Snowbound With The Baronet

by Hale Deborah

  He would never have blamed the lady for rejecting his proposal. That was her prerogative after all and the dukes of Norland were considerably above a mere baronet, no matter how great his fortune. What offended him was that Lady Cassandra had misled him about her feelings, giving him false hope of winning her.

  Fuelled by the heat of righteous indignation, Brandon’s pace sped up and he became far less conscious of the biting cold.

  “How much farther must we go?” Imogene wailed. “Are you sure we are still on the road?”

  His cousin’s questions jolted Brandon back to their present predicament with jarring abruptness. Could he answer either one truthfully without reducing Imogene to a state of frenzied panic?

  Before he could contrive a way to satisfy both his compulsive honesty and the practical demands of the situation, Lady Cassandra answered his cousin in a soothing tone. “We must be a good deal nearer to some place of shelter than we were when we set out. I am certain we are still on the road. I can just make out a hedgerow to our right. Can you?”

  After an uncertain pause, Imogene replied, “I believe I can. Yes I can. Oh, thank heaven!”

  Silently Brandon echoed that sentiment. As long as they followed the hedgerow, it would keep them on the road which would eventually lead to some habitation, even at their present plodding pace.

  For a moment he forgot the anguish he had suffered at the hands of Lady Cassandra Whitney. Instead he could have kissed her for calming his cousin and reviving his spirits. Even if she acted braver than she truly felt, perhaps that was not such an inexcusable deception under the circumstances. Hadn’t he done the same in Spain before a battle to keep up the morale of his men?

  The spark of hope Lady Cassandra had kindled burst into full flame a short while later when Brandon heard the distant bark of a dog over the howling wind. He squinted in the direction of the sound and glimpsed a faint, diffuse light through the thick curtain of blowing snow.

  “Lights!” he cried. “Call back to the others!”

  Imogene and Lady Cassandra were eager to oblige. Behind him, Brandon heard the echo of his words as they were passed down the column.

  “Come on, old fellow,” he urged the horse, tugging it toward the light and the barking dog, “only a little farther, then you will be able to rest somewhere warm and dry.”

  Whatever this place was, they would seek shelter for the night and he would pay handsomely for their hospitality. Tomorrow, after the storm passed, he would dispatch a blacksmith to repair his carriage. Then he and Imogene would continue on their journey while Lady Cassandra went her own way. With luck, he would not lay eyes on her again for a great many more years. Perhaps by then he might master the skill of being near her while remaining unaffected.

  The horse blew out its breath in what sounded like a sigh of relief. Its steps hastened as if it understood that it would soon be able to rest and eat.

  The dog continued to bark, for which Brandon blessed it. The nearer they drew to the sound, the better he could make out the light thrown by candles in the windows of a house. Though it was difficult to judge the size of the place in the gathering darkness, through the blur of snow, he sensed it was not large. It must be a farmhouse or laborer’s cottage. As long as the place had a roof, four walls and a hearth, it would suffice for the night.

  Just then another light appeared, bobbing toward them in the darkness. Brandon heard a deep voice boom out. “Hush, Podger! Go lay down you daft whelp, before you wake the dead.”

  “Hullo?” Brandon called when the dog quieted as its master bid. “I beg your pardon for the disturbance.”

  “Don’t bother about that,” replied a well-muffled man, who approached them bearing a lantern. “I reckon you didn’t have much choice. Caught on the road by the storm, were you?”

  “We were, indeed.” Brandon continued moving toward the man, for he feared it might be impossible to budge the horse again if they stopped. “If it would not be too great an imposition, might our party seek shelter here for the night? We shall be happy to pay you for your trouble.”

  “Don’t bother about that either.” The man beckoned them forward with a wide sweep of his arm. “Never let it be said Tobias Martin turned away folk who needed his hospitality. How many in your party?”

  Brandon did a quick mental count.

  “Eight,” he replied in an apologetic tone, “and six horses. If that is more than you can accommodate perhaps you would be kind enough to tell us how far it is to the next village.”

