Cupid's Mistake (Cupid Regency Romance) Page 5

  Psyche was not entirely sure what hubris was, but it was not something one did or had without getting Harry and his relatives irritated. Her uneasiness grew. She remembered the stories her father had told her about Harry's relatives, and began to wonder if the marquess would end up turned into a tree, or chained to a rock and eaten by vultures. However, she was certain there were no vultures in England, so perhaps his punishment would not be so very severe. There were ducks, though. She tried to envision death by duck, but it did not seem very much the same as death by vulture, somehow.

  Harry made a short, angry sound, so startling Psyche out of her thoughts that she almost upset her tea. She looked at him and watched his expression grow more stormy as he gazed at Lord Blytheland.

  "He believes he is invulnerable when he truly is not. In a way, he is a little like your brother Kenneth, who pinches maids and kisses them, but never does anything else. Blytheland tells himself he does not need a wife, is not in love with your sister, and that he is looking for more than what she has to offer as either wife or lover." He looked solemnly at her.

  "Are you saying he will pinch Cassandra?" Psyche gnawed her lower lip. She had thought the marquess a very amiable sort of gentleman. She could not imagine him pinching anyone, much less her sister.

  Harry suddenly grinned. "If only he would! Then I would not need to give him the punishment he deserves for his arrogance. Your sister would give him such a set-down that he would need a shovel to dig himself out of the ground."

  "Then where is the trouble?"

  "Look at Cassandra."

  Psyche turned in her chair. Her sister's gaze was intent on Lord Blytheland's face, drinking up his words as if they were some life-sustaining elixir.

  "Is she in love with him?"

  "Of course, though she does not know it quite yet."

  "Of course? Why is that?" Psyche looked suspiciously at him. "You didn't!"

  "No, I did not shoot any of my arrows at her!" Harry said indignantly. "Your sister doesn't need any. I shot my arrows at him. And he has such arrogance that he refuses to give in to them."

  Psyche looked at him, horrified. "You didn't!"

  "Yes I did." Harry smiled in a satisfied way. "It was when your sister and your parents went to the musicale. I'm certain he fell instantly in love with your sister, but he is a stubborn case. He has overcome my arrows before, but this time I'll make certain he does not."

  "You always think people are arrogant when they resist you, Harry! You shall change him back!"

  Harry frowned. "Why should I? He's eligible enough, and Cassandra is not opposed to his attentions at all. Only look at him! Would he not make a perfect husband for her? He is handsome, plays exquisite music, and is quite intelligent. Also, he is wealthy and has a title. Few females can resist that."

  "Cassandra is not mercenary!"

  "But you cannot deny his other assets would influence her."

  Psyche looked at the marquess again. She had to admit he was quite handsome, and Cassandra was excessively fond of music. She creased her brow in thought. "He is amiable, even if he is rather old. He must be all of thirty. Hmm. It is not as if she would know the difference, after all." She shook her head. "No, I cannot like it, Harry. You must change him back. I am quite right about such things."

  "He is six-and-twenty. That is not old, Psyche," Harry replied, smiling. "At least, not for your sister."

  "No. Mama thinks that Cassandra is nearly on the shelf, so she must be getting a bit on, don't you think?"

  Harry's smile widened into a grin. "Not really. You will understand when you are turned three-and-twenty."

  Psyche made a face. "I do wish you wouldn't talk to me as if you were so much older than I am. You can't be any more than fourteen, if that."

  "But I am much—"

  "And I still think you should change him back." Psyche stared at him sternly. Harry was very good at distracting her from her purpose, and she knew he was doing it now, but she knew better than to let it go too far.

  "No." He stared back at her, his chin thrust out stubbornly.

  "Then I will tell Cassandra what you have done."

  Harry smiled sweetly at her. "She won't believe you."

  Psyche stared at him again, but he only stared back defiantly. She could try not talking to him again, but sooner or later he'd say something and she'd forget about it. Perhaps she could think of a way of persuading him later. She sighed and shrugged her shoulders.

  "Well, for now, let us listen to the music. Cassandra has learned a new piece by Herr von Beethoven. She told me it is called 'Sonata in F minor,' " she said, proud that she had remembered it.

  * * * *

  When the first notes broke the parlor's silence, Blytheland sat up abruptly, recognizing the music at once: the "Appassionata." It was not at all a feminine piece to play, and when he glanced at Lady Hathaway's disapproving face, he saw that she thought so, too. And yet, gazing at Miss Hathaway, he felt not disapproval but despair that he had come to listen to her play, and that she had chosen this music.

  Cassandra's eyes had widened, absorbed and intent upon the keyboard. Blytheland watched her fingers fly over the keys, sure and practiced. Her technique was excellent, her talent superior to any young lady's he had heard so far. He had hoped she would play poorly, that her apparent knowledge of music was false.

