“Yes, the twins.” Mother frowned. “I do like the elder Miss Bell, but I cannot say I entirely approve of the younger sister.”
“How can you know she is younger? They look exactly the same.” He’d had to look twice at the two sisters when he’d first seen them at a ball. Golden-blond hair, bright-blue eyes, and their pert features unnervingly identical.
“I know,” his mother said coolly. “In any case, I was disappointed to learn that the mother would be unable to attend and that Miss Cassandra would come in her absence. But I assure you you’ll find the other young ladies perfectly acceptable.” She raised a finger. “And you will treat them well, no matter that you did not want them here.”
A shrill meow came from behind him, and his mother’s cat, Sir Chester, came slinking into the room. It leaped onto Mother’s lap, and she stroked its back distractedly, still watching Roland closely.
Roland crossed his arms, not wanting to give in so easily, not when he knew she must have been planning this for months. “I won’t be rude to our guests,” he said. “I am civilized enough for that.”
“I want more than civility, Roland.” Mother’s voice softened unexpectedly. “I want you to try.”
He was half tempted to give a cheeky retort, but he stopped himself. She only wanted the best for him, even if he didn’t at all agree with her methods.
“Let us make an arrangement,” he said finally. “If I promise to allow this house party a chance, you must promise that if nothing comes of it, you’ll let me be. You will not attempt to play matchmaker in the future.”
Mother considered his offer, then nodded. “Very well. I accept your terms. But know I will be watching.”
He groaned. “Yes, because nothing encourages romance like the watchful eye of a potential mother-in-law.”
She picked up the paper she’d been perusing when he’d arrived, one hand still stroking Sir Chester’s back. “You’ll manage somehow, I am sure. Now go and dress for dinner. Our other guests will arrive shortly.”
“All right,” he said. “But come Christmas, I expect to have my house back.”
Mother only gave a sly smile. “Hopefully with one new addition.”
He blew out a frustrated breath as he left the room and started up the main staircase. Was there a worse way to spend Christmas than an entire fortnight with three young women determined to pry a proposal from him?
He would not come away unscathed.
Chapter Three
Of one thing Cassie was absolutely certain: her sister had gone mad.
Though Vivian had spent the last two hours of their journey alternatively moaning or sticking her head out the window, she now slumped weakly in an armchair as she and Jennings deliberated over dresses.
“No, not that one,” she said, her voice faint. “Try the white.”
Jennings set down the blue gown and rifled through the trunk.
Cassie rubbed her forehead. “You cannot be serious, Viv. Mama wouldn’t let you attend dinner tonight in your condition, and neither shall I.”
“I am just a bit queasy from the ride, that’s all.” Vivian clenched the arms of the chair in her shaking hands.
“This is more than a bit of queasiness,” Cassie insisted. “I think you might be truly ill. Can’t we send for a doctor?”
When the sisters had arrived at Hartfield Court a half hour ago, Vivian had said nothing of her illness. Instead, she’d plastered a smile on her face while greeting Mrs. Hastings. As soon as the housekeeper had shown them their rooms, she had collapsed in a chair and hadn’t stood since.
“I cannot see a doctor.” Vivian’s voice had taken on a strange insistence. “I need to attend dinner tonight.”
“You can barely stand.” Cassie strode to Jennings and took the white-silk gown from her hands. “You certainly cannot endure an entire night, even in the name of love.”
A knock came at the door, and the housekeeper peeked inside the room. “Pardon, Miss Cassandra, but your trunk has been brought to your room.”
“Thank you.” Cassie was desperate to change into something that did not smell like—well, like retch. She turned back to her sister. “Will you please lie down until I change, at least? Then I might stop planning your funeral.”
Vivian sighed. “All right. For a few minutes.”
After helping Vivian to the canopied bed and tucking her into the blankets, Cassie went to the room the housekeeper had shown her when they’d arrived and hurried to the trunk set at the foot of the bed. She undid the latches and propped open the lid—then stared. Her eyes were met not by petticoats and stockings, but by white-linen shirts, bold-colored waistcoats, and a stack of neatly pressed handkerchiefs.