  “More than half a mile to Cherhill,” Mr. Martin replied. “Not but a step in fair weather. Heaven knows how long it would take on a night like this. I hardly trust myself not to go astray betwixt my house and barn. It’ll be a squeeze, I reckon, but you’re welcome to stay with us as long as you need.”

  “We shall be very much obliged to you, Mr. Martin.” Brandon could tell he would like this bluff, honest countryman who had offered them hospitality without even knowing their names. “I hope we shall not have to impose upon you more than one night.”

  By now they had reached the barn. The warm, pungent smells of hay and livestock were perfume to Brandon’s nose after the freezing, scentless trek through the storm.

  He brought the horse to a halt then trudged back and raised his arms to his cousin. “Down you get, Imogene. Aren’t you glad you came with us now?”

  “That remains to be seen.” She pried her arms from around Lady Cassandra and let Brandon lift her down.

  Her earlier panic seemed to have dissipated, for which he was grateful. But in its place he sensed her ridiculous haughtiness returning. Brandon would have welcomed some middle ground.

  He was pleased that she lowered her voice before demanding. “What is this place? Could we not press on to find a proper inn?”

  “No, we could not.” He set her on her feet harder than he’d intended. “We were fortunate to find a hospitable welcome here. Show a little gratitude.”

  He let his cousin go and turned to assist Lady Cassandra, only to find she had already begun to slide off the horse’s back. Was she trying to avoid further contact with him after he’d seized hold of her earlier? Or was she too chilled and weary to keep her seat?

  Whatever the reason, Brandon’s instincts took over. He caught her in his arms and eased her the rest of the way to the ground.

  “Are you alright?” he asked in an anxious tone he wished he could disguise.

  As one arm continued to support her, he raised his other hand and brushed away some of the snow that had accumulated on her hood. Heaven help him, the gesture was almost a caress.

  “I am quite well, thank you.” The breathless quality of her voice contradicted her words. “At least I shall be once I thaw out. Excuse me. I must find out how Mrs. Davis fared on our excursion.”

  Brandon had no choice but to let her go, which he told himself should come as a relief. Yet it did not feel that way.

  “Thank you,” he said before she moved out of earshot, “for keeping Imogene calm. I wish I had your knack for it.”

  “No need to thank me.” She lingered near him for a tantalizing instant. “It was the least I could do.”

  What did she mean by that? Brandon wondered as Mr. Martin ushered the ladies into the house with rustic gentility, while he helped the other men unharness and tend to the weary horses. Did Lady Cassandra feel some remorse for the injury she’d once done him and seek to atone for it? Brandon was not sure he wanted that, or anything else that might threaten to rekindle feelings he had struggled so long to subdue.

  Chapter Three

  THERE HAD BEEN times since they set out from the stranded stagecoach that Cassandra had feared Imogene Calvert might squeeze the life out of her or perhaps send them both tumbling off the horse into the snow. The girl’s bleats of fright every time the creature took a step rubbed Cassandra’s nerves raw. Still she had managed to keep her temper and do everything in her power to soothe Miss Calvert.

  After all, she had invited Si
r Brandon’s cousin to ride with her and she knew their situation would only be made worse if Miss Calvert lost her nerve altogether. But the chief reason she’d remained patient with the girl was her need to make amends in some small way for the humiliation she had caused Sir Brandon. It made her feel a bit less beholden to her former suitor.

  Now, as the kind farmer led her and the other ladies into the thatched-roofed cottage, Cassandra strove to dismiss the sensations that had overwhelmed her when Sir Brandon caught her in his arms and eased her to the ground. She had no business feeling buoyant and light-headed. There was no excuse for her intense inclination to linger near him.

  “Welcome to our humble home, ladies,” Mr. Martin ushered them into a narrow entry hall where several coats and cloaks hung from pegs on both walls. “I reckon you are accustomed to finer lodgings than this, but any port in a storm is better than none, as they say.”

  Before they could reply, he called out, “Come greet our guests, Mother! Their carriages got stuck in the snow so they are going to stop with us for a spell. If this storm keeps up, who knows but we may have company for Twelfth Night.”

