by Hale Deborah
“I hope you have left room for the cake,” said Mrs. Martin as she rose and fetched it. “It may not be decorated as fancy as those in the pastry-cook’s window in town, but I hope the flavor will make up for it.”
She began serving out thick slices.
Brandon passed a piece to Cassandra. “If your cake tastes half as good as it smells, my dear Mrs. Martin, we shall all have another blessing for which to be thankful.”
Their hostess beamed with pleasure as everyone tasted the cake and pronounced it delicious. “Watch for the bean and the pea that I baked into it. Whoever gets them shall be king and queen for the rest of the evening and must lead off the dancing.”
Cassandra recalled that tradition surrounding the Twelfth Night cake. She bit into her slice with care, hoping fortune might favor her and Brandon with the roles of king and queen.
“I found the pea!” Imogene Calvert squealed like a child, her earlier airs forgotten.
“I have the bean!” Brandon’s young footman held it out to show the others, as if he doubted they would believe him.
Everyone congratulated the pair and Brandon proposed a royal toast. Cassandra wondered if his cousin would take offense at being cast as the consort of a humble footman, but Miss Calvert did not seem to mind in the least.
“Now it is time to retire to the parlor,” said Mr. Martin, “with Your Majesties’ kind permission, of course. While our dinner settles, we shall each entertain you with a song, a story or a recitation.”
Miss Calvert and the footman conferred then declared themselves pleased with the idea.
“Shall I help you clear away, Mrs. Martin?” Cassandra asked.
The farmer’s wife shook her head. “There will be plenty of time for that later, my dear. Now we must take our ease and enjoy ourselves.”
As the king and queen led the procession back to the parlor, Cassandra found herself bringing up the rear with Brandon.
“What will you perform for your party piece?” He caught her hand and gave it a playful squeeze that made her heart skip several beats. “Will you favor us with a song, perhaps?”
“I fear I must.” She dared to press his hand in return, assuring herself it was only a friendly gesture. “Mr. and Mrs. Martin do not have a pianoforte I can play and I have not the least knack for telling stories or reciting. What should I sing?”
Ahead of them she could hear a humorous ceremony to seat Miss Calvert and the footman in places of honor. Meanwhile, the rest of the party remained bottled up in the passageway to the kitchen. Much as she looked forward to dancing, Cassandra did not mind lingering behind the others with Brandon.
In response to her question, he answered readily. “What about Drink to Me Only With Thine Eyes? You always performed it very well, as I recall.”
“I will if I can remember the words.” During the past four years, she had never once sung the old love song, for it had reminded her too much of him. “I know it was a particular favorite of yours.”
Brandon still clasped her hand. Now he raised it to his lips and gazed over it with a look she might have mistaken for sweet yearning, if she did not know better.
“Only when you sang it,” he replied in a melting murmur.
Cassandra knew she should discourage him from making such remarks and gestures. They could too easily be misinterpreted as romantic.
They made it harder for her to remember that he could never be hers.
If he heard Cassandra sing that song, Brandon believed it would tell him whether she still cared for him and if he had a second chance to make her his.
Mr. Martin’s advice had given him hope. Cassandra’s behavior this evening had strengthened that hope. Yet he could not deny a faint edge of wistfulness to her merriment. Was it only the anticipation of their parting? Or could it be a warning that his heart ought to heed if it did not want old wounds torn open again?
As the party filed into the Martins’ parlor, where Imogene and Edward were enthroned on the two best armchairs, Brandon tried to dismiss his doubts by recalling the meal they’d just eaten. Over the years he had dined on pheasant and swan prepared by the most accomplished chefs. None could rival the flavor of Mrs. Martin’s goose, seasoned with the rare spice of Cassandra’s company. Now he looked forward to dancing with her more than he had anticipated anything in a great while.
