Snowbound With The Baronet

by Hale Deborah

  “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?

  Nonsense! There was nothing to admit. Surely it would take more than twelve hours and two conversations to rekindle any feelings for Lady Cassandra after four years of determined effort to quench them.


  “I believe you may be correct, Mrs. Martin,” he replied because he had to say something. “I fear some of the company at Everleigh may prove quite tiresome.”

  It was true. Apart from the Norrington’s nephew, Lord Sandiford, Miss Reynolds and her brother, he expected the Everleigh party to include a number of drawling young bucks and several vapid debutantes who would make his cousin sound like a bluestocking by comparison.

  Fortunately their hostess did not question his remark but turned her attention to Lady Cassandra. “You look very well this morning, my dear. Being storm-stayed must agree with you.”

  Lady Cassandra gave a weak chuckle and raised her hand to her hair, which had been loosely plaited for the night and remained so. Several dark tendrils had worked free to curl around her face. “Your eyes must be playing tricks on you Mrs. Martin. Or perhaps this candlelight is more than usually forgiving. I should be afraid to look in a mirror!”

  She had nothing to fear from such an inspection. Brandon bit his tongue to keep from voicing that thought. But he could not prevent his gaze from lingering upon her.

  There was nothing wrong with Mrs. Martin’s vision. Nor could the candlelight take all the credit for Cassandra’s winsome appearance. It did bring out the warm chestnut highlights in her dark hair and lent her complexion a rosy glow that made her look younger than her years. But was it also responsible for the sparkle in her deep brown eyes and the becoming air of softness about her features?

  His hand still tingled from its recent contact with hers. But now it began to ache with the urge to cup her chin or trail the back of his fingers over her cheek. He clutched the handle of his cup tight to keep such dangerous impulses in check.

  Meanwhile their hostess continued to smile at them as if she knew some amusing secret of which they were unaware. If he had not been so grateful to her and her husband, Brandon might have found her behavior rather vexing.

  “You must tell us what we can do to assist you today.” Lady Cassandra changed the subject, much to Brandon’s relief. “It is no easy task to look after a houseful of people at the best of times.”

  Brandon nodded. “There are chores that must be done no matter what the weather.”

  His years in the army had taught him that. But where had a duke’s daughter learned how much effort was required to tend so many guests?

  Their hostess considered for a moment. Her broad smile faded a little and her brow furrowed. “I will need a path made to the well and water fetched. The stock will need feeding and mucking out and the cows must be milked even if it was raining fire and brimstone. I reckon the eggs will need to be gathered. Then there’s always the fires to be tended and the cooking... and the washing up, of course.”

  “I can help with those at least and fetching the eggs,” Cassandra volunteered.

  “I will beat a path to your well and draw water,” Brandon offered, not to be outdone. “I am certain the others will be anxious to help out in any way they can.”

  With the exception of Imogene. Brandon could not picture his cousin turning her hand to household tasks. He feared what a mess she might make of them if she tried.

  All too soon the rest of the company began to wake and wander out to the kitchen. Brandon knew he ought to be grateful for the buffer their presence created between him and Cassandra. After all, he did not want to risk revealing more about his family or face whatever questions his earlier comments might provoke from her. Yet when he recalled those moments of murmured confidences in the shadowy farmhouse kitchen, he yearned to bundle everyone else out into the snow so he might have Cassandra all to himself again.

  He should not think such things! Brandon tried to blame his wayward inclinations on a lack of sleep. Nothing must stand in the way of his plan to marry Miss Reynolds—especially not a hopeless infatuation with a woman who had made her unwillingness to wed him quite clear.

  His effort to forget the past and treat her like a newly-met acquaintance had failed. His hopes for the storm to subside had come to nothing. Trying to ignore her had proven impossible as long as he could see or hear her. Clearly he needed to put some distance between them by any means necessary.

  With that aim in mind, he bundled up and ventured outside to make a path to the well. He threw himself into the task, dragging a large square board weighted with rocks until his hands blistered and his arms threatened to wrench out of their sockets. Yet he quickly discovered that repetitive manual labor left his mind free to wander wherever it chose. That was inevitably in the direction of Lady Cassandra Whitney. The unrelieved whiteness of his surroundings and the air full of wafting snowflakes provided no distraction when he most needed one. He must find a more challenging activity to occupy his thoughts!

  The cold finally drove him back inside where Mrs. Martin was effusive in her thanks. “It’s a blessing that well is good and deep. I was half afraid you might find the water frozen. Now come sit by the fire and thaw yourself out.”

