Snowbound With The Baronet (19 page)

He was especially grateful for the opportunity to become reacquainted with Cassandra in a home blessed by love—something neither of them had experienced when growing up. It had shown him what might be possible, not only in romantic fancies but in the very real world of a small Wiltshire farm.

“I quite agree.” The warmth in Cassandra’s voice suggested she approved of his thoughts as well as his words. “But I believe Mr. Martin has found it most agreeable to have a baronet and a duke’s daughter as guests in his home. To accept payment from us would make him seem no better than an innkeeper. But to host a party like ours, puts him on an equal footing with any of us.”

“I believe I see what you mean,” Brandon ventured. “It would be as if the Prince Regent came to visit at
my
house. It would be an honor to host a royal guest, but I would feel my hospitality was cheapened if he offered to pay for it.”

“You
do
understand!” cried Cassandra.

His insight seemed to gratify her beyond anything he’d expected. Her lips spread into a disarming grin that made him yearn to imbibe of her high spirits with a kiss. If only he could be as certain of
her
feelings as Mr. Martin claimed to be.

“There is one difference,” she added.

“And what might that be?” Brandon dropped his voice to a fond, bantering murmur. He would gladly spend the next several hours standing in this cramped, shadowy passageway that reeked of damp wool. As long as Cassandra was there to look upon and laugh with, no fashionable assembly hall or elegant country house could equal it.

“Merely that His Royal Highness would never think of insulting anyone by offering to pay.” She tossed her head, daring him to reproach her impudence. “To be fair, the prince is generally quick to offer his hospitality in return, often on a lavish scale.”

“That is it—the ideal solution!” In his elation, Brandon seized her hand. Or perhaps he had only been looking for an excuse. “I knew I was right to consult you.”

“I am pleased you think so.” Cassandra’s smile flickered on and off, like a candle flame in a breeze. “But I am not certain what problem you are referring to, let alone what solution you believe I suggested.”

Was she wavering between the propriety of pulling her hand away and the desire to leave it where it was? Brandon could not fault her indecision. He had felt similarly torn many times, with caution or conscience urging him one way while his heart tugged him in the other.

“You shall see.” He gave her hand a squeeze, hoping it would not push her away. “Mr. Martin should be coming in any moment now and I mean to follow your guidance.”

“You intrigue me.” A suggestion of laughter bubbled beneath her words. “I suppose I must stay to appease my curiosity.”

The sparkle in her dark eyes assured Brandon she was not sorry to have an excuse to linger in his company.

True to his prediction, they soon heard the farmer outside, stamping the snow off his boots. With a pang of reluctance, Brandon released Cassandra’s hand.

When Tobias Martin entered, he gave a little start at the sight of them. “What is this, a welcoming party?”

He removed his tricorne hat and unwound the long knitted muffler from around his neck.

Brandon was relieved that he sounded in better spirits than when they had spoken earlier, “You might say it is an
apologizing party
, sir, though Lady Cassandra is only here for moral support.”

Their host shook his head as he hung up his outer garments. “I’m afraid none of that made a particle of sense to me.”

“Then I shall be plain,” said Brandon. “I want to beg your pardon for offering payment in exchange for your generous hospitality. No disrespect was intended, I assure you—quite the contrary. I realize no sum I could offer would begin to repay the debt we owe you and your good wife. You may well have saved seven lives.”

“Hardly. You would soon have reached the village. Besides, any honest folk would have been moved to assist stranded travelers.” In spite of his protests, Mr. Martin looked secretly pleased.

“I am obliged to you beyond any means of repayment,” Brandon continued, “but I would be honored if you and Mrs. Martin would come to London as my guests, when the weather is better for travelling.”

“That is a most handsome invitation and the honor would be ours.” The farmer sounded flustered, but pleasantly so.

Brandon cast a fleeting glance at Cassandra. The radiance of her smile set his spirits soaring.

“Mother will be tickled when I tell her,” Mr. Martin continued. “But with the farm... the stock... it is not easy to get away.”

Brandon waved away his objections. “Surely we can find someone trustworthy to run the place in your absence for a few days. You and your good wife deserve a holiday.”

