of yours I recall most clearly. I believe it is far more likely that no lady can hope to meet your high standards in that regard.”

  Was she mocking his values now? “I do not believe my standards are unreasonably high. I simply speak the truth and expect others to do likewise. It is an ideal everyone praises but few practice.”

  During their give and take, Imogene had looked as if she wanted to get a word in, but had not been able to. Now she settled back with her arms crossed to wait for their discussion to run its course.

  “Everything cannot always be neatly divided between truth and falsehood.” A flush rose in Lady Cassandra’s cheeks and the lively sparkle in her eyes intensified.

  Brandon wished he did not find the combination so very attractive. It gave the lady an unfair advantage in their debate.

  “Of course it can,” he insisted. “A statement may be true or not. If it is not, then it must be a falsehood. I do not believe it is too much to expect the truth.”

  His words provoked a subtle flinch, which Brandon noted with grim satisfaction. Lady Cassandra must realize their discussion was not as impersonal as it might sound. She was trying to justify her past behavior, which he could not help but condemn.

  “Of course it is not unreasonable to prefer the truth.” She leaned toward him as she spoke, which made Brandon realize he was leaning toward her as well. “I am only saying there are some things more important that the truth can damage with its sharp edges.”

  “What sorts of things?” He meant his question to sound doubtful, but instead it emerged curious and engaged.

  “The feelings of others for one,” Cassandra responded without hesitation. “Some of the most disagreeable people pride themselves on saying hurtful things because they are true.”

  “Whom do you mean?” Was she referring to him? Brandon could not decide whether he ought to be indignant or ashamed.

  “My Aunt Augusta is a prime example,” Lady Cassandra replied. “The moment she sets eyes on me, I know she will say I look every year of my age, and that I have gotten dreadfully thin of late.”

  “Nonsense!” The irate denial rose to Brandon’s lips before he could stop it. “You scarcely seem to have aged a year since I saw you last and your slenderness is most becoming.”

  His observations were perfectly true, yet Brandon wished he had kept them to himself. Would Lady Cassandra assume he was trying to flatter her? He could not repent his words altogether, though. They brought a winsome, teasing smile to her face that made him catch his breath.

  “You see? There is another difficulty.” Her tone reminded Brandon of the way they had bantered with one another when they were first becoming acquainted. “Who would be telling the truth, you or my aunt? You might both believe what you say but a disinterested observer might see that neither of you is altogether correct.”

  “I am disinterested,” he insisted. But when Cassandra fixed him with a doubtful look, he was forced to admit, “Perhaps not entirely. But what I said is true just the same.”

  Imogene appeared to be resting her eyes.

  “I know you believe so,” Cassandra conceded, “but Aunt Augusta would claim the same thing. Can two such different opinions both be true or neither? The matter is not as straightforward as you might like to believe.”

  She had a valid point, loathe as Brandon was to admit it.

  He tried to salvage his position. “Perhaps when it comes to opinion, but not facts. Surely you can agree it is wrong to knowingly misrepresent them.”

  That made Cassandra squirm a little. Or perhaps she found the window seat uncomfortable with three of them squeezed in so tightly. Brandon glanced toward his cousin. Imogene’s features had gone slack and her head lolled to one side. Her breath came in soft, rhythmic gusts.

  He looked back at Cassandra, who gave a rueful grimace. Then the two of them chuckled softly.

  “I fear our discourse was too tiresome for your poor cousin to abide.” Cassandra glanced around to see if anyone else had noticed, but the rest of the party appeared engrossed in their own conversations.

  “It was not tiresome.” Brandon could not suppress a guilty grin, even though it contradicted his earnest declaration. “We were discussing a question of great moral significance about which we hold strong, opposing views. What coul
d be more stimulating?”

  Stimulating—how well that word described his debate with Cassandra. Though parts of their exchange had reminded him how painfully she’d once trodden on his heart, it had also forced him to recall the pleasure he’d found in her company.

  Caution and painful experience warned him to not draw too close to the woman who might still possess the power to make him suffer. But he chose to ignore them. He and Cassandra were presently chaperoned by more than half-a-dozen people. How much trouble could he get into with a little conversation?

  “What indeed?” The lady replied, turning her gaze fully upon him.

  Suddenly a great many provocative possibilities flashed through Brandon’s mind, the most urgent of which was kissing her ripe, inviting lips. If they had been alone at that moment, he was not certain he could have resisted the temptation.

  Perhaps Cassandra recognized how thoroughly she had thrown him off guard and sought to exploit the opportunity. “Last evening you suggested we try to forget the past and behave like new acquaintances. Would that not be a deception of sorts?”

  “Um... er...” Brandon tugged at his neck linen. Uncomfortable as her question made him, he had to concede it might be true.

  “In any case, I find I cannot do what you ask.” She sounded apologetic but he could hardly blame her. He had not been able to do what he’d suggested either.

  “This meeting between us was unlooked-for.” She lowered her voice, forcing him to lean closer to hear her over the other conversations in the room.

  “But perhaps it is an opportunity I should not neglect.”

  An opportunity for what? Brandon’s eyebrows shot up in a silent question.

  “To tell you how sorry I am for any injury I caused you when I refused your kind offer four years ago. I do not expect you to forgive me but I want to make certain you understand it was no fault of yours that prompted my answer. Any lady would be fortunate to secure you as a husband.”