  “Has the snow eased at all?” asked Imogene, who was seated at the table eating bread and butter.

  His cousin’s hair was pinned in a simple but pretty style, as was Lady Cassandra’s. Brandon noted the latter with a faint qualm of regret. He preferred the loose braid she’d worn earlier. He wished he could once see her rich, dark hair entirely unbound.

  Blast! He was not supposed to think such things. He was not supposed to look at her.

  “Far from it,” he answered his cousin’s question. Frustration with himself and their situation sharpened his words. “The snow is coming down harder than ever. Heaven knows when the roads will be fit to travel.”

  “What about our luggage?” Imogene wailed.

  “What about it?” Brandon sank onto a chair in the corner nook beside the kitchen hearth. “We did not bring a great deal with us and what we did is stowed in the boot of the stagecoach.”

  “What if someone steals it?” his cousin demanded. “I heard the farmer and the coach-driver talking about highwaymen who rob coaches on this road.”

  Mrs. Martin laughed as she cooled steaming water from the kettle with some Brandon had fetched from the well. “That was thirty years ago, Miss. Even if they’d still been around, the Cherhill Gang would never have disturbed your carriage.”

  “Why not?” Somehow Imogene sounded disappointed that their luggage might be safe from theft.

  “Because, that lot only worked in warm weather.” Mrs. Martin grated a bit of soap into the washbasin. “They used to rob coaches stark naked. It shocked folks so bad they did not put up a fight and afterwards no one could give a proper description of the thieves.”

  Brandon could not contain a hoot of laughter at such comical audacity, but Imogene looked thoroughly shocked by the notion of naked highwaymen. Lady Cassandra tried to stifle a grin, but did not succeed.

  Too late Brandon remembered he was not supposed to be looking at her. His eyes seemed to have developed a will of their own.

  “But I cannot wear the same dress day after day,” Imogene protested. “I need proper nightclothes and my own comb. Can’t someone go and fetch them?”

  Brandon could think of a dozen reasons why such an expedition should be out of the question. But it would take him away from Lady Cassandra and provide him with a task difficult and dangerous enough to keep his thoughts from straying in undesirable directions.

  Not undesirable, he reflected as he watched her drying dishes for Mrs. Martin. If anything, far too desirable. “Once I have warmed up a little, I will see what I can do.”

  Imogene clapped her hands but Lady Cassandra cried, “No, you must not! Remember what it was like last night? It has snowed a great deal more since then.”

  Did she think he was not capable of the task? He would show her. “That was different. The light was fading. We had no idea where we were going or how long it would take to get there,”

  “What if you lose your way?” she challenged him. “I would wear the same dress for a year rather than risk your safety!”

 
She was worried about him? Brandon’s heart bounded. That did not mean she cared for him in any particular way, reason insisted. She might have said the same about the coach guard or his footman.

  “That is kind of you,” he replied. “But I do not expect to be in any danger. It will be light for hours yet and we can retrace our steps through the snow on our return journey.”

  “Of course you can!” Imogene sprang from her seat and flew to offer Brandon a grateful embrace.

  He glanced up to find Lady Cassandra watching them. In spite of her fierce scowl, the slant of her brows somehow suggested that she wished she could change places with his cousin.

  Or was he only imagining it because that was what he wished? All the more reason why he needed to escape the confines of this house and his bedeviling proximity to the woman he’d once hoped to make his wife.

  Chapter Six

  “PLEASE RECONSIDER THIS foolhardy idea,” Cassandra implored Sir Brandon as he, his footman and the coach guard donned their greatcoats, hats and mufflers. “We can manage well enough with what we have for another day or two. Surely by then the weather will have improved.”

  How could his cousin have been so selfish as to urge him into danger for the sake of her girlish vanity?

  “I do not consider the scheme foolhardy.” He refused to meet her gaze but concentrated on fastening the buttons of his coat. “We will all be a good deal more comfortable with a change of linen. The stagecoach cannot be farther than two miles.”

  “That is near enough in ordinary weather,” she agreed. “But in such deep snow a hundred yards can be a vast distance to travel. Do not forget, you will have to go there and back, dragging heavy trunks on the return journey.”

  She studied his features with almost jealous intensity seeking any sign of second thoughts she might exploit. Instead her warning seemed to have the opposite affect, rousing Sir Brandon’s stubbornness.

  “When did you become such a worrywart?” he demanded. “The Cassandra Whitney I recall used to be quite intrepid.”