“Indeed you do!” Cassandra chimed in. “I shall be happy to come and look after the house while you are away. Think how much it would mean to your wife.”

Much as Brandon appreciated her support, he hoped Cassandra might play a different role in the Martins’ visit.

“We shall see,” the farmer replied. “Who knows what the future may bring? Having you here has not been an imposition, truly. Mother and I have enjoyed your company. Now, I smell roast goose. Let us go through and find out what Mother has for us to eat.”

They did as Mr. Martin proposed and found the kitchen a beehive of industry. Everyone was talking and laughing together as they completed a variety of small tasks for the lady of the house. Even Imogene had abandoned her usual airs and graces. She stirred some kind of batter in a bowl while chatting quite amiably with Edward, who sat beside her peeling potatoes.

Cassandra approached Mrs. Martin, who stood by the hearth watching a number of pots suspended from hooks over the fire. “Forgive me. I did not mean to abandon you. What can I do?”

“And I,” Brandon added. “I cannot sit idle while everyone else is busy.”

Their hostess swept a glance around the kitchen. “The preparations for dinner are well in hand. To tell the truth, I fear you would only be under foot out here. You could go into the parlor and push the chairs out of the way, so we can dance later.”

“Dance?” Brandon tried to imagine how they would manage that feat in such a small space. He associated dancing with large numbers of people in vast ballrooms and assembly halls.

Their hostess clearly had other ideas. She planted her hands on her ample hips. “That’s what I said. You’ve heard of dancing, I trust? How are we to have a proper celebration of Twelfth Night without it? Now off you go. Once you finish, you can come back and set the table.”

Was Mrs. Martin deliberately arranging matters so he and Cassandra would be off by themselves, away from the rest of the party? Brandon wondered as they marched away. He would not put it past their hostess. From the moment they’d arrived, Mrs. Martin had seemed eager to push them together. How far would she go to promote a match between them? He doubted she would lie, especially not to her husband. But might she shade the truth a little or interpret things she’d been told in a way she wanted to believe?

He turned toward Cassandra and pulled a wry face. “I have not been ordered about in that fashion since I resigned my commission. It was all I could do to keep from saluting her.”

Cassandra pressed her lips together but laughter sputtered out in spite of her efforts. Nothing else he’d done recently had brought Brandon as satisfying a sense of accomplishment as making her smile and laugh.

With a sweep of his hand, he indicated the Martin’s parlor. “Do
you
think there is space enough here to dance properly?’

“I expect we shall find out soon.” Cassandra grasped one arm of a heavy wooden chair and tugged. It scarcely budged.

Brandon seized the other side and together they dragged it to the back wall. Three others followed.

“Where shall we put that one?” Brandon nodded toward the remaining chair.

“Will it fit in the entry hall?” Cassandra dusted off her hands. “I doubt anyone will be going in or out this evening.”

They soon discovered it did fit, with an inch to spare on either side.

“Dear me!” cried Cassandra, who had pulled the chair back into place while Brandon pushed. “I seem to have boxed myself in. I shall have to climb over. Do not look, I beg you, for it will be most ungraceful.”

“I do not believe you are capable of ungraceful movement.” Brandon braced his knees on the seat of the chair and held his arms out to her. “Come, I can lift you over.”

For an instant Cassandra looked as if she meant to refuse, but then she stepped forward, placing her arms on his shoulders while his hands circled her slender waist. “Mind you do not lift me too high and dash my brains out on that ceiling beam.”

“Never fear,” Brandon gave a rather breathless chuckle. “I will not let any harm come to you.”

That seemed to be all the reassurance Cassandra needed, for she launched herself toward him and Brandon hoisted her over the chair. He took great care not to set her back on her feet too abruptly for fear she might lose her balance. Instead he held her as long as she needed to get her proper footing... and perhaps a trifle longer.

Her nearness made him feel as if
he
had struck his head on the thick ceiling beam—befuddled and not fully in control of himself. Instead of the pain such a blow should have inflicted, he was overcome by a jolt of pleasure.

