Snowbound With The Baronet (8 page)

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.

“
P
LEASE 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.”

It was clear he disapproved of the ways she had changed during the past four years. That hurt more than she cared to admit. The hurt struck against her fear for him, igniting her temper. “I grew up! I learned that my actions have consequences and that I must consider them before I jump in with both feet.”

“Are you saying I am heedless as well as foolhardy?” His tone sharpened to match hers.

“You are certainly not heeding
me
.” Her stomach churned and her eyes prickled ominously. They threatened a mortifying burst of tears if she did not soon get her emotions under control.

Before Sir Brandon could reply, his footman interrupted their argument. “Begging your pardon, sir. The two of us can go fetch the luggage if you need to stay behind.”

Cassandra could have kissed the young man. Then she reminded herself it was too risky an errand for
anyone
. She should be concerned for all of them—not only Sir Brandon.

“Nonsense!” he snapped. “I would never order anyone to do what I would not do myself. We are going to do this, all three of us, and that is final.”

He made a curt bow that was dismissive rather than respectful. “Pray excuse us, Lady Cassandra. The sooner we go, the sooner we shall return and the more light we will have to find our way.”

There was no lack of light outside. Cassandra had found the glaring whiteness almost blinding when she’d waded out to the barn to collect eggs for Mrs. Martin. That would not make it easier for Brandon and the others to find their way.

The door opened and the other two men trudged outside. Sir Brandon turned away from her to follow them.

Cassandra lunged toward him and grasped the sleeve of his coat, tugging with all her might. “Please Bran—I cannot let you do this!”

Had she addressed him in such a familiar way? The intensity of feeling her actions betrayed shocked Cassandra. But if it kept him from harm, surely it would be worthwhile.

But her final desperate plea availed no more than the others. Instead of hesitating, Brandon swung his arm with fierce strength, wrenching his sleeve from her grasp. His blue eyes blazed with the frosty intensity of a blizzard that raged inside him. “Enough, Cassandra! Do not pretend you care what happens to me!”

She staggered back as if he had driven a jagged shard of ice deep into her heart.
Pretend to care?
No indeed. She had spent years pretending to the world, and most of all to herself, that she
did not
care anything about the suitor she’d spurned. In truth she did care, far more than she could afford to, about what had happened to him in the past and what would happen in the future.

Now all she could do was to watch helplessly as he strode out into the storm and slammed the door behind him.

Should he have swallowed his pride and heeded Cassandra?

As Brandon waded through the snow straining to spot the stagecoach and maintain his bearings, he began to think it might have been the more prudent course. But he found it impossible to behave prudently where she was concerned, as he had almost from the moment they met.

It had not been prudent for a mere baronet to aspire to the daughter of a future duke. Yet once they were introduced, he could not rest until he’d made an effort to win her. He hoped today’s rash decision would end better than that.

Dash it all! He was doing it again—mooning over Lady Cassandra when he most needed to keep his wits about him. Even the faint sting of snowflakes the winter wind whipped against his face could not chase the lady from his thoughts for long.

“I have never seen so much snow at one time,” his footman, shouted to be heard over the wail of the wind. “Everything is just white mounds. How will we tell the stagecoach from anything else?”

“It will be a very tall mound, Edward!” Brandon called back, ending with a loud laugh that he hoped would ease the young man’s obvious anxiety.