Cupid's Mistake (Cupid Regency Romance) Read online

  "How deligh—Ah! And you found it disgusting and shameful, did you?"

  "Oh, no, no! It was the most won—It was most pleasant, Mama! What I mean is—" Cassandra could hear her own voice quaver, and she detested herself for it. "Am I sunk in depravity for liking it so? I know I should not have allowed it"

  "Oh, heavens, girl!" Lady Hathaway laughed. "Certainly it was not proper of you—or him—to have done it. But you were not seen, were you?"

  "I am sure we were not."

  "Good. Your reputation would have been in tatters if you were! Although it would not have been a terrible thing if you had been seen, for he would have offered for you and—"

  "No! Mama, I could not marry him if that were so!" Cassandra paced agitatedly in front of the fireplace, then stopped, clasping her hands tightly together.

  "Why, I thought you were not. . . averse to his company, Cassandra!"

  "Averse—! No, never! I—I—"

  "Are you fond of him, then?"

  "Fond! No. That is, yes, but—I have not thought—Oh, Mama, I do not know!" cried Cassandra, sinking down upon the footstool again next to her mother. "I have known him but two months! How can I know, truly?"

  Lady Hathaway smiled and patted her on the shoulder. "Well, well, you are right. It is only past the middle of the Season, and there is plenty of time to come to know each other better."

  "Yes, of course, Mama," Cassandra said, still feeling confused. Mama had told her long ago about not submitting to a gentleman's attempts at an embrace, but now she seemed positively merry about the prospect. Lady Hathaway had maintained a delighted smile throughout their conversation. She could not understand it. Perhaps . . . perhaps kisses were not so reprehensible as she had believed?

  "You are looking concerned," her mother said. Cassandra looked up at her with a grateful smile at her quick perception. "Is it that you are worried about kissing?"

  Cassandra nodded.

  "Well, it was only one kiss, after all! It is not as if it never happens. I will even confess your father and I shared a few before we were married. Not that my mother would have approved, mind you!" Lady Hathaway smiled reminiscently and looked almost young.

  Cassandra stared at Lady Hathaway. She tried envisioning her mother's plump form and father's lean one in the same embrace as she and the marquess had shared and failed miserably. But it must have been so, if her mother said it. Well, it was obvious she had refined too much on the matter, and she felt relieved.

  "Oh, Mama! I am so glad you came to talk to me about it. I have felt so confused!"

  "Of course, my dear. Am I not your mother? You are a good girl, and I know you try your best to behave with propriety." With one more affectionate pat on Cassandra's shoulder, Lady Hathaway rose from her chair and left the room.

  Married. Cassandra had not thought of it—or at least, not dared think of it in connection with Lord Blytheland. Of course, she knew the purpose of having a Season in London was to find an amiable husband, and she knew her parents were kind enough to let her follow her own heart. But never, never would she allow the marquess to propose to her under such circumstances in which he would feel forced to do so! If he ever did propose, that is. Certainly she could not expect that he would. He could look far, far higher than herself for a wife.

  Or . . . could she? Could he possibly want to marry her? Cassandra shook her head fiercely. No. If so, he would not have so kindly brought her to fashion, would he? For then he would have rivals for her favor. She dismissed the thought that his kiss would have meant anything. After all, kisses did not mean to gentlemen what they did to ladies. Why, she need only think of her brother Kenneth to know that! She had caught him kissing a parlor maid once, and then a week later she found him with a chambermaid. Of course her brother could not seriously intend to many a servant, and certainly Lord Blytheland did not think she, Cassandra, was a servant, but it just showed how little men treasured kisses or embraces.

  Well, then! She would just keep that in mind and make sure they were never caught in any sort of embrace—not that they would kiss again, of course! With that firm resolve, she readied herself for the duet she would have with the marquess.

  * * * *

  Lady Hathaway leaned against the chamber door she had just closed, and shut her eyes. "Thank you, God," she murmured under her breath. Lord Blytheland had kissed Cassandra! He would not have done it if he had not been enamored of her. Never, never had she heard that the marquess trifled with the affections of a young unmarried lady. And, miracle of miracles, Cassandra was not so much of a bluestocking that she found his embrace objectionable. Further, Lady Hathaway was certain her husband would not object—for whatever eccentric reason—to the match.