She took up a handkerchief. What on earth? She stepped back and inspected the trunk. It looked like hers at first glance, but no, the leather was a darker color, and the buckles more gold than bronze. The footmen must have confused her trunk for someone else’s—surely a gentleman arriving for the party.
Gentleman. Cassie’s face heated, and she slammed shut the trunk before she saw anything scandalous. She hurried back into the corridor, intent on finding the housekeeper. But halfway to the stairs, a door flung open in front of her. She yelped and threw out her hands to stop it from smashing into her face.
“Blast,” a masculine voice said, and a man stepped from behind the door. Dark hair, thick brows, and the deep-brown eyes that had entranced half of London during the Season. “I’m terribly sorry. Are you all right?”
Cassie shook out her hand, still stinging from slamming against the hard wood of the door. “I’d be better if you hadn’t nearly broken my nose.” Did Mr. Hastings always run around throwing open doors haphazardly?
He winced. “My apologies. Miss Bell, is it?” Then he squinted at her. “Or is it Miss Cassandra?”
She could hardly be annoyed with him for being unable to tell her and Vivian apart. But she wasn’t yet reconciled to forgiveness.
“Cassandra,” she said coolly, offering a brief curtsy. “A pleasure, Mr. Hastings, but I’m afraid there has been some mix-up and—”
His eyes wandered to her hand, where she still clutched the handkerchief from the trunk, and he nodded unexpectedly. “Ah, I think I’ve solved the mystery. Might I guess that your trunk does not contain your usual belongings? Mine was shockingly filled with ruffles and lace.”
Cassie blanched. Had Mr. Hasting rifled through her things? “You didn’t—”
He held up his hands. “I did not touch a thing, though that is more than you can say.”
The handkerchief itched in her hand, as if accusing her. She held it out to him immediately. “I thought it might identify the owner.”
He took it. “Success. Shall we correct this mistake?”
She expected him to call for a footman to switch the trunks, but he instead disappeared back through the doorway. Cassie reluctantly followed him down a short corridor to what she assumed was his room. She peered inside as he went to the trunk—her trunk—and hefted it into his arms. Rather easily, she admitted reluctantly.
“Now, which room is yours?” he said, carefully maneuvering through the doorway.
Cassie started down the corridor, and he followed with heavy footsteps. She glanced back to find him already watching her with narrowed eyes. She cleared her throat. “Pardon my asking, Mr. Hastings, but are you only now arriving?”
When they’d arrived earlier, she hadn’t thought to wonder about his absence when Mrs. Hastings greeted them. She’d been far too concerned with helping a staggering Vivian to her room, barely avoiding a repeat performance of the incident in the coach.
Mr. Hastings frowned. “Yes, I was delayed in London, and I’m afraid a great many unexpected obstacles have made their way into my life today.”
Did he mean their trunks? It seemed such a small thing to make him frown so. But Cassie refrained from saying anything more. If Vivian was successful in her endeavor, this man would be her future brother-in-law. She hardly want
ed him thinking worse of her than he already did, considering he already assumed she’d ransacked his trunk.
“Here it is,” she said as they stepped into her room. She gestured at the open trunk. “As you can see, I did not touch anything beside the handkerchief.”
He sent her an odd look as he set her trunk on the floor. “I hope you know I was only joking about that.”
“Oh.” She cleared her throat. “Well, good. Thank you for your help, Mr. Hastings.”
He raised an eyebrow at her dismissal but did not protest as he lifted his trunk. “Of course, Miss Cassandra.”
He made his way back to the door, and she moved to her trunk, wanting to reassure herself that all was in order.
“By the way,” Mr. Hastings called from the doorway. She looked up. “I am also quite fond of cherry comfits.” He flashed a grin and vanished down the corridor, leaving her staring after him.
