Snowbound With The Baronet (11 page)

“N-nothing.” All the tension that had bled out of Brandon seemed to soak into Cassandra and crystallize. She pulled away as abruptly as she had thrown herself at him, but not before Brandon inhaled her scent into the deepest recesses of his lungs. “I don’t know what came over me.”

She dashed the tears from her eyes as if she despised herself for giving in to them. “Perhaps I am overtired. I began thinking of my sisters and how worried they will be about me, especially Viola. I wish I could get a message to them that I am safe.”

Brandon recalled Cassandra’s gentle, fair-haired sister whom many considered the beauty of the Whitney family. Much as he admired the lady, he could not agree.

“I suppose Lady Viola must be married now.” He took out his handkerchief and offered it to Cassandra. “Did Lord Gilchrist secure her or did she make a better match?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Cassandra seized his handkerchief and dried her eyes with it. In answer to his question, she shook her head. “My sister is not married.”

The information puzzled Brandon but the lady’s tone did not encourage further inquiry.

Instead a different question burst out before he could prevent it. “Are you certain it was only the thought of your sisters that upset you? You looked troubled when I spoke about the war earlier. Forgive me. I did not mean to upset you. I should have held my tongue.”

“No, you should not!” She glanced up at Brandon through her lush fringe of black lashes, to which tiny beads of moisture clung. That look penetrated his defenses with the force and precision of a well-aimed rifle shot.

“How can I shrink from hearing of your experiences in the war when you had the courage to endure them?” she continued. “What distressed me more than learning what you suffered was the thought that I might have pushed you into taking up a commission. Admit it—you would never have gone to war if I had accepted your marriage proposal.”

Brandon was not without his own pride, which now urged him to deny the charge. Confessing to it would only betray the depth of his heartbreak. But how could he claim otherwise? Truth was a rigorous taskmaster, which demanded its due even when the tribute was not pleasant or convenient.

“That cannot come as any great surprise, surely?” He might not be able to refute her assertion outright, but he could try to make light of it. “What man with any sense would leave his bride to go off to war unless he was compelled to? If you had accepted my proposal, I would have been more agreeably employed beginning our married life together. But since I had no such ties to prevent me, I decided I should do my duty for King and Country.”

That explanation sounded impersonal and almost noble. Brandon knew his decision had been neither. “Besides, there are few situations better calculated to make a fellow forget his romantic troubles than facing enemy fire.”

His attempt at levity failed miserably.

Cassandra pressed his handkerchief to her lips. Though she managed to hold back a fresh effusion of weeping, her whole demeanor suggested misery too deep for tears.

“No wonder you hate me.” She spat out the words as if they were choking her. “I drove you away to war. You might have been wounded, even... k-killed and it would have been my fault.”

“I do not hate you!” The vehement denial burst out before Brandon could judge whether or not it was true. But once he’d spoken, he realized he meant it. There was a time when he’d
tried
to hate Cassandra Whitney, but he had not succeeded. “Furthermore, any harm that might have come to me in Spain would have been the doing of Napoleon’s army, not you.”

His reassurances did not persuade her. “I might as well have pushed you in front of their bullets... or bayonets. If I had only known...”

At that moment Brandon could not abide the word
if.
It taunted him with too many images of what might have been.

“What would you have done?” He rose from the floor and stalked off to peer out the kitchen window. He did not trust himself so near Cassandra now that he’d been reminded how it felt to hold her in his arms. “If I had threatened to go to war unless you accepted my proposal, would you have given in to such blackmail? Would you have agreed to wed me in spite of your feelings, or lack of them? You would not have done either of us a service if you had. A union on that basis would have been doomed to the worst kind of failure.”

Indeed it would. Yet, as he spoke with such conviction, Brandon wondered why he had never considered her refusal in that light until this moment. Though he had not been able to hate Cassandra, he had privately blamed her, just as she now blamed herself, for making him go to war.

That had been grossly unjust.

