Cupid's Mistake (Cupid Regency Romance) Read online

  "I should hope that is all he does with them! Mama and Papa would be quite angry if he fell in love and ran off with one of them!"

  Harry smiled in a superior manner. "You are such an innocent, Psyche. But never fear. I will make sure he will do nothing scandalous."

  She looked at him suspiciously, and then sighed. "Well, at least Papa likes to hear of you."

  "He likes to hear stories of me, you mean."

  "Do you think, then, that he does not believe me, either?" Psyche felt a little bereft at that. It was a lonesome sort of thing to have a dear friend and not be able to introduce him to anyone else.

  "Oh, he would like to, but he believes you have a fine imagination and would make a good writer of improving tales for children someday." Harry grinned mischievously. Psyche looked reprovingly at him. He had been eavesdropping again, she was certain, and she never did feel quite right about it—although she had to admit it did have its uses.

  "Well, I cannot see why he should think that," Psyche replied, wrinkling her nose. "I detest improving tales." She sighed. "But Papa does like to believe the best of us, and so perhaps he has forgotten that I do not like such stories." Psyche gazed at Harry questioningly, hoping that he might enlighten her as to her father's state of mind.

  Harry shrugged his shoulders and looked bored. He opened the window that Cassandra had just closed and looked out at the street. A small breeze lifted one lock of his golden hair and a ray of sun suddenly broke through the clouds to shine upon his face. He glanced at her and smiled.

  Psyche smiled back. She was glad he had decided to come with her to London, for otherwise she'd be bored to tears. Sometimes she would accompany Mama and Cassandra on a shopping expedition or drive to one of the parks. But aside from these activities and her discovery of many delightful Minerva Press novels, as well as attending to Cassandra giving her lessons in geography and the Italian language, there was little for Psyche to do. So she was thankful that Harry was here. There is nothing like a change in one's circumstances, she thought, to make one appreciate one's friends. And Harry was her very best friend, for she had known him ever since she was a very little girl.

  She'd been about seven years old at the time—really not much more than a baby. She'd been with her older brother Kenneth near the lake at their country home. Awaking from a doze in the sun, she had found that Kenneth had either hidden himself or had left her alone, and it was growing quite dark. Crying because she could not find her way back home, she stumbled into the woods that circled part of the lake and grew more frightened.

  And then there he was. Psyche had thought he was one of those angels her nurse had told her about, for he had white wings and wore white clothing. But he had laughed at her and shook his head when she asked him this, and he told her his name. Well, it was hard to get her tongue around it then, so she had called him Harry instead, and never bothered to change it.

  He grew up, as she did, although he seemed always to be a few years older than she was—he looked to be twelve or thirteen years of age now, although he would never tell her how old he actually was. She had learned more about him, however, not so much from Harry, for he found such things tedious to relate—but from her father's books. He looked a little like the pictures in those books, although his nose didn't come down straight from his forehead like the people depicted in them had, but it looked like her own quite normal one.

  She wished the rest of her resembled Harry, for she was short rather than tall, and instead of blue eyes and blond hair, she had a mop of unruly red curls and large, undistinguished gray eyes. She'd learned that his dress—for it looked like a very short dress, indeed—was called a chiton. Psyche thought that perhaps she should have been embarrassed that his bare legs showed, or when he'd unpin one shoulder of his chiton when he shot his arrows, but he was Harry, and she'd known him for so long that it did not matter. But his arrows! Those were another thing altogether.

  In fact, Harry was pulling one from his ever-present quiver right now, his gaze intent on something in the street below. A wide, crooked grin was forming on his lips. Psyche knew that grin, and alarm flashed through her.

  "What are you doing? Get away from that window!"

  It was too late. He drew back his bow and loosed the arrow before she could rush to his side.

  "A hit!" he crowed. "Two with one shot!"

  "Oh, Harry!" Psyche cried.

  She leaned out the window to see whom he had struck. There! A tall young man held a fainting lady in his arms. The arrow had apparently hit the young man through the arm and scratched the lady as well. Psyche could see the arrow fading from sight as she watched.

