A Christmas Promise

by Joanna Barker

  Cassie forced a laugh and moved to set the pieces again on the table. But her smile did not reach the depths of her heart, which felt more like the storm outside.

  After another two hours of games and talking, Vivian declared she needed to rest in order to make the most of the next day. Cassie bid Vivian good night and stepped out into the corridor, cold and lonely without the warmth of a fire. Hard as it was to pretend nothing was wrong, Cassie far preferred the distraction of her sister to an empty room and wandering thoughts.

  “Miss Bell.”

  She froze, her hand still on the doorknob. Not now. She turned slowly to see Roland stepping from the shadows, his dark, unruly locks falling over concerned eyes.

  Cassie managed a quick breath, trying to reclaim her equilibrium. “Should you not be at dinner?”

  “I pled exhaustion after the long day,” he said, crossing his arms. “And I did not want to miss my chance.”

  “Your chance?”

  “To intercept you before you hid away from me again.”

  “I wasn’t hiding—”

  He held up one hand. “I do not blame you in any way. I only . . .” He paused. “I missed you.”

  Cassie’s heart thumped wildly, as if it might grow wings and burst from her chest. Roland had missed her.

  He moved closer, the candlelight flickering over the lines of his face, his wide jaw and straight nose. “Come with me.”

  It was not a question but not quite a command. “Come with you where?”

  He smiled and held out his hand to her. “I believe it is my turn to surprise you.”

  Cassie stared at him, then his hand. She couldn’t. She shouldn’t. After what had happened yesterday in the ballroom, there was too much risk—both to her reputation and her heart. And what about Vivian? How could she think to—

  “Please?” he said, his voice soft as the gently falling snow outside. She met his eyes once more, and the hope there destroyed all her defenses.

  She slipped her hand into his.

  His smile broadened. “I want to show you something.”

  He tugged her with him as he started down the corridor, and she needed no further encouragement. His firm, warm hand in hers sent continuous tingles up her arm and straight to her chest. One more night, she reasoned with herself. After all she’d endured in the last week, she deserved one more night of happiness. Then tomorrow . . .

  But she would not think of tomorrow. Not with Roland guiding her through the quiet, dark corridors, and her pulse racing like a colt at Newmarket.

  “Here we are,” he finally said. She sent him a questioning look, but he only opened an unremarkable door and ushered her inside.

  A fire sparked in the grate across the room, leaving most of the room in shadow. Cassie moved to the center, turning to gain her bearing. A little bed near the window, neatly made. A row of tin soldiers arranged on a low table, and a shelf full of books and blocks. “The nursery?”

  Roland nodded. “My nursery, when I was a boy.”

  “If you wanted to play soldiers, you only needed to ask.”

  He grinned. “I did not bring you here to play soldiers, though the idea is tempting.” He moved across the room to the large window above a padded bench. He opened the window, and cold slipped into the room, surrounding her like the cool waters of the lake near Brightling.

  She shivered as Roland turned back to face her. He grimaced. “I should have had you bring a cloak.”

  “Then I might not have come,” she said dryly.

  He chuckled, taking the blanket from the bed and coming to her. She inhaled a sharp breath as he wrapped the blanket snugly around her shoulders.

  “Better?” he asked.

  She cleared her throat. “Yes. Good.”

  He nodded and moved back to the window. “Come on.”

  “Where are we—”

  But he did not wait for her to finish her question. He climbed through, ducking under the windowsill, then turned and offered his hand once again.

  She could leave. Return to her room with her heart still intact. At least, mostly intact.

  But she needed to know why he’d brought her here. She needed to know what here was.

  She took his hand and stepped up onto the bench, holding the blanket closed with her free hand. He helped her over the windowsill and onto the small ledge below the window, which extended at a slight angle a few feet before dropping off. The snow drifted around them, though they were sheltered by the angle of the walls.

  Roland helped her sit and then took his place beside her, one elbow propped on his upright knee.