Brandon swiftly scanned the parlor. The only remaining seats were under the window beside Mrs. Davis. Two nights ago, he and Cassandra had perched there side-by-side with the greatest reluctance. His present attitude was quite the opposite. He wondered if, once again, Mrs. Martin might have had a hand in nudging them together. If so, he owed her a debt he could never hope to repay.
An enchanting effusion of color blossomed in Cassandra’s cheeks, when she noted the seating arrangements. Did the starry shimmer in her dark eyes mean she welcomed the opportunity to nestle beside him?
“Who will take the first turn at entertaining us?” asked Imogene with a regal air. Clearly she was enjoying her role as Queen of Twelfth Night.
To Brandon’s surprise, the taciturn stagecoach guard volunteered to sing for them. In honor of his two brothers who served in the Royal Navy, he performed the sailors’ anthem, Heart of Oak, in a fine rumbling bass. He invited any of the others who knew the words to join him on the chorus.
After a round of enthusiastic applause, Mrs. Davis followed with a spirited recitation of The Castaway.
As the poem rose toward its dramatic conclusion, Cassandra cupped her hand around Brandon’s ear and whispered, “What will you perform?”
Her question flustered him almost as much as the delicious tickle of her breath upon his ear. He had been so concentrated on the prospect of her singing that he’d spared no thought for what he might contribute to the program. He gave a mute shrug and began to think on the matter.
He would not be so cruel as to subject them to his singing. Any stories he knew were not particularly suitable for mixed company. He considered trying to beg off but he doubted Queen Imogene would permit such a lapse. That left only a recitation.
While the company applauded Mrs. Davis, and Perkins followed with an eerie ghost story which he swore was true, Brandon reviewed the modest number of poems he knew by heart. Might there be one capable of conveying his feelings to Cassandra, as he hoped her song would do to him?
Mr. Martin went next, tuning up his fiddle to serenade them with the familiar Country Gardens. He soon had everyone humming along.
“Who will go next?” asked Imogene after the applause had died away. “Brandon, what about you?”
“I beg a little more time, Your Majesty. I am still trying to decide what to perform.”
His cousin nodded then moved on. “What about you Lady Cassandra? Or are you undecided as well?”
“I am quite decided.” Cassandra rose and moved to the spot in front of the hearth where the others had stood. “Only reluctant to follow on the heels of superior performers.”
“Tosh!” The word popped out before Brandon could contain it. “The lady is too modest. I have heard her sing and I can assure you it will be a treat.”
Imogene looked less pleased than she had until then. “Do not keep us in suspense then, Lady Cassandra. Favor us with your selection.”
“Drink to me only with thine eyes and I will pledge with mine.” She began rather uncertainly, but when her gaze met Brandon’s, her tone grew more assured. “Or leave a kiss within the cup and I’ll not ask for wine.”
Listening to the old love song, it seemed to Brandon as if all the other guests melted away, leaving only Cassandra and him. Every sweet word from her lips pealed with perfect sincerity and he knew they were meant for him alone. When the final note died away, he led the loudest and longest applause yet that evening.
Cassandra made a self-conscious curtsey then returned to her place at Brandon’s sides—the place where she would always belong.
One by one, the rest of the company were urged to take their turn while Br
andon racked his brains for a suitable response to Cassandra’s musical declaration. Only when Imogene insisted he must do something so they could move on to the dancing did inspiration strike.
Flashing Cassandra a grin, he bounded up and launched into his favorite sonnet. “My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun.” His dry, off-hand delivery of the lines mocked extravagant protestations of admiration. “Coral is far more red than her lips...”
From the moment he’d first read the poem at school, he had admired Shakespeare for daring to tell the truth about lovers’ flattery. When his friends had fallen in love and praised their sweethearts to the skies, he had skewered them with this sly sonnet. Then he’d fallen in love with Cassandra Whitney and all his cynicism flew out the window, to be replaced by lavish poetry. He had placed her on such a dangerously high pedestal, that she could not help but fall.