  "Ma chère Stephanie!"

  "Oh, Phillipe, Phillipe!"

  They kissed passionately while onlookers made a wide berth around them. Some people cheered. Psyche blushed and covered her eyes.

  "Oh, Harry, how could you? In broad daylight and in the middle of the street as well!" She looked at him reproachfully through her fingers.

  "They don't seem to mind," Harry said carelessly. He twirled another arrow between his fingers in a negligent manner, a lazy smile on his face.

  Psyche peeked between her fingers at the entwined couple again, this time with more interest. She had rarely seen Harry shoot people or the immediate after-effects of one of his arrows; it had been very embarrassing to watch usually well-behaved people kiss and act in a very silly manner. She'd mostly only seen Harry's complacent reaction after he'd made a successful hit. She had become a little curious lately, however, for she had once caught her parents kissing—briefly—and she supposed it was something adults did from time to time. "Did it hurt them? Your arrows do look sharp, you know."

  "Mortals are too dense to feel much. They felt nothing— not the arrows, that is."

  "My, it did act quickly, didn't it?"

  "I've told you it does."

  "Well, you are wont to boast, Harry, you know you are!"

  "Not I! I am in general very truthful."

  She made a face at him, then leaned against the windowsill next to him to get a better look at the pair outside. "Do they breathe much when they do that, Harry?"

  "Very much. They usually gasp like fish."

  "Good heavens, Psyche! Stop acting like a hoyden and remove yourself from that window!"

  Psyche jerked upright immediately at her mother's voice and bumped her head on the casement handle. She rubbed her temple gingerly. "Yes, Mama," she said and stepped quickly away from the window. She could not help casting a glance at Harry, who was still watching the scene below.

  "What were you looking at?" Lady Hathaway said, going to where Psyche had stood. She leaned over and peered out the window, then straightened herself suddenly. "Scandalous! In broad daylight! I do believe it is—My word. Mademoiselle Lavoisin and the Comte de la Fer. I never would have thought it, although they do make a handsome couple. The last I heard, they were at daggers drawn with each other! One would think that well-born émigrés would comport themselves with more discretion! However, they are French." Lady Hathaway turned, a small smile of triumph on her lips. "And Hetty Chatwick is out of town today! Well, I shall have something to tell her for a change!"

  Lady Hathaway's gaze encountered her youngest daughter, and her smile abruptly disappeared. Her eyes became stern. "And what, may I ask, were you doing staring—yes, staring—at such shocking behavior?"

  "Well, Har—" began Psyche, but Harry shook his head at her. "That is, I heard a scream, and I thought someone was injured! So naturally, I looked to see if someone was indeed hurt, so I could call for help if it were needed."

  Her mother's eyes narrowed in a considering manner. Psyche held her breath.

  Lady Hathaway smiled then, though her eyes still held a bit of sternness. "I shall let it go this time, child, for I know you are a good girl at heart. But please! You must try to comport yourself with more decorum, and not stare or lean out of the window no matter what may be occurring in the streets! Although, I must say,"
Lady Hathaway mused, "that such shocking behavior would make anyone stare, to be sure! The Comte de la Fer, of all things! And I had thought him very ancient regime in his manners."

  "Oh, Mama, I am so sorry!" cried Psyche, feeling tears come to her eyes. She ran to her mother and put her arms around her. She felt terrible that she had lied, for she never liked to do so. She cast Harry a burning look, and he had the grace to look ashamed.

  "Now, now, my dear girl, there is nothing to cry about. You take these things too much to heart, Psyche." Lady Hathaway smiled and smoothed her daughter's hair back fondly. "My, your hair does go every which way, does it not? Do go up and get it brushed properly, love. The Marquess of Blytheland is calling on Cassandra! Can you believe it? I shall allow you to come for a short while, but you must only speak when spoken to! He has come to see Cassandra, and I do hope she minds her tongue for once."

  "I am very glad Cassandra has an admirer, Mama. She is a very good girl, isn't she? So she deserves someone who will love her as we do," Psyche said loyally.

  Lady Hathaway sighed. "I certainly hope so. Now do go, Psyche, and tidy yourself."