  “I used to sneak out here as a boy,” he said, “to hide from my nursemaid, or whenever I felt particularly daring. I thought it might provide us an excellent view of the snow, since you did not go out with us earlier.”

  He spoke with no hint of judgment, but Cassie straightened. “I could see it very well from my window.”

  “That is hardly the same thing as experiencing it.”

  “No, this is much colder.”

  He laughed with a shake of his head. “You cannot hate snow so much,” he said, gesturing to the snowflakes, which swirled about in a complicated dance only nature knew.

  “I do not hate it.” She brought her knees to her chest and wrapped her blanket around them. “But it is wet and inconvenient, and generally I prefer to be inside near a fire.”

  “And now?” he asked. “Would you rather be inside now?”

  He was looking at her—she could see it from the corner of her eye. But she did not dare look back at him, knowing the strength of his gaze. “No,” she said, focusing on the snow gathering on the roof just beyond her slippers. “No, I am quite content where I am.”

  They sat in silence for a long minute, the snow falling around them in a silent chorus. She could hardly feel the cold anymore, what with Roland’s arm brushing hers.

  “Will you tell me why you’ve been avoiding me?” he finally asked. “I’ve dared to guess that it involves my mother.”

  Cassie bit her lip. She hadn’t thought she would see him again before tomorrow, and then only as Cassandra, not Vivian. She hadn’t begun to formulate a response to such a question.

  “I admit your mother is part of it,” she said. “But it is far more complicated than that.”

  “Complicated how?”

  She shook her head. How could she tell him the truth, that she was not the girl he thought her to be? That she had been lying to him almost their entire acquaintance?

  “I am sorry, I should not press you,” he said. “I only wanted the chance to . . .”

  He paused, and then she did look at him. He stared steadfastly out into the snow, as if searching for the right words to appear.

  “To what?” she whispered.

  His eyes met hers, and Cassie had to gulp a breath. How could his eyes hold both such intensity and warmth?

  “To tell you what I think,” he said simply. “And what I think is that you should not care one whit what my mother says or believes. Because the reasons she has decided to dislike you are the very reasons I do like you.”

  Cassie did not move. Indeed, she couldn’t move, not with his words still lingering in the air around her.

  Roland turned so he faced her directly, stray snowflakes clinging to his dark locks. He slipped her hand from where she clutched her knees and held it in his, his thumb brushing over her knuckles.

  “You are all a woman ought to be,” he said. “Compassionate. Sincere. Determined.” He offered a smile. “You surprise me at every turn, and not just with archery ranges in the ballroom.”

  She gave a choked laugh, and he tightened both his hands around hers, warming them as if she held a fresh cup of tea.

  “You mustn’t allow my mother’s voice into your head,” he said in a near whisper. “She has no place there, nor between us.”

  “But you cannot pretend she has no influence in your life,” Cassie said with a catch in her voice. “I would not want t
o come between you in any way.”

  Roland fixed her with a stern look. “I have yet to allow my mother to dictate my life, and I do not plan to start now. My choices are my own.”

  “I did not mean to say they were not,” she said. “Only that . . . well, problems follow me wherever I go. I have not made your life any easier since I arrived.” It was the closest she could come to the truth. She had complicated his life, toyed with his emotions and desires. And he had no idea.

  “No,” he admitted, “my life has not been easier. But that has everything to do with an unwanted house party and nothing to do with you. Because you . . . you have made it all worthwhile.” He raised her hand and pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles. A shiver swept across her. “You have made me remember what is possible, in life and love.”

  Love. Oh, he should not have said that word.

  “Roland,” she whispered. “I cannot . . . you mustn’t . . .”

  He silenced her protests with another kiss, this time on the soft skin inside her wrist. Her blood pulsed hot in her veins.

  “Roland,” she tried again, weakly.