Tonight he appreciated the sonnet in a whole new way. The lady it described was no immaculate paragon who would never soil her hands with household chores, feel secretly ashamed of her father, or speak a single false word. She was a human being with flaws and insecurities but no less dear for all that.
A few brief days in these humble surroundings had made Brandon recognize and appreciate Cassandra for the woman she was—not a flawless goddess but a fine, generous person trying to do the right thing in a difficult situation. He strove to infuse every wise, forgiving word of Shakespeare’s sonnet with that realization. He hoped Cassandra would understand.
“And yet, by heaven,” he concluded with a fond flourish, “I think my love more fair than any she belied with false compare.”
Brandon was vaguely aware of his audience chuckling over his recitation, but the only response that mattered was Cassandra’s. She smiled and laughed in all the proper places then clapped heartily when he finished. Yet he glimpsed a faint suggestion of regret beneath her amusement. It made him wonder if she had taken a different meaning than the one he intended.
If so, he must make certain she understood.
“That was fine bit of entertainment, if I do say so,” Mr. Martin declared. “I doubt you would find better between London and Bath. Now if our king and queen would care to lead off the first dance.”
He tucked the fiddle under his chin and struck up a lively tune. “Let us begin with The Indian Queen. Though for this evening perhaps we should rename it The Twelfth Night Queen.”
Imogene bounced up from her chair and extended a hand to Edward. “Shall we then? It is our duty as king and queen.”
The lad grinned and blushed but accepted her invitation readily enough.
Meanwhile Brandon strode toward the window seat before any of the other men could reach it.
“You promised me a dance,” he reminded Cassandra. “I mean to claim it before you are overwhelmed with requests.”
“Of course I remember.” She rose and joined him as second couple to his cousin and the footman. “Though I do not believe my company will be as sought after as you expect.”
The older folk seemed content to let the younger ones have the floor for the first dance.
Mr. Martin had made an excellent choice, Brandon reflected as they began to dance. The steps were simple enough and did not require a great deal of space to execute. His only regret was that the dance did not require him to perform any two-handed turns with Cassandra.
No sooner had the first dance concluded than the stagecoach driver asked Cassandra to be his partner for the next. Reluctantly, Brandon surrendered her and withdrew to the far corner of the parlor where Mrs. Martin sat.
He approached her with a gallant bow. “Will you do me the honor of the next dance, ma’am?”
“With pleasure, Sir Brandon, though I shall not be able to match the grace of your first partner. You and she make a handsome couple, I must say. I hope to see the two of you dance together often tonight.”
Brandon could not help smiling. “I shall endeavor to gratify your wish, ma’am.”
He was as good as his word, dancing several more times with Cassandra, though far less often than he would have liked. If it would not have violated all propriety, he’d have bribed every other man present a hundred pounds to claim their turns with the lady.
As the evening wore on, he found himself standing beside Mrs. Martin again. He was about to ask her to take another turn with him when she nodded toward the dancers.
“Lady Cassandra looks rather flushed, don’t you think?” Their hostess sounded concerned, though Brandon approved the rosy glow of Cassandra’s complexion. “Someone ought to take her out to the kitchen where it is cooler and see that she gets a drink. Could I prevail upon you, Sir Brandon?”
“I should be happy to help ma’am.” If he had not feared her husband would take it amiss, he might have kissed Mrs. Martin then and there. “After all, we would not want Lady Cassandra to get overheated and fall ill.”
Their hostess beamed up at him. “I knew I could depend upon you.”
Brandon edged around the perimeter of the room until he reached the passageway to the kitchen. He waited for the dance to finish, then beckoned Cassandra to join him. “Mrs. Martin thinks you look flushed. I am under strict orders to escort you to the kitchen to cool off.”
“Are you, indeed?” Cassandra pressed her hands to her cheeks. “I could do with a drink. I have not danced so much in...”
“Four years?” Brandon suggested as he led her toward the kitchen. “Oddly enough, that is how long it has been since I last enjoyed myself so much.”