  Ah, what a success it would be! And Lady Chartley thought she had done well marrying her girl to an earl's son. Well, perhaps she had, at that, for the chit was but a sallow little thing! Cassandra, now! She would not only be a marchioness, but eventually a duchess! Lady Hathaway's heart felt full to bursting with joy, and her step was light as she walked down the stairs to the parlor.

  * * * *

  "So . . . I understand you might be looking for a marchioness, Blythe, old man?" Lord Eldon leaned against the marquess's wardrobe and negligently twirled his quizzing glass on its ribbon. He watched as his friend carefully wound his neckcloth around his neck while the valet hovered anxiously next to him.

  "Who told you that?" Blytheland pulled one end of the cloth through a loop he had made with the other end.

  "You haven't been to White's lately, I see. It's in all the town's betting books."

  "What are the odds?"

  "Ten to one you'll be in the parson's mousetrap before the end of the Season."

  "Good odds for you—if you are betting against."

  "Should I be?"

  Blytheland, holding a twist of neckcloth firmly to his neck, turned to look at his friend. "Why not?"

  "Well, I might lose, Blythe-my-old." Eldon grinned at him. "Seems to me you've been seen much more than once at Hathaway's house."

  "Miss Hathaway is a superb pianist It is rare that I can play against a performer who is more than competent."

  "Oh, and let's see—you danced with her twice at the Amberleys' ball, you escorted her to supper at the Bramhursts' rout, and I think I saw you at the theater with her last week," Lord Eldon continued, ticking off each item on his fingers. "And then of course there was that stunning beginning where you disappeared with her on the Marchmonts' terrace—" He held up his hand at the marquess's icy look. "Oh, never fear! It wasn't long enough for scandal, just enough to raise eyebrows."

  "I never listen to gossips, frankly."

  "Neither do I. But admit it, my old, you've been flitting around that Hathaway chit like a moth to a flame."

  "I am not likely to be burnt, believe me!"

  Eldon contemplated his friend. The marquess was still concentrating on tying his neckcloth, his movements were still smooth and careful, but there was a tenseness in his answers. He wondered how far he should push Blytheland. He was not exaggerating when he intimated that talk was rife about his friend's seeming infatuation with the lovely bluestocking. Better have it out, he decided. He almost grimaced at the thought. They'd almost had it out when Blytheland was first courting Chloe—his friend had a temper, certainly. But dash it all, for all that it was clear his friend wouldn't listen to him, he'd had to say something back then. . . as he had to now. Miss Hathaway was nothing like Chloe, and Blythe was a marriage-minded sort, even though he tried to deny it. La Hathaway would be perfect for him, if Blytheland would only see it And if he didn't he would certainly hate to see the poor girl hurt, for she was clearly caught. Eldon grinned to himself. Well, he never thought he had the romantic in him, but he always did have an eye for a matched pair.

  However, Blytheland was too inclined to keep things to himself, and next thing you knew he'd blister you up one side and down the other for saying something perfectly innocent. He could have a nasty temper,
Blytheland could, if he didn't air it once in a while. He'd have to watch his step. Eldon sighed.

  "Well, I didn't think you were one to change your ways. Why should you? Once burnt, twice shy, after all."

  Blytheland gave him a cold, sharp glance—definitely threatening. Eldon mentally retreated and decided to take another tack.

  "And Lord knows you could have your pick of the demi-mondaine. I hear even Harriette Wilson has cast her eyes your way."

  The marquess gave him a pained look. "Really, El, I thought you did not listen to gossip. Harriette Wilson. Good God. I hope I have better taste than that."

  Lord Eldon nodded. "That's what I thought. Anyway, it's just as well you don't have an interest in La Hathaway. Rather thought I'd have a touch at her myself."

  "What!" Blytheland's hand jerked, and he slewed his head around to stare at his friend. "You?"

  "Milor'! Your cravat!" cried the valet, his hands clutching his hair in artistic agony.