  Then she could speak no more, because he was kissing her. He pulled her close, wrapped one arm around her waist, the other behind her neck. But his lips—oh, his lips. Why had no one ever told her how absurdly wonderful kissing was? Cassie’s arms wound about his neck, the blanket falling from her shoulders. She kissed him back, not stopping to think, to doubt. She only knew she wanted this, more than she’d ever wanted anything—she wanted his kiss, his gentle words, his love.

  His hands moved to caress her cheeks, leaving a trail of fire behind. She leaned into him, needing to be closer, and he responded with a new intensity in his kiss, an urgency that stole the breath from her lungs. But she did not pull away, not until he drew his mouth from hers, breathing deeply as he kissed her nose, her cheeks, her closed eyes.

  “Vivian,” he murmured.

  Cassie’s eyes shot open, and she jerked back, staring at him. Vivian.

  He stared back, his brow furrowed. “What . . . what is wrong?”

  Everything was wrong. Everything.

  “I have to go.” She scrambled to her feet, holding tight to the windowsill so she did not slip on the slanting roof.

  “Let me help you,” Roland protested.

  But she clambered back through the open window without his help, barely finding her feet before stumbling toward the door.

  “Vivian, what did I do?” He caught her, taking her arm before she could disappear into the dark corridor. “I’m sorry, I should not have kissed you like that. I thought you felt the same.”

  “I do,” she said, the words tearing painfully from her throat. “I do. But you must let me go. Please. If you care for me at all.”

  He hesitated, still holding her arm. But she pulled away, and he let her go. She did not look back as she darted out of the nursery.

  Chapter Twelve

  Why on earth had she gone with Roland tonight? She had known it would only lead to more heartbreak, and yet she had followed after him without question. She had hurt him, and herself, in the process.

  What was she to tell Vivian? How could Cassie face her, knowing she’d kissed the man her sister hoped to marry? Surely she had broken every rule of sisterhood. She was only meant to distract Roland, not fall in love with him.

  Her eyes burned with tears, but she swiped at them angrily, refusing to let them fall.

  “Miss Bell.”

  Cassie came to a sudden halt. Mrs. Hastings stood in the corridor ahead, still dressed in her evening finery.

  “Mrs.—Mrs. Hastings,” Cassie stammered. “Is dinner over already?”

  “Quite,” she said. “Hardly reason to prolong such an event when my son did not even bother to show for it.”

  Cassie said nothing, only tried to control her breathing. But Mrs. Hastings moved closer, her narrowed eyes roving over Cassie’s face.

  “You were with him again, weren’t you?” she asked quietly.

  Cassie clenched her jaw. She did not owe this woman any answers.

  “I see.” Mrs. Hastings stopped an arm’s length away. “At least you are smart enough not to admit it.”

  Hostess or not, Cassie was finished with this conversation already. She was finished with this entire evening.

  “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Hastings,” she said stiffly. “I am tired, and I am going to bed. Good night.”

  She moved around the older woman, and she had nearly made her escape when Mrs. Hastings called after her. “Oh, Miss Cassandra?”

  “Yes?” Cassie said shortly, spinning back.

  A look of victory spread across Mrs. Hastings’s face, and Cassie realized her mistake.

  “I knew it,” Mrs. Hastings breathed. “I knew you were the wrong sister.”

  “No,” Cassie said weakly. Her mind would not work; her breath caught in her lungs. “No, you do not understand. My sister truly is ill, and she—”

  “I do not care that she is ill,” Mrs. Hastings said. “I only care that she is not you. I haven’t the faintest idea what drove you to take her name in the first place, but Roland never need know.”

  Cassie shook her head. The woman was making no sense.

  “My son thinks he is in love with you.” Mrs. Hastings approached slowly, her eyes fixed on Cassie. “But of course, that is only an illusion. We both know you are not right for him, for this life. You could never be what he needs. Could you mingle with the highest of society? Stand beside him at balls and dinner parties, ready to help him make his way in the world?”

  Cassie clutched a hand to her stomach, the roiling there so intense she thought she might be sick.

  “No,” Mrs. Hastings said. “No, you could not. You would embarrass him, and yourself.”