He alone was responsible for his actions, however reckless. He must do everything in his power to convince her of that. She might not have cared for him enough to risk marriage, particularly after watching her father make three wives miserable. Yet he now sensed that Cassandra had not been altogether indifferent to his fate either. She had worried about him and regretted any hardships he’d suffered. She did not deserve to carry the burden of his imprudent choices.

But before he had a chance to tell her any of that, she seized upon his final words. “What do you know about the worst kind of failure in a marriage? You told me this morning that having plenty of male heirs did not insure a happy family. Were you speaking from intimate observation, as I did last evening?”

Once, during a skirmish in a Spanish village, Brandon had been ambushed by a French infantryman. He would never forget the way the Iberian sun glinted off the muzzle of that Charleville musket aimed at his chest. The soft click of the flintlock hammer striking the frizzen had told him he would be dead before he could take any evasive action. By some miracle the weapon had misfired, giving him vital seconds to raise his like a club and knock the musket out of his enemy’s hands.

Cassandra’s question reminded him of that soft but ominous sound. Only this time he had no hope of a reprieve. Nor was he certain he deserved one.

S
IR
B
RANDON
C
ALVERT
did not hate her for the way she had treated him? Cassandra’s mind and heart dwelt on that improbable notion as she savored the sweet memory of his unexpected embrace.

How she had longed to surrender to it and cling to him for every last instant his kindness would permit. Pride had refused to let him see her so vulnerable. What if he’d sensed the feelings she once had for him—feelings she had been forced to deny for his sake? She could bear his contempt better than his pity. If he learned the truth, she would probably have to suffer both.

So she’d pulled away from him, pretending it was propriety that demanded such action, rather than pride. But neither of those things could make her forget the sensation of his arms encircling her, his broad shoulder offered to lean or weep upon, whichever she needed. Not to mention the provocative whisper of his warm breath through her hair.

Cassandra raised Brandon’s handkerchief to her face, pretending to wipe away a tear. Instead she inhaled the faint scent of him that clung to the damp square of linen.

From her seat at the Martins’ kitchen table, she watched Brandon stare out the tiny, frosted window into the night. The snow did not appear to be falling as hard as earlier, but neither had it stopped. Cassandra wished he would come back to kneel or sit beside her again. What had she said to drive him away? Whatever it was, she would gladly take it back.

Ah, yes. She had tried to assume the blame for driving him away to war. Then she had mused aloud about how differently she might have acted if she’d foreseen the consequences of her refusal. For some reason, that seemed to vex him. Perhaps despite the way her rejection had wounded his pride, Brandon Calvert was not sorry to have escaped wedding her after all. If that were true then he might not care to be reminded of what his life could have been.

His reply had prompted her to ask about his family. Until now she had given no thought to what circumstances, other than an unbroken string of daughters, might destroy a marriage.

“I suppose I owe you an answer.” Brandon continued to gaze out the window as if it held a sight of far greater interest than snowflakes dancing in the darkness. “After all, you gave me one to an equally personal question.”

Cassandra held her tongue. She owed him more than he could ever owe her, but she still wanted to hear what he might say. When the time came for them to part again, at least she would have the minor consolation of knowing him a little better than she had before.

Brandon inhaled a deep breath then began to speak. His tone was wooden, as if he’d deliberately severed his emotions from his memories. “To the rest of the world, my parents’ marriage must have appeared a brilliant match. But that is all it ever was—appearance. My mother wed my father for his fortune. He married her because her beauty and wit made her sought after by other men. She got the life of luxury that a bountiful income can provide and he became the envy of every gentleman of his acquaintance. But as the years went by, my parents came to realize they had paid too high a price for the advantages they’d gained.”

Though he was not looking toward her, Cassandra nodded just the same. She understood the ultimate cost of a mercenary marriage. And yet, her family’s present circumstances reminded her that such sacrifices might sometimes be necessary.