  “Oh no!” Miss Calvert cried. “Surely we will not be stranded here that long!”

  If one of her sisters had uttered such a tactless remark, Cassandra would have swiftly silenced her with a firm nudge in the ribs. But she could hardly do that to Sir Brandon’s cousin, whom she had met only hours ago. Instead she did her best to make it sound more courteous. “Of course we hope we shall not be obliged to trespass on your hospitality that long, sir. It is kind of you to speak as if our presence would be a pleasure rather than a burden.”

  “Very kind, indeed,” Mrs. Davis murmured in support.

  Just then a plump little woman appeared, wiping her hands on her apron. Wisps of ginger hair curled out from beneath her cap. “Well, well, didn’t I say there would be travelers stranded on the road with this storm coming on so sudden? Welcome, my dears. Hang up your wraps and come through to the parlor to warm yourselves. I’ve a good fire going and the kettle is on for tea.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Martin,” Cassandra replied before Imogene Calvert had a chance to speak. “You are a gracious hostess. We were fortunate indeed to find our way to your house.”

  She removed her snow-covered cloak then peeled off her gloves and untied the ribbons of her bonnet with stiff, uncooperative fingers. By the time she and the others hung up their wraps, the men had begun to enter behind them. At the urging of their hostess, the three women followed her into the parlor.

  The room was less than half the size of the smallest sitting room in the ducal mansion where Cassandra had resided so briefly. She hoped Sir Brandon would not bump his head on one of the sturdy wooden beams that protruded from the low ceiling. But the parlor’s modest dimensions made it far cozier on a stormy winter night, especially with a cheery fire blazing in the wide stone hearth.

  Several plain, solid chairs clustered around the walls facing the fire. A wide seat had been hewn into the thick outer wall of the house beneath a pair of small, shuttered windows. Cassandra and Mrs. Davis sank down on it together while Imogene Calvert selected the chair nearest to the fire and perched there. She surveyed the Martins’ snug parlor with barely concealed disdain.

  Fortunately Mrs. Martin did not appear to notice. She stood beside the hearth beaming at her guests. “I fear you have me at a disadvantage, ladies. You know my name but I do not know yours. I reckon introductions are in order, don’t you?”

  “I do indeed, ma’am,” Cassandra replied, rubbing her hands together to relieve the painful prickling as they began to warm. “I am Cassandra Whitney. This is my friend Mrs. Davis and Miss Calvert, whom we met on the road today.”

  She explained how the Calvert’s carriage broke down and its occupants had been picked up by the stagecoach, which later got stuck in the snow.

  “That is more adventure than I should care to have in a whole year.” Mrs. Martin shook her head over their predicament. “Though I suppose it will make an exciting story to tell, Miss Whitney. Or is it Miss Cassandra?”

  She was referring to the custom for the eldest daughter of a family to be addressed by her surname while younger ones were known by their given names.

  Cassandra was about to reply when Imogene Calvert spoke up. “It is Lady Cassandra, in fact. Her father was the Duke of Norland.”

  Inwardly, Cassandra cringed at Miss Calvert’s lofty tone. She was in no position to exult over anyone, least of all their hosts, who were behaving more graciously than many persons of title she could name.

  “Lady Cassandra?” Mrs. Martin repeated with evident relish. “Well, fancy that. I never expected to entertain a duke’s daughter!”

  “I am more apt to answer to Miss Cassandra.” She attempted to make light of the whole question. “That is how I was known for most of my life. I feel quite a fraud using any title since my father held his for such a short time before it passed to his cousin.”

  She welcomed the arrival of the men, hoping their presence would bring a change of conversation. The stagecoach driver and the Calvert’s coachman entered first, followed by two younger men. One was the coach guard, while the other Cassandra assumed to be the Calvert’s footman.

  By the time Sir Brandon entered, blowing on his fingers to warm them, all the chairs in the Martins’ parlor were occupied. The young footman started to vacate his seat for his master but Mrs. Martin had other ideas.