  Psyche went out of the parlor, with Harry trailing behind. She did not look at him.

  "Psyche."

  Silence.

  "Psyche, don't be angry with me."

  The girl turned and looked at her friend. "You made me lie to Mama."

  "You know it was for the best, Psyche! You would have received a terrible scold about making up stories, and you would have been sent up to your room."

  Harry's face looked solemn and sad. Psyche's heart melted. She could never stay angry with him for long. "Well, I suppose it wasn't so horrid. Let's go up, then."

  "May I come to see this marquess of Cassandra's?"

  Psyche looked warily at him.

  "It's only to see what sort of man he is—if he truly deserves to be Cassandra's suitor."

  "Oh . . . very well, then. But no tricks! And promise you will leave your arrows behind."

  "I? Tricks?"

  "Harry!"

  Harry sighed. "I promise."

  Chapter 3

  When Thrimble, the butler, announced the marquess, my lord saw no one in the parlor except a young, mop-haired girl. He felt slightly put out, even though he was only a little earlier than usual for the ton's afternoon calling hours. Then he remembered that Sir John was considered rather provincial in his habits and perhaps kept different hours. Annoying, that, but understandable.

  He looked at the girl, who had stood up from her chair at his entrance. He thought she must be Miss Hathaway's sister, for though her hair was a decided red, her eyes and nose had the same shape as the elder Miss Hathaway's. She looked at him, her expression uncertain and shy. He wondered if she was mute, for she simply stared at him, and as the minutes ticked by on the mantelpiece clock, her face grew anxious and urgent. She wriggled her nose and grimaced, as if she had something to say but could not. Well, the least he could do was introduce himself and see if she responded.

  "The younger Miss Hathaway, I presume?" Lord Blytheland said, smiling, and bowed. "I am Paul Templeton, Marquess of Blytheland, here to call upon your mother and sister."

  An expression of profound relief crossed the girl's face, and she sketched a competent curtsy. "Yes, sir—that is, my lord. I am Psyche Hathaway. Please be seated. Mama and Cassandra should be here shortly."

  His smile turned into a wide grin. "I see your father is truly the complete classicist." He sat down in a comfortable chair by the window.

  The girl rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. "Yes, my lord."

  Blytheland chuckled. "Fathers can be a burden, can they not? My father is also fond of the classics."

  "But you do not have to suffer under a name like mine!"

  "Ah, but here's something I do not tell everyone: my middle name is Xanthus."

  "Oh, dear." Psyche made a face, then looked contrite. "It is not a terrible name, about as bad as my own, really. But at least it's not your first name," she said consolingly.

  "Certainly, I may be thankful for that!" Blytheland laughed, reflecting that the elder Miss Hathaway was not the only blunt one in the family. A slight noise made him look up and he rose immediately, for the door opened and Cassandra entered, Lady Hathaway following her. He caught his breath.

  He had thought perhaps his perception of Miss Hathaway's charms might have been partly due to his imagination. Blytheland had known times when, caught up in the afterglow of a successful violin piece, he'd overestimate the attractions of a woman. He had not done so this time. Indeed, the sun that had finally broken through the clouds shone through the windows and showed all that the dim lights of candles might have hidden—but there was nothing to hide. The soft curve of her cheek, the large and dark- fringed eyes, the pink lips, and the long, smooth column of her throat seemed to glow as she moved gracefully through the sunlight toward him.

  "Your servant, Miss Hathaway," the marquess breathed, and raised her hand to his lips.

  She blushed and glanced at her mother, who raised her brows but smiled nevertheless. Blytheland felt annoyed at himself for going so far as to kiss her hand, and was glad at his annoyance. It gave him a measure of control over his reactions, and he vowed he'd not give Lady Hathaway reason to raise her brows or smile in that matchmaking way again. He would keep in mind that Miss Hathaway was a bluestocking, perhaps even as extreme in her views as Chloe had been. He'd finish calling upon the Hathaways, and never come near Miss Cassandra Hathaway again.

  Bowing to Lady Hathaway, he said, "I find you and your family well, ma'am?"