“It is?” She sounded doubtful.
He gave a decisive nod. “I would not exaggerate. You know what store I set by the truth.”
The kitchen was cooler than the parlor—dimmer and quieter too.
Brandon turned to face Cassandra. “I enjoyed your song very much. I fancied you were addressing its words to me. Indeed, I wished you were.”
This broad hint regarding his feelings did not seem to please her as he’d hoped. Her gaze fell and she caught her full lower lip between her teeth. “I wish that were possible, but—”
Before she could say anything more, Brandon pressed his forefinger to her lips. “Let there be no buts tonight. This is Twelfth Night, when three kings followed a star halfway around the world to bring priceless gifts to an infant born in a stable. On such a night, surely anything we want enough must be possible.”
Strong-willed though he knew Cassandra to be, she did not resist him. Instead she submitted as if she were powerless against his gentle touch. For his part, Brandon had no power to resist the urge that took possession of him. Lifting his finger, he leaned toward her and replaced it with his lips.
This was the kiss he’d been saving for their betrothal—the kiss he had been deprived of four years ago. The desire for it had lingered on his lips ever since, subtly poisoning every bite or sip he took in and every word he let out. Tonight, win or lose, he must have it!
Her lips yielded to the tender pressure of his. They fell open just enough to release a soft gasp of surprise... and... joy? Then to his delight, she raised one hand to caress his cheek and began to kiss him back with innocent ardor that made his breath catch and his heart skip.
Time slowed like thick, golden resin on a cold day. Brandon would gladly have been caught forever in the moment as it turned to amber.
Then a sharp gasp pierced their sweet bubble of isolation. Cassandra stiffened and pulled away from him. She turned toward the sound, just as his did.
Brandon’s gaze collided with his cousin’s shocked, accusing stare.
“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded as if she truly was his sovereign and he owed her an explanation.
But he did not, Brandon reminded himself. He was doing nothing wrong. Indeed he had never done anything that felt so right.
“I think the meaning should be perfectly obvious, Imogene. I am in love with Lady Cassandra and intend to propose to her again, if you will give us a moment’s privacy.”
Mrs. Martin appeare
d at his cousin’s elbow just then and tried to make her leave them in peace. But Imogene wrenched her arm from the woman’s touch. “What about Miss Reynolds?” she demanded.
His cousin’s question made Brandon’s insides contract into a cold little ball of lead that plummeted into his toes.
But that was nothing to the dismay that gripped him when Cassandra echoed his cousin’s words, more in sorrow than anger. “Tell us, Sir Brandon. What about Miss Reynolds?”
Chapter Fifteen
A TEMPEST OF conflicting emotions raged within Cassandra’s heart as she stood in the Martins’ kitchen with Brandon’s kiss still tingling upon her lips.
Part of her longed to seek comfort in the shelter of his protective, tender embrace. Yet her rigorous conscience warned her she would find no sanctuary there, only confusion and perhaps more shame.
The contempt with which Imogene Calvert regarded her stung Cassandra’s pride like caustic lye. What made it all the worse was that she could not deny her wrongdoing. She had allowed Brandon to kiss her. Then she had kissed him back with ardent abandon even though she knew he intended to marry Miss Reynolds. Deluding herself that Brandon wanted nothing more than friendship, she had led him on all evening to do something they would both regret.
Did he love her, as he claimed to his cousin, and truly wish to marry her? Or was he only trying to protect her from the consequences of her folly by offering to do the honorable thing? Knowing his chivalrous nature, she feared it must be the latter. But how could she subject him to such a union when a much more suitable match awaited him elsewhere?
Were the same thoughts racing through Brandon’s mind as his mouth opened and closed but emitted no sound?
At last he mastered his voice to address his cousin. “None of this is any of your concern, Imogene, particularly my intentions toward Isabella Reynolds! That is a matter I wish to discuss with Lady Cassandra, if you will give us a little privacy by returning to the parlor.”