He could not bring himself to let Cassandra go just yet. “Perhaps there is room enough here for dancing after all. Shall we try?”

“If you like.”

He relinquished his grip on her waist to clasp her hands in his. Then he led her in a sidelong sashay, the width of the room and back to the center. There he twirled her around.

“I believe it will do nicely.” Indeed, he now suspected the Martins’ parlor would make a much pleasanter venue for dancing than any assembly or ballroom he’d ever frequented. “I hope you will do me the honor of at least one dance this evening.”

“I can safely promise you that, Sir Brandon.” Gently she disengaged her hands from his and sank into a charming curtsey. “In a company of this size, it would appear most unfriendly if we went the whole evening without dancing once together.”

Brandon returned her curtsey with a gallant bow. “That would never do, would it? Now that we have talked things over and cleared the air, I hope we can be good friends again as we used to be.”

They used to be more than friends and that was what he wished to recapture. For now he could be content to count her as his friend and build upon that firm foundation.

“Friends, of course.” Cassandra glanced up at him in a manner that sent Brandon’s heart into a wild, joyful dance of his own.

Yet when he gazed into her wide, dark eyes, he glimpsed a trace of secret sorrow in their depths, bewildering and unfathomable. His first instinct was to wonder if Cassandra might be hiding something more from him, but he pushed the thought roughly from his mind. If he was to have any hope of winning her again, he must learn to do one of the hardest things he could imagine... trust her.

F
RIENDSHIP
,
OF COURSE
.

Cassandra willed her smile not to falter even as her spirits deflated. How foolish of her to think Sir Brandon Calvert could want anything more from her. He might have been generous enough to forgive her abominable treatment of him. But she could not expect him to trust her with his heart again. She had broken it once already, like a clumsy housemaid handling the best china.

He had found a lady who would take better care of it—one who could have no secret motives for wanting to marry him. Tomorrow morning he would drive away to propose to Miss Reynolds, confident that she would accept his offer and treat it as the honor it was.

In the meantime, Brandon’s request to dance with her was nothing more than courtesy. Any flirtation she’d sensed between them was on her side alone. The kiss she’d believed he meant to give her was only her wish, not his. She must not trick herself into believing otherwise.

Cassandra took a step back to put a more decorous distance between them. “Now that you are satisfied the Martins’ parlor is large enough for dancing, I believe there is a table that needs to be set for our Twelfth Night dinner.”

As she started toward the kitchen, she assured herself Brandon’s friendship was precisely what she wanted. Even if he could recover from her past rejection sufficiently to care for her again, a match between them was no more advisable than it had been four years ago.

Her father was no longer around, threatening to leech Brandon’s fortune. But would she be any better? How could she bear to live in luxury with a wealthy husband while Letty and her sisters were forced to practice strictest economy while residing in virtual charity on Lord Highworth’s estate? Yet how could she expect any man she married to assist her family as she wished to?

Any man with a comfortable fortune who married her could never be certain she had wed him for love alone. With Brandon Calvert in particular, it would be like the worst of their parents’ doomed marriages. He deserved better than that.

“There you are!” cried Mrs. Martin when Cassandra and Brandon entered the crowded kitchen. “I was afraid you’d forgotten us.”

Her words might have sounded like a scolding but her tone was infused with warm approval.

Cassandra hoped she had not given their hostess an excuse to try her hand at matchmaking.

“The food will be ready soon.” The farmer’s wife stirred a bubbling pot of gravy that gave off the most delectable aroma. “Tobias, my dear, could I trouble you to pour my helpers some punch. You may all enjoy it at your leisure in the parlor while the table gets set.”

Her husband and guests were quick to follow Mrs. Martin’s orders, even Miss Calvert, who seemed in better spirits than she’d been all day. Once the others had retired to the parlor with their drinks, Brandon and Cassandra spread a linen cloth over the kitchen table with then began setting places with all the plates and cutlery they could find in the old sideboard.

“I must go wash my face and put on a clean apron,” Mrs. Martin announced. “If you smell anything burning, take it off the fire and give it a stir.”