  "Damnation! Fichet, get me another, vite!" The marquess stripped off what used to be an impeccably starched length of cloth and threw it on the floor. He barely seemed to notice his servant's heartfelt groan at this desecration, or the man's muttered imprecations on the vagaries of the English.

  Lord Eldon peered at the ruined neckcloth through his quizzing glass. "My, my. I haven't seen you do that since the time you heard Lady Montmorency was increasing— how long ago was that? Before you married Chloe, I think. Luckily it turned out to be Montmorency's brat, all right and tight. Platter-faced little thing—looks just like its father, no mistake. Never did poach on another man's territory after that, did you, Blythe?'

  Blytheland threw him a fulminating glare. "Never mind about Montmorency! What the devil does he—I can't believe it. You, El? Setting up your nursery? You are younger than I am—five-and-twenty—if that!"

  "Didn't stop my brother."

  "That is different. You have never been one for chasing petticoats."

  Lord Eldon grinned. "Not as much as you, at any rate. Thing is, I'm the eldest. Must do my duty and all that. You might think about it yourself, one of these days." He gave his quizzing glass one more twirl, then neatly pocketed it.

  "But why Miss Hathaway?"

  "Why not? Lovely girl, good figure, dresses well, good manners. Should do me proud. I don't care much for music, but just as long as it isn't some damned caterwauling I'll listen. By the way, I must thank you for bringing her to my notice. Truly enchanting." He kissed his fingers to the air in salute.

  "But damn it, she's a bluestocking!"

  "Bothers you, does it?" My, but old Blythe was getting red under his collar, Eldon thought gleefully.

  "Yes! No! That's not the point. I've never seen you exchanging quotes from Sophocles with anyone! And I'll wager you've never done so with Cass—Miss Hathaway. That would be doing it a bit too brown, my friend."

  "True." Cassandra, was it? Well, well. Lord Eldon was hard put not to smile. "But the world of conversation is large. There are other things of which to speak—her charities, for instance."

  "Charities?"

  "Terrible situation, my old. There are starving folk all around us. She quite convinced me to contribute to the aid of these poor creatures."

  "You?"

  "Blytheland, you pain me. Of course, me. I may be a Pink of the ton, but I am not without heart. And never tell me she hasn't spoken of her charities to you."

  The marquess looked uncomfortable.

  "Ah, I see she has. Laid out any blunt for it?"

  "Yes, and I promised to ask my father to speak at the House on it."

  Lord Eldon laughed. "Persuasive creature, isn't she? But there you are. We shall rub along quite well together, don't you think? She with her causes, I with the money to fund them."

  "You are getting as vulgar as she is," Blytheland retorted.

  "I? Vulgar? should call you out, my old, if I didn't know how good you are with the pistols." Eldon moved himself from the wardrobe and sank into a large chair next to the fireplace. "But tell me. How is Miss Hathaway vulgar?"

  "I should not have said vulgar," the marquess amended. "She is, certainly, indiscreet."

  "Better and better," Eldon leered.

  "I did not mean to imply she was a light skirt, damn you, El! She's more pure than—than that damnably ill-tied thing you have around your neck! I should call you out, if I knew you had the smallest ability to drag yourself out of bed before eleven."

  His friend looked complacently at his own snowy white neckcloth reflected in the mirror and smiled. "Pure as an angel, I should think. Well, now. Indiscreet?"

  "She can't control her tongue. She says whatever comes to her mind. Lord, the number of times I have seen her give a set-down to some stiff-rumped hypocrite! And sometimes she is not even aware she is doing it!"

  "I should be amused, I think."

  "Amused!" The marquess grimaced into the mirror. "Well, it is amusing," he admitted. "It is also why I brought her into fashion. I thought it would be entertaining if I did so. That's all there is to it, and so you may tell your betting cronies." Fichet entered with another, freshly pressed, neckcloth. He warily handed it to his master.

  "Hmm . . . And not because you are enamored of her?"

  "I have known far more beautiful women than Miss Hathaway."

  Lord Eldon noticed that his friend did not actually answer his question. He smiled to himself, then rose from the chair. "It's just as well, old Blythe. I just didn't want to step on your toes, you know." He put on his hat at a precise angle and took up his cane. "Think La Hathaway might come to see herself as a baroness? Perhaps I should go see her soon."

