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When Cassie woke the next morning, it was with a smile. She padded to the window and parted the curtains, looking out at the gray skies and light mist of rain.
And yet still Cassie smiled.
She should be exhausted. She couldn’t say how late she and Roland had stayed in that alcove the evening before—had the clock struck one o’clock, or perhaps two? The other guests had eventually made their way upstairs and gone to bed. But not the two of them, not tucked away in their peaceful seclusion. They’d talked and laughed—quietly—long into the night.
They’d talked of everything. Cassie had shared amusing stories from growing up a twin, and Roland told her more of his Christmas memories with his father. Their topics ranged from literature to opera, with time allotted for the latest scandal about the prince regent and the tendency of Roland’s butler to cough precisely three times upon entering a room.
They’d talked so much that Cassie had forgotten to be on her guard.
Her smile faded, and she let the curtain fall back into place. She thought over all she’d said last night—or at least she tried to. They’d spent hours together, but it had felt more like minutes. Had she said anything to give away her true identity? Likely small things here and there. But he wouldn’t really remember all that anyway. Would he?
A knock came at the door, and Cassie went to answer it, throwing her dressing gown around her shoulders.
“Vivian,” she scolded upon seeing her sister leaning heavily on the doorframe. “What are you doing out of bed?”
“You didn’t come to see me last night,” she said in a weak voice. “I was worried.”
“I was tired, is all.” Cassie ushered her inside. “Come sit down before Dr. Dutton sentences you to longer in bed.”
Vivian lowered herself to an armchair. “How was dinner last night?”
“Well, I was forced to sing, so I’ll let you imagine the rest.”
Vivian’s eyes widened. “You sang?”
“No, I croaked, but luckily my song came to a sudden end.”
She shook her head. “Heavens, Cassie, sometimes I cannot decide if this deception is worth all this trouble.”
“You and me both,” Cassie said. “Though I’ve thought so from the beginning.”
“It’s no use changing course now,” Vivian said with a frown. “I shall have a mountain of things to fix when we switch back, but that should be soon enough. I feel much better today.”
“You can barely stand,” Cassie pointed out. “The doctor said at least two more days.”
“Soon enough,” Vivian repeated, rubbing her forehead. “And what of Mr. Hastings? Did you talk with him last night?”
Cassie coughed. “Yes, of course. That is my job, after all. Distracting him.”
“And what did you talk of?”
Everything and nothing. The grandest ideas and the silliest details.
But she could not tell Vivian all that. And she especially could not tell her about the way Roland had looked at her last night.
“Operas came up, I believe,” she managed instead.
“That seems safe enough.” Vivian frowned. “Though I hope you did not give him the impression I liked them overmuch.”
“I would never,” Cassie said with a laugh. “I’ve entirely ruined your singing reputation, but your opinions of opera are intact, I assure you.”
“Good,” Vivian said. “Less work for me.” She stood carefully. “I am going to lie down, but please come see me later. I am dreadfully bored.”
Poor Vivian, shut away at a house party with nothing to do but rest and read the books Jennings had brought her from the scarce library. “Of course,” Cassie said. “You know I will.”
Vivian left, and Cassie dressed quickly, pinning her hair up carefully. Far more carefully than she had in the past.
Another knock at her door. Vivian again? “Come in,” she called, tugging at a curl in the mirror.
A maid appeared, carrying a tray. “Pardon me, Miss Bell, but I was sent with a tray for you.”
“For me?” Cassie turned on her chair. “You do not mean my sister, Miss Cassandra, who is ill?” Surely this tray was meant for Vivian.
“No, miss, for you.” The maid set the tray on the little table before the fireplace. “Mr. Hastings himself asked it to be sent.”
Cassie went to the table. The tray was near to bursting with a variety of pastries and a steaming cup of chocolate. Her mouth dropped.
“Thank you,” she said to the maid, who curtsied and departed. Cassie sat at the table and took a sip of the chocolate, the sharp bitterness and warmth mixing delightfully together.
He’d remembered.
Such a small thing shouldn’t bring her so much pleasure, but it did. Cassie often felt forgotten behind her sister, which she truly did not mind. She loved Vivian and hardly blamed her for it.
But to be seen like Roland saw her . . .
She straightened. No. He did not see her as Cassie. He saw her as Miss Vivian Bell, save with a few quirks Cassie had unwittingly added. She could not allow herself to begin to think he cared for her. That would only lead to pain.
