Snowbound With The Baronet (20 page)

As their hostess bustled away, Cassandra cast a fleeting glance at Brandon, only to find him staring back with a gleeful grin. “Considering the modest size of this cottage and the number of people presently occupying it, you and I spend a surprising amount of time alone.”

The playful pitch of his voice and the endearing crinkles of mirth around his eyes provoked a bubbly, tickling sensation deep inside Cassandra. It urged her to abandon all pride and propriety, giving no thought to the future. It required all her willpower to resist its siren song.

“Perhaps everyone else in the party secretly detests our society,” she teased him, as she had once so enjoyed doing. “Perhaps they are happy to be rid of us for a time, even if we are only as far away as another room.”

Brandon pretended to give the idea serious consideration as he set the cutlery beside each plate. “They might feel that way about me. But you? I cannot believe it. No one could be held in such universal esteem. From the beginning of this whole misadventure, you have been unfailingly helpful and good-natured. I would not have thought it possible, but the past four years seem to have improved you.”

His words touched Cassandra, even more because she knew it was not the fatuous flattery of a beau but the honest praise of a friend. “You are kind to say so and I hope you are right. There was plenty of room for improvement in my character and still is, I daresay. Besides, not
everyone
is as tolerant of my faults as you seem to be.”

A brief spasm of confusion crossed his features. “Imogene, you mean? I thought I set her straight, the little wretch. Has she been rude to you again? Has she made any more ridiculous accusations?”

He slammed down the final knife with such force that it made the rest of the cutlery on the table jump. His indignation seemed excessive for one friend defending another, but surely that was all it could be.

“Your cousin has been perfectly polite,” Cassandra assured him, “though I am not certain she trusts me. There, the table is set and I do not smell anything burning. I hope Mrs. Martin will be satisfied with our stewardship of her kitchen, however brief.”

“Indeed I am!” Their hostess bustled in, followed by her husband and the other guests. “Now find a seat, everyone and let us eat while the food is hot.”

As the rest of the party squeezed in around the table and Mr. Martin sharpened his carving knife, Cassandra carried steaming bowls of vegetables to add to the feast.

Once their host’s knife was sharpened to his satisfaction and his wife brought the brimming gravy boat, Mr. Martin swept a benevolent glance around the crowded table. “Before we tuck in, let us not forget to give thanks. Sir Brandon, would you do us the honor of saying grace?”

“The honor will be mine.” Brandon rose and bowed his head while Mrs. Martin gave Cassandra a nudge toward the empty seat beside him. “Oh Lord, we give thanks for your bounty. Not only what we are about to partake from this table, but also for the kindness we have found in the hearts of those around it. Amen.”

The others echoed the word, endorsing Sir Brandon’s sentiment—none with greater conviction than Cassandra. Initially, she had not viewed this unexpected meeting with her former suitor as a blessing—quite the contrary. But she had come to appreciate it more with each passing hour.

The next little while passed in a pleasant blur of eating and drinking, talking and laughing. Cassandra could not recall when she had enjoyed a meal more. The goose was moist and flavorful, the gravy smooth and savory. Even the turnip and sprouts—neither of which were her favorites—tasted quite delicious this evening. But that feast for the palate scarcely compared to the one for her other senses. Seated beside Brandon, she savored frequent glances at his fine profile. He had not shaved properly since their arrival. Now the dark bristle of whiskers on his lower face lent his features a provocative roguish air.

As they reached for something on the crowded table, Brandon’s arm brushed against hers. That brief contact sent a surge of sweet, tingling energy through her. It made her forget that tomorrow they must go their separate ways, she to a life of spinster servitude with her great-aunt, he to propose to another woman. Until then, nothing must taint her enjoyment of this evening and his delightful company.

“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 Brandon 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.