Then her eyes dropped to her trunk, and she opened it. She’d carefully packed her package from the apothecary, but apparently the wrapping had come loose during the journey, and the small sweets wrapped in twists of paper had spilled all over her trunk.
“Drat,” she muttered. She began scooping up the comfits and depositing them on the nearby writing desk. Now Mr. Hastings thought her a snoop and a glutton. Mama would be so proud.
When her trunk was free of sweets, she changed quickly, used to dressing without help since Vivian often monopolized Jennings’s time. Then she hurried back to her sister’s room.
“I must tell you,” she said, slipping inside. “I just had the strangest meeting—”
Cassie stopped. Vivian was not resting on the bed. Instead, her sister sat beside the chamber pot on the floor, leaning her head against the wall.
“Oh, Vivian.” Cassie went to her and helped her sit on the edge of the bed. Where had Jennings gone? “You cannot still be thinking of going down to dinner.”
“No,” Vivian said, still pale. “I think it is very clear I cannot.”
“Good.” Finally she was seeing reason. “Now you must—”
“But you can,” Vivian interrupted.
Cassie crossed her arms. “There is no point in me going down. I haven’t set my cap for anyone, and I would rather stay with you.” Truthfully, Cassie was relieved. Now she had the perfect excuse to miss the first evening of the house party. Who would insist she play parlor games when she was needed to nurse her dear sister back to health?
But Vivian only shook her head, a look of determination claiming her eyes. “Cassie, I need your help.”
Cassie squinted at her. “Of course. That is why I want to stay with you.”
“No, you do not understand.” Vivian’s arms were trembling. “We need to switch.”
Cassie dropped her arms. “Switch? Why?”
They hadn’t switched places in years, not since they’d found it amusing to trick their horrible French governess. And of course they’d done it endless times as young girls, to the exasperation of their mother, but it had only ever been in fun.
Vivian took a deep breath. “You know how I feel about Mr. Hastings, and what my hopes are. But . . .” She swallowed. “But if I cannot be there tonight, I may as well give up now. Miss Tindale is everything that is charming, beautiful, and accomplished.”
“So are you,” Cassie insisted. “Mr. Hastings knows this.” Despite her words, she was far from certain. He hadn’t looked particularly thrilled to see Cassie in the hallway, even for the short second he thought she was Vivian.
Vivian ignored her. “You must pretend to be me and ensure that Miss Tindale does not entirely commandeer Mr. Hastings.”
“And why can’t I do that as myself? I can distract him just as well without going through all this pretense.”
“Because I need to maintain my reputation,” she insisted. “Who wishes to marry a sickly girl who hides away in her bedchamber?”
“I see. So instead, Cassandra Bell will be the sickly girl who hides away in her bedchamber.”
“But you do not care what people think of you.”
That was true, for the most part. But somehow it made Cassie uneasy, that the peculiar Mr. Hastings would think of her that way.
“Please?” Vivian begged. “It would just be for tonight. You know I never stay ill for long. We can both rejoin the party tomorrow.”
“This is ridiculous.” Cassie rubbed her forehead. “You cannot be serious.”
“Why not? No one can tell us apart.”
Cassie threw up her hands. “We are not fourteen years old anymore, Viv. There is no possible way I can convince an entire household, not when they already know the real you.”
“Of course you can,” Vivian said, her voice fading. “You know me better than anyone.”
“That does not mean I can be you.”
“But you must. This is too important.” Then Vivian’s eyebrows lifted. “Think, Cassie. If I am married before the Season, you needn’t go to London.”
That gave Cassie pause. The both of them knew very well that Mama had only brought Cassie to London because leaving her at home while parading Vivian around would have sparked rumors. But Vivian was the daughter on whom their parents had pinned their hopes for a great match—which, of course, Cassie was perfectly content with. She hardly wanted more attention.
And while London had been all good and well in its own way—the food and entertainment, at least—she could certainly do without it. Especially if it meant avoiding awkward dances with men she hardly knew or tagging along on never-ending social visits. She much preferred their quiet country home and the company of Grandpapa. He was the only one who laughed rather than cringed when Cassie said something absurd.