“By the time I was old enough to notice, my parents heartily despised one another,” Brandon mused. “When one did address the other, which happened seldom, it was usually a bitter quip laced with poisonous hidden meaning. Only when they appeared in public together did they make an effort to behave as if all was well between them. Then their performances would have put Mr. Kemble and Mrs. Siddons to shame.”

It was clear from his tone that Brandon did not approve of his parents cordial behavior in public. But Cassandra thought she understood why they had acted that way. Was it not bad enough to endure the private acrimony of their marriage? Being the subjects of gossip or objects of pity would have rubbed salt in the wounds.

She wanted to ask Brandon whether he would have preferred his father to make humiliating remarks about his mother in public, as she had seen hers do to poor Letty. But before she could get the words out, she heard the patter of footsteps approaching down the passage from the parlor.

Imogene Calvert flounced into the kitchen. “What are you doing Brandon,
pressing
apples for cider?”

Cassandra glanced from Miss Calvert to her cousin, puzzled.

“I came out to fetch more cider for myself and Mrs. Martin.” Brandon explained before answering his cousin’s question. “Lady Cassandra and I fell into conversation. Is that a crime? When did you become so concerned about the comfort of our hostess?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Miss Calvert sniffed. “You may talk all you like, only please do it in the parlor where I may join in the conversation. Nobody else there has anything to say that is of interest to me.”

“You are quite right, Miss Calvert.” Cassandra rose from the table. She and Brandon had been away from the rest of the party for longer than was proper. She did not care to become the subject of gossip. “I’m sure we would be much more comfortable carrying on our conversation in the parlor.”

It would be impossible for them to discuss such personal subjects as they had been, but perhaps that was for the best. What good would come of talking about the past? What was done was done and no amount of conversation would change it.

“I’m certain you will, Lady Cassandra.” Imogene Calvert locked arms with her and started back toward the parlor. “At least such comfort as may be found in a place like this.”

“That is enough, Imogene.” Brandon started after them with an air that seemed to mingle relief and regret. “We are fortunate to have found such a warm welcome here.”

“I know. I know.” His cousin heaved an impatient sigh. “Mr. and Mrs. Martin are very kind. It is warm and dry here and we have plenty to eat and drink. I am not as ungrateful as you believe. But you must admit, it lacks the refinements of Everleigh... or Noughtly Hall. I do hope the weather will improve soon so we can all get to where we are meant to be.”

She should want that too, Cassandra told herself. The longer she stayed in this house with Brandon, becoming more intimately acquainted than they had ever been, the harder it would be for her to part from him again. Yet no matter how often or how strenuously she reminded herself of that, part of her still wished the snow would not stop until Easter!

Brandon’s cousin began waxing lyrical about the charms of Everleigh and the various guests who would be attending the Norrington’s house party. She and Cassandra settled into the empty window seat. They were joined by her cousin after he had fetched Mrs. Martin her cider.

“Was it a
partner
in conversation you wished, Imogene, or an audience?” Brandon teased as he squeezed in beside his cousin. “You have scarcely given Lady Cassandra the opportunity to get a word in.”

Miss Calvert made a face at him. “I did ask her about the festivities she expects to enjoy at Noughtly Hall. She said Everleigh sounded much more amusing. Then she asked me to tell her who else would be there. Isn’t that right, Lady Cassandra?”

“Indeed it is.” Cassandra tried to sound suitably interested in what Miss Calvert had to say. She would rather hear about the most tiresome subject in the world than tell the truth about her impending ordeal serving as a companion to her great-aunt. She did not want Brandon to know how far her fortunes had fallen, but neither did she dare try to make her visit to Noughtly sound more agreeable than it would be. Brandon seemed to possess a special intuition for detecting falsehood. Better to avoid the subject altogether.

“Your cousin tells me there will be quite a number of eligible ladies and gentleman attending the party,” she continued. “I wish you good fortune in your mutual match-making endeavors, though I doubt you will need it. I am certain you will both have many admirers from whom to choose.”