  "I'd prefer you go to the devil, Eldon," said the marquess through clenched teeth.

  "Better than being blue-deviled, my old!" His friend laughed, and left the room.

  Blytheland cursed and ruined another neckcloth.

  * * * *

  But Eldon's words came back to the marquess, niggling at him, for they were not content to settle in the far corner of Blytheland's mind, where he had consigned them. He glanced at Miss Hathaway, who was at the pianoforte flexing her fingers in readiness for the recital. Thoughts of Cassandra and marriage, of the natural consequences of marriage—the marriage bed, for instance—leapt upon him like a cat upon a mouse and played with his emotions unmercifully and with a killing instinct. They pounced on him when he happened to be near her and looked at the lips he had kissed, and when she played the pianoforte, he thought of how her fingers caressed the keys into soft sound and how they might caress his—

  Blytheland took a deep breath and set his violin upon his chest and tried not to look at Cassandra as she began to play the sonata. There were plenty of things to focus upon in Lord and Lady Langdon's house, for it was well lighted and decorated with finely executed paintings, so he need not look at Miss Hathaway at all during the performance. He needed to pay strict attention to the music, for they were before Lady Langdon and her guests, and all eyes were upon them.

  It was a piece of music both of them knew well and had practiced before either of them had met, and so it needed only two practice sessions to see if they could play together. There had been an initial awkwardness at first, but they had gone through it well enough, and quickly. He was not sure he could have gone through a third session; he'd been distracted enough during the first, almost as much as he had been distracted when Cassandra first played her pianoforte for him.

  He'd look at her only once to signal the beginning of each movement and not look at her while they played. He would concentrate on the music, and that was all.

  Silence descended on the guests, he took a deep breath, and nodded to Miss Hathaway. He watched her fingers touch the keys, then he closed his eyes and drew his bow across his violin.

  It was a mistake. He should have known not to have selected this Beethoven sonata. If the presto beat made him take in a breath, the first notes in the minor key took it away from him. He had intended to select a diffi
cult piece so that there would be a higher chance of Cassandra stumbling in her performance. He would be able to focus on his own performance then. But she did not stumble now, not as she had done when they had practiced before. She had obviously practiced more, afterward.

  And now, now he was lost, for she played it perfectly. The music from the pianoforte twined around his own and pressed itself against him until Blytheland almost gasped and drew his bow across his violin with greater force in defense. But it was as if she would have none of it: her music wrestled with him. Passion gave way to crying sweetness, so tangible and sharp it sat on his tongue and he nearly groaned when he drew in his breath, for it was the taste of lovemaking.

  Blytheland opened his eyes and stared at Cassandra. It did not help. Her whole concentration was on the music, and she did not look at him. It did not matter—no, it was worse, for she looked like a woman sunk in pleasure: her cheeks flushed, her eyes heavy-lidded, her breath coming quickly from between her lips. He could imagine it, making love to her, almost feel it.

  The music, the music! Think of the music! he told himself, but that did not help either, for the music pulled at him and caressed him like a lover's hand—Cassandra's hands. He looked down at the keyboard, how her slender, delicate fingers stroked the keys and lured the notes from the instrument, so that he wanted to weep with the sweetness of it. But he could not. His violin wept instead and wailed the anguish within him.

  The sound caught at Cassandra, and she lifted her eyes and stared at him. The room did not exist—the guests, the house. There were only the notes that pierced her heart, only the way Lord Blytheland looked at her, just as he had when he kissed her at the Marchmonts' ball. Her breath halted in her throat, and she remembered how his lips had moved across hers, how his fingers had traced a scintillating path down her throat, just as his fingers now moved upon the violin and drew out sweet music.

  She pulled her gaze away from him, concentrating on the sonata, but she knew he was still staring at her—she could feel it. Cassandra looked at him again; he did not smile, but there was a fiery warmth in his eyes, and his gaze shifted downward to her mouth. She could feel her lips heat as if he had kissed them. She almost missed a note and brought her attention back to the pianoforte. But the music conspired against her, for she could not help looking at Lord Blytheland again when his music moved with hers, and she felt drawn to something she was afraid could not be real.