If Cassie did what Vivian wanted . . . if she could succeed in helping her sister secure a match with Mr. Hastings . . .
Vivian’s shoulders slumped as her energy waned.
“You are going to faint,” Cassie said, moving closer. “Lie down.”
Vivian jutted her chin. “Not until you promise you’ll do it.”
Cassie blew out a breath. How could she even be considering this? Vivian was proper and lovely and good. Cassie was . . . not. But could she pretend for long enough to salvage Vivian’s hopes for the future?
“One night,” she finally said. “I will go to dinner tonight.”
Vivian flung her arms around Cassie, who staggered under her sister’s weight. “Oh, thank you. I knew you would agree.”
“Now into bed with you,” Cassie ordered. She helped Vivian to lie back and pulled the blankets up tight around her chin. “And you must promise to let me call for a doctor if you are still unwell tomorrow.”
“I promise,” Vivian said solemnly.
Cassie exhaled. “This will end in disaster, I am certain.”
Vivian closed her eyes, as if their conversation had exhausted her completely. Which it likely had. “You’ll be perfect, I have no doubt.”
No matter. Cassie had enough doubts for the both of them.
Chapter Four
The second Roland stepped into the drawing room, he regretted agreeing to his mother’s ridiculous plan.
All eyes turned to him. Mr. and Mrs. Marsden and their daughter—who was the timid, brown-haired creature he’d vaguely remembered. Miss Tindale and her hawkeyed mother, who stood in the corner, separate from the others. And Mother, of course, who presided over it all with a careful determination.
Roland squared his shoulders and forced a smile. He greeted each guest in turn, making a special effort to converse with both Miss Marsden and Miss Tindale as his mother would want. It wasn’t their fault she had arranged this entire debacle, after all. That was also why he’d forced himself to be polite when he’d met Miss Cassandra in the upstairs corridor earlier, even when she’d nearly accused him of sorting through her petticoats.
Though he hadn’t been able to resist that last parting shot about her large stash of comfits. He’d rather enjoyed the embarrassment that flashed across her face. H
e glanced around the drawing room. Where were the Bell sisters?
“How was your journey from London, Mr. Hastings?”
Miss Tindale came to his side, smiling brightly as she tipped her head, her brown curls framing her heart-shaped face. Once he might have been immediately taken in by such a pretty face. But after last Season, after months of dancing and flirting and talking, after making every effort to find a woman he could build a life with . . .
Now he was more cautious—and realistic. He’d almost given up the idea of marriage entirely and decided to focus on his work instead, but if these young ladies would be staying at his home for a fortnight, then he might as well follow through on his promise to Mother. He still wanted to marry; he just wasn’t certain the Fates agreed with him.
Now he forced a smile to his face. “My journey was excellent. And yours, Miss Tindale?”
“Oh, perfectly lovely. I so enjoy traveling, and the countryside here is beautiful.”
He almost laughed. The landscape was drab and bleak in the middle of December. But she was only being gracious. He could hardly fault her for it.
“Are you looking forward to Christmas, Mr. Hastings?” Miss Tindale asked. “I admit I’ve never been particularly fond of the holiday, but surely your mother has a host of wonderful things planned for us all.”
“Yes, I am certain—” he began.
“Good evening!”
The high, breathy voice interrupted him, and he turned to see a halo of golden curls and vivid sky-blue eyes. “Mr. Hastings, Miss Tindale,” the young lady said, dropping two bobbing curtsies in quick succession.
“Ah, Miss . . .” He hesitated. “Miss Cassandra, is it?”
She shook her head quickly, as if eager to correct him. “No, sir, I am Vivian.”
So this was Miss Vivian Bell. Blast, it was a dreadful task to keep the two of them sorted out. “And where is your sister?” he asked.
“I’m afraid Cassandra is feeling ill today.” Miss Bell clasped her gloved hands. “You shall have to make due with just me.”
A Christmas Promise Page 2