But she still had to continue on this path until Vivian recovered. She simply needed to sort her feelings better. Roland could be nothing more than a friend, her future brother-in-law.
She picked up a pastry covered in red jam and took a small bite. It was delicious, of course. And quite suddenly, despite her confusion and trepidation over the entire affair, she wanted to repay Roland’s kindness. He gave so much of himself, to his mother and his guests and now to her, that he deserved some happiness all his own.
But what? He’d mentioned archery the night before, but as she looked out the window, large drops of water began hitting the glass. They could hardly shoot outside in this weather. How else might she surprise him, as he had surprised her with breakfast?
An idea took root in Cassie’s mind, then began to grow and blossom. She grinned. Perfect.
* * *
Roland looked again at the note in his hand as he slipped down the back stairwell. Ballroom at one o’clock, it said, with no name or any clue as to its writer. He’d studied it a hundred times since finding it slipped under his door after his morning ride, and he’d also studied each of the young women when the party had gathered to play cards after breakfast. Miss Tindale had acted her usual proper and insightful self, Miss Marsden had hardly peeped out a word in his presence, and Miss Bell . . .
Well, he knew who he hoped had sent the note. Because he hadn’t been able to keep his eyes from Miss Bell all morning—the graceful curve of her neck, her fair curls bouncing as she laughed.
And from the many times he’d met her eyes, it seemed she wanted to look at him as well. The hours they’d spent together the night before in the secluded alcove had danced through his mind since they’d parted. He’d hardly slept for thinking of it, for thinking of her. He tried to force his hopefulness away; a few conversations did not a love match make. Even if they had been wonderful conversations. Even if he’d never spoken so freely with another person besides his father.
Roland drew in a deep breath as he approached the ballroom, stuffing the note inside his jacket pocket. Thankfully, the ballroom was quite out of the way, or he would not risk meeting whoever had sent the note. But still, he looked up and down the corridor to ensure he was alone before stepping inside. Dim light seeped through the windows, the sun hidden behind the clouds and falling rain. He closed the door behind him. Was he here first?
“You are late,” said a teasing voice.
He turned to see Miss Bell crossing the room, dressed in a simple blue day dress. Even with the muted light around them, her eyes shone with a brightness that made his heart lighter.
Roland grinned. “I think being late is well within my rights, when I hadn’t the faintest idea who extended such a mysterious invitation.”
“Ah, but the mystery made it more exciting, did it not?” She stopped a few paces from him, her lips curving upwards.
“True enough.” He crossed his arms. “Though perhaps your reason for inviting me was intrigue enough.”
Her expression turned earnest. “Not so very intriguing, no. I only wanted to thank you for your thoughtfulness in sending me breakfast. It was thoughtful of you, and I was surprised you remembered, considering.”
“Considering we spoke for nearly five hours last night?” He spoke quietly, as if they stood amidst a packed ballroom and not the empty one now surrounding them. “I find it hard to forget anything you say, Miss Bell.”
She looked down, looping one arm behind her back to grasp her other elbow. “I . . . I enjoyed our conversation,” she said.
“As did I.” Roland could have said a great deal more, but there was no need to rush anything. If there was something between the two of them, they had time enough to discover the truth of it. The house party was only half over.
Miss Bell cleared her throat. “Anyway, I did not entice you here simply to thank you. I also wished to offer a surprise of my own.”
“And what is that?”
“I wanted to give you the activity you wished for last night, but since it is raining . . .” She waved a hand to the far end of the ballroom.
Roland turned. Across the room, below one of the chandeliers, stood an archery target—one he recognized immediately, even if he hadn’t seen it in over a year. He stared.
“I managed to bribe a footman to set it all up,” Miss Bell said quickly. “The room isn’t very long, so I doubt the distance will be much of a challenge for you. And the footman wasn’t entirely certain which equipment was yours, so he brought the lot of it.”
Roland let out a soft laugh. “You’ve set up an archery range? Here in the ballroom.”
Miss Bell swallowed. “I’m sorry, that was terribly forward of me, wasn’t it? I should have asked permission instead of—”
He stepped forward and took her hand, lifting it between them. She stopped, her eyes focused on their hands.
“No, you should not have asked permission,” he said. “That would have defeated the purpose of a surprise, would it not?”