  “There is room on the window seat, sir, if the ladies do not mind budging up a bit.” She did not wait to hear if they objected, but practically dragged the baronet over and pushed him down beside Cassandra.

  Thank heaven she had been out in the cold so long! Her cheeks were already bright red, which would conceal the furious blush that rose in them now.

  With his usual courtesy Sir Brandon thanked their hostess when Cassandra knew he must want to do quite the opposite. She budged up as far as she could without doing poor Mrs. Davis an injury, yet her right leg still pressed against the baronet’s, a familiarity of which she was far too aware.

  He did not appear to notice. Instead he introduced himself and the other men to their hosts.

  “A pleasure, I’m sure,” declared the lady of the house with obvious sincerity. “Now you all need a good hot drink to warm you up. If you’ll excuse me, I shall go make the tea.”

  Mr. Martin raised one large hand to stay her. “I reckon these folks need something a mite stronger than tea, Mother. Have we any of that mulled cider left from Christmas?”

  “Plenty, my dear!” Mrs. Martin beamed at her husband’s cleverness. “I have no doubt that will soon revive them, poor frozen souls.”

  In spite of Cassandra’s discomfort at being forced into such close contact with her former suitor, she could not help but notice the easy affection between Mr. and Mrs. Martin. She envied it. No doubt they had fancied one another in their younger years and wed for that reason alone. It was a luxury she and her sisters had never been permitted. Now it was too late, except perhaps for Evie. She hoped her sister would marry for love and not feel bound to accept an uncongenial suitor simply because he could improve her family’s fortunes.

  That thought made Cassandra even more conscious of the gentleman she had once hoped to marry for love. Her nostrils tingled at the faint tang of his shaving soap, so familiar to her even after all this time. More than the sight of him, the sound of his voice or even the disconcerting physical contact between them, that scent transported her back to her first Season in London. It threatened to revive the emotions she had experienced then with painful intensity.

  As Mrs. Martin headed off to fetch refreshments, Cassandra scrambled to her feet and followed.

  “Let me help you.” Her offer came out in the tone of a desperate plea.

  “No need for that, my dear.” Mrs. Martin tried to wave her back but Cassandra held her ground. She would rather have her feet put to the fire than go back and squeeze in so close to a man who must despise her
, as Sir Brandon Calvert had every right to do.

  “I gave our chore girl a little holiday to visit her family in Avebury,” Mrs. Martin admitted, “but I can manage. You are our guest and the daughter of a duke.”

  “If you think that will make me a hindrance in your kitchen,” Cassandra persisted, “I can assure you I am no stranger to housework. I like to make myself useful and I expect I will warm up faster by moving around than by sitting still.”

  As they spoke, the two women made their way down a narrow passage that opened into a tidy kitchen. A large cooking hearth mirrored the one in the parlor. A good fire burned in it while a copper kettle whistled on the hob.

  Mrs. Martin turned to fix Cassandra with a puzzled look.

  “Is it that young gentleman?” She lowered her voice so as not to carry back to the parlor where the others had begun to talk among themselves. “Was I wrong to seat him beside you? He is a handsome fellow, but they are not always the most agreeable.”

  Cassandra knew she should not betray anything of her feelings toward Sir Brandon. Especially not to a woman she had just met. Yet she could not allow anyone to speak ill of him and go unchallenged. “I have known gentlemen like that, but Sir Brandon Calvert is not one of them. If anything, his character is more agreeable than his looks.”

  “I see.” Mrs. Martin began bustling about her kitchen. “So you have met him before? Can I trouble you to fetch those cups down from the shelf?”

  Cassandra turned to the task, grateful for any diversion. “I was once acquainted with him but I fear we did not part on the best of terms. The fault for that is entirely mine. I would rather not subject him to my company any more than our circumstances make necessary.”

  “Are you certain he is still angry with you?” Mrs. Martin inquired as casually as she might have asked about the weather.

  “Quite certain.” Cassandra insisted as she took the last of the cups down. She did not want their hostess to get any ridiculous ideas about her and Sir Brandon any more than she wanted to. That would only lead to more heartache—something she had suffered enough to last a lifetime.