  "Quite well, thank you, my lord. I see you have been talking with Psyche. I hope she has not prattled on too long." She gave an inquiring look at her youngest daughter.

  "Oh, no, Mama. I did just as you said. I did not say a word when Lord Blytheland came in until I was spoken to," Psyche said earnestly.

  "Oh, for goodness sakes, child!" Lady Hathaway exclaimed, flustered. "Did you not even greet him? I certainly did not mean—Oh, heavens!"

  The marquess grinned. "She was not to speak until spoken to, eh? So that was what all your silent grimacing was about. You looked as if you were about to burst, Miss Psyche!"

  A choking sound caught his ear, and he looked at Cassandra. Her shoulders were shaking, and she had her hand over her mouth to stifle her giggles. Her laughing eyes met his, and there was no self-consciousness there, but an invitation to laugh along with her at her sister's literal interpretation of Lady Hathaway's dictum.

  "Well, I felt I was about to burst, my lord," Psyche replied. "I wished so badly to make you welcome, but Mama said not to speak until—"

  "Yes, yes, I do remember what I said," her mother said hastily. "My word, child, must you take me so literally?"

  "But I—"

  "Perhaps you should go upstairs now. I am sure there are some lessons for which you need to study."

  "But I thought Cassandra was going to play the pianoforte. Could I not stay for that—just for a little while?" Psyche looked hopefully at Lord Blytheland and Cassandra, obviously abandoning any hope of support from her mother.

  "Of course," Lord Blytheland said, earning a grateful smile from Psyche.

  "Oh, do let her stay, Mama," Cassandra entreated. "You know how quiet she is when there is any music. I know she will behave quite properly."

  "Very well, then. But mind, Psyche, no fidgeting or interruptions!" Lady Hathaway settled herself in a chair and bade her guest to choose a comfortable seat.

  "Oh, no, Mama!" Psyche said, all smiles.

  * * * *

  The conversation before the music would normally have been tedious for Psyche, for it was all about people she did not know. She glanced at Harry, glad for his presence, for she would have been hard put to keep her promise not to fidget otherwise.

  "Harry," she murmured almost under her breath, even though she was at quite a distance from her mother, "what do you think of him?"

  Harry looked at her adm
iringly. "You become better and better at not moving your lips at all when you speak."

  "Do I?" Psyche said, pleased.

  "Yes. I remember a man once who could do that. He could even make his voice seem to come from objects at a distance from him."

  "No, really? I should like to do that someday."

  "What was interesting," Harry continued, "was that he had two heads and traveled about in a raree show." He gave her a wicked smile.

  "You are the most detestable boy imaginable! I do not have two heads!"

  "I never said you did!"

  "Did you say something, Psyche?" Lady Hathaway called.

  Harry shot Psyche a warning look.

  "No, Mama." Psyche made herself look as innocent as possible. She sighed and sipped the tea the butler had brought in. Telling lies was becoming quite easy lately. Her mother smiled at her and returned to the conversation.

  "Really, Harry, you are provoking!" Psyche whispered. He opened his mouth to retort, but she shook her head slightly. "Now enough! What do you think of Lord Blytheland?"

  Her friend, wings motionless from concentration, stared at the marquess, then frowned. "I can't have made another mistake . . . no, there must be something wrong with him."

  "Whatever can you mean?"

  "Only look at him. He is obviously attracted to your sister, but he resists it. It is not something I like at all."

  Psyche felt uneasy. Harry could be the most amiable boy imaginable, but he took certain things quite personally, especially when it came to the way gentlemen and ladies behaved toward one another. He was staring at both Cassandra and Lord Blytheland in a most intent way, as if trying to solve a puzzle. His frown deepened.

  "Perhaps we should tell Mama that he is not really a good match for Cassandra," Psyche said. She felt a little uneasy. Harry could be very persistent if things did not go the way he wished.

  Harry shook his head. "He is a good match. I never make a mistake about such things." A brief, uncomfortable look flashed across his face, but he continued. "He is arrogant, Psyche. It's hubris, and that is always offensive to me."