She raised her gaze to meet his. “I . . . yes, quite right.”
With her small, warm hand in his and her vivid-blue eyes staring up at him, Roland’s pulse leaped within him. He wanted to tell her this was the kindest thing anyone had ever done for him. But something in her wide eyes held him back.
“Good,” he managed instead, reluctantly releasing her hand and stepping back. “Now, you ought to prepare yourself to be dazzled. I cannot be held responsible for any swooning once you witness my skill in archery firsthand.”
Miss Bell laughed, a bit breathlessly. “I shall try to restrain myself.”
They moved to the opposite wall from the target, where a long table had been laid with bows and arrows. Roland shot Miss Bell a sidelong glance as they walked. She absently rubbed the palm of her hand—the hand Roland had been holding not moments before. He allowed himself a small grin.
“I hope you have everything you need,” she said as they reached the table. “I cannot say I am a great expert in the essentials of archery.”
“So your skills are limited to critiquing art and taming cats.” He moved to the bows, finding his favorite and gripping the handle. “I shall need to remember that.”
“Why is that?”
He raised his eyebrow mischievously. “To remind myself you are not perfect.”
She let out a sound crossed between a snort and a guffaw. “I think I provide you with reminders enough.”
She had no idea how much her “reminders” charmed him. What she saw as embarrassing mistakes, he viewed as endearing eccentricities.
He set his bow down and picked up his stout leather brace before slipping it over his left arm and buckling it.
“I am sorry I do not have a brace or glove for you,” he said as he next slipped on his shooting glove, a three-fingered contraption that buttoned at the wrist.
Miss Bell watched his motions with interest. “Oh, no matter. I had not intended to join you, only observe.”
“We will see about that.” Roland flexed his gloved hand. It had been so long. Would he even be able to properly string his bow?
“You do not want me to handle any sort of weapon, I assure you,” she responded. “Someone would likely lose a finger.”
He laughed. “I would be much more likely to lose a finger persuading a stubborn cat from beneath a trough.”
“We each have our strengths, then.” She nodded at his bow. “Come, Robin Hood, let me see this ability you’ve so boasted.”
Roland took up his bow again, feeling the weight of the smooth, cool wood, nearly as tall as Miss Bell. He grasped the free end of the string and placed the bow in position, his right hand on the center of the handle, the bottom of the bow placed on the ground against his foot. In one swift movement born from years of practice, he pulled at the handle—the bow bending as it braced against his foot—and quickly slipped the eye of the string over the nock.
“That looked difficult,” Miss Bell observed, stepping closer to examine his handiwork.
He laughed. “As I was trying to make it look effortless, I must count it a failure.”
She grinned. “I was only attempting to save my true amazement for the actual shooting.”
“Then ready yourself, madam,” he said, taking an arrow from the table and stepping away. “For you shall not be disappointed.”
Roland tested the strength of the string, and, finding it sound, nocked the arrow to the string and raised the bow. Drawing the arrow back to his ear, he squinted one eye. He held his position another few seconds, making small adjustments in his form and aim, then released the arrow.
It flew across the ballroom and hit the target with a dull thunk on the outer white circle. He’d barely managed to hit the target.
“Well,” came Miss Bell’s amused voice from behind him as he lowered his bow. “If I cannot trust your word that you are an accomplished marksman, what can I trust?”
“The first shot hardly counts. You must allow me some practice.”
She leaned back against the edge of the table. “And how much practice do you require? One year? Two?”
“Your teasing will get you in trouble sooner or later.” He walked back toward the table.
“So long as it is later, I do not mind overmuch,” she said with a playful tilt to her head.
He’d planned to take another arrow from the closer end of the table, but at her words, he could not resist a change in direction. He moved straight at her, slowly. Her eyes widened as he stopped before her. She did not move from her position, though she straightened.
“And if trouble finds you sooner?” he said in a low voice, placing one hand on the table beside her.
She barely breathed, her eyes fixed on his. “I daresay I can manage a little trouble.”
Roland dipped his head closer to hers, their faces inches apart. Her mouth parted, and he forgot that he was teasing her back, that he did not actually mean to kiss her. He forgot all the cautions he had given himself and the reminders that he needn’t rush anything. Because in that moment he wanted nothing more than to close the distance between them and claim those soft pink lips as his.