  “What do you want from me?” Cassie finally said.

  “Switch places again.” Her voice grew cold. “I would prefer he marry into another family altogether, but Roland has shown no liking for the other young ladies I invited. He is already in love with who he thinks is Vivian Bell, so that is who we will give him.”

  Switching back had always been Cassie’s plan, the goal from the start. But now that she knew her intentions lined up so neatly with Mrs. Hastings’s, she felt a forceful resistance to it.

  “And me?” Cassie asked, gritting her teeth. “Shall I simply fade to the background, pretend as though nothing happened?”

  The matron hesitated, then she set her jaw. “No. I would have you leave altogether. Your being here would only complicate things. We will say Cassandra’s condition was not improving and she wished to recover fully at home.”

  Cassie turned away, hugging her arms tight around her chest.

  “You know this is the right thing to do.” Mrs. Hastings almost sounded sympathetic. “I always intended your sister for Roland, not you. You were never more than a placeholder.”

  Why did she have to be right? Cassie knew it to be true. But a voice inside begged her to reconsider, to imagine the possibilities. She could tell Roland everything, admit to Vivian what had happened. She’d never intended to fall in love, after all. It had been an accident. Could Roland love someone who had deceived him so completely? Could Vivian ever forgive her?

  She took a shuddering breath. No. It was useless. She could never hurt her sister like that. And if Roland had begun to see her true self, and perhaps even care for her, Mrs. Hastings was right. Cassie could never be a proper wife to him. Not like Vivian could.

  She had to give Vivian and Roland the best chance at happiness she could. She loved them both, so how could they not love each other?

  Cassie turned back to Mrs. Hastings. “I will go,” she said softly. “In the morning. Roland will never know.” And Vivian would never know Cassie’s true feelings.

  Mrs. Hastings nodded. “I’ll have a carriage readied for you at first light.”

  Cassie nearly thanked her, an instinct from years of etiquette lessons. But she bit her tongue.

&nbs
p; Mrs. Hastings took a step and then paused. “I did not want to hurt you,” she said. “But it is for the best.”

  Cassie could not be there a moment longer. She spun on her heel and ran until she found the safety of her room, the quiet crackling of her fire.

  She did not bother to call for Jennings to help her pack. After lugging her trunk to the base of her bed, she began tossing in dresses and shawls haphazardly. Everything would be dreadfully wrinkled, but that hardly topped her list of concerns at the moment.

  After emptying her wardrobe, she moved to her desk. Upon seeing her package of cherry comfits, Cassie’s will nearly broke, remembering Roland’s gentle teasing. But she squared her shoulders and tossed the package into her trunk. She would throw them out when she arrived home.

  When there was nothing left in her room save for a traveling dress for tomorrow, Cassie stood with her hands on her waist, breathing hard, fighting the tightness in her lungs. But she couldn’t fall apart now, not when one task still remained—the most difficult of all. She sat at the writing desk and pulled out a piece of paper.

  So much had happened since she’d come to Hartfield, and soon this house party would be nothing more than a memory, bittersweet and inescapable.

  * * *

  “Leaving?” Vivian had been inspecting herself in the vanity mirror, but now she spun to face Cassie. “What do you mean, you are leaving?”

  Cassie sat on the bed, one hand steadying herself on the bedpost. She had to be convincing. “I am tired, Viv. Of the pretense. And you know I have never enjoyed parties. Now that you are better, there is no reason for me to stay. I can go home for Christmas.”

  Vivian shook her head. “But I need your help. What if Mr. Hastings mentions something you haven’t told me? What if—”

  “Everything you need to know is in here.” Cassie pulled the letter from her reticule. “Read it, please.”

  Vivian took the letter, but her eyes did not leave Cassie’s. “What happened?” she asked quietly. “Something has changed since last night.”

  Cassie sighed. “I have simply had enough of this house party and want nothing more than the quiet seclusion to which we both know I am better suited.”