  But it was not so. For she was clearly caught up in the music, as he often was himself when he bowed his violin. And passion! Her hands pounded it from the keyboard, and her fingers coaxed it out to shimmer hotly in the air. A single curl fell forward onto her brow, and Blytheland closed his hands against the feeling that he must brush it back. He made his body still and forced himself to sit in a negligent manner on his chair. But his mind was not still and he envisioned himself brushing back the curl, his fingers feathering across her cheek and tracing the outline of her lips before his own lips followed. Her mouth would open under his, and she'd respond with, yes, passion. Her slender fingers that now slipped amongst the keys would slip downward from his chest and—

  With a last flourish, Miss Hathaway was done, and the pianoforte fell silent. Blytheland blinked, suddenly released from his imaginings, and drew in a deep breath. He saw Cassandra cast an uncertain glance at Lady Hathaway, and at her mother's meaningful look, she bit her lip and looked worried. He stood up abruptly.

  'Truly masterful, Miss Hathaway! An excellent rendition of the sonata." Before Lord Blytheland could stop himself, he strode to her and lifted her fingers to his lips. He did not need to look up to see Lady Hathaway's smug look—he could well imagine it was there. He mentally cursed himself, but put a smile on his face. "It is not what I would expect a young lady to play, but it was very well done."

  Instantly, Miss Hathaway's look of pleasure at his words faded, and he regretted his words. After she gave another apologetic glance at her mother, she smiled briefly and murmured, "You are too kind, my lord."

  An odd, twisting sensation went through his chest for a moment as he looked into her eyes. "No, I am far too moderate. In truth, you are an excellent musician, and I would welcome a chance to play a duet with you." The words came from his mouth before he could stop himself. It does not matter, he told himself, gazing at Miss Hathaway's now sparkling eyes and softly smiling mouth. Besides, it was not as if he were declaring himself by wishing to play a duet with the chit. It was merely that she was an excellent musician. He would want to play a duet with any musician of her caliber.

  Miss Hathaway blushed and pulled her hand from his, and he mentally cursed himself again for holding her hand for so long. "Oh, to be sure I—that is to say—you flatter me. I would be pleased to join you in—in practicing music."

  He raised his eyes and caught Lady Hathaway's not- quite-concealed look of triumph. However, it would not do to seem too eager. He smiled coolly at them both and bowed to Lady Hathaway.

  "I hope I do not impose, ma'am."

  "Oh, heavens, no, Lord Blytheland. Why, you need only say
when you wish to practice with Cassandra, and I shall set aside the time." Lady Hathaway's face was wreathed in smiles.

  Of course you will, he thought wryly, and ignored her expectant look. Really, it seemed he was digging a deeper hole for himself than he had thought he would. Well, it was not as if he hadn't got himself out of worse situations. He turned to Miss Hathaway.

  "Do you go to Lady Marchmont's ball, Miss Hathaway?"

  "Why yes, I believe we do." Cassandra smiled shyly up at him. "Shall we see you there, my lord?"

  He picked up his hat, bowed over Lady Hathaway's hand, and then Cassandra's. "Perhaps," he said, and smiled. There. He had promised nothing, and when he did not appear at the Marchmonts' ball, both the Hathaway ladies would have no one to blame but their own expectations for any disappointment they might feel.

  If he had thought Miss Hathaway beautiful before, he was mistaken. The smile that parted her lips also delicately blushed her cheeks and seemed to light her eyes from within, and he could not help staring at her again.

  "Oh, Lord Blytheland, I do hope I—we shall see you there."

  Her voice made him blink and he hastily released her hand. He really should try not to be so influenced by music. He smiled once more and bowed before he left.

  Chapter 4

  "Oh, heavens, Cassandra, do hurry and change your dress!" cried Lady Hathaway two days afterwards, waving a calling card at her daughter. Cassandra looked at her mother, startled. "He has come to ask you for a drive in the park—Blytheland!"

  "Oh!" Cassandra's heart beat a little faster, and an odd confused feeling came over her.

  Lady Hathaway turned to the butler. "And, Thrimble, take Lord Blytheland to the drawing room and offer him refreshment while he waits. I shall be down as soon as I tidy myself." The butler left and Lady Hathaway glanced at Cassandra. "What, are you still here? Silly girl! Go up, quickly! I will be with you directly to see that you dress as you ought."

  "But, Mama, my errand—"

  "Never mind, Psyche and I will attend to it. Just go!"

  Cassandra hurried up the stairs, wondering why her mother seemed so impatient of late. Her mother rarely dictated what she wore, for she trusted that Cassandra would choose her clothes carefully, and with an eye to modesty. Well, she would be careful to do just that; surely Mama would be pleased.

  But she was quite wrong. She had chosen a simple walking dress with a light woolen pelisse, which covered her from chin to toe, very pretty, too. But the moment Lady Hathaway caught sight of Cassandra's clothes, she frowned.

  "No, no, Cassandra, not that one! You must wear your new walking dress, the one with the frill at the collar." Cassandra glanced out the window at the partly cloudy sky and looked at her mother doubtfully. "But, Mama, I thought that one might be a little light for this weather."

  "Nonsense!" Lady Hathaway said firmly. "You can see the clouds disappearing. And if you think you will feel a chill, you may wear this black velvet spencer on top of it."

  "But it buttons only underneath the bosom! What if a wind should come up?"

  "If a wind comes up, you may wrap yourself with your shawl."

  "Mama, I do not think the dress quite matches the spencer," Cassandra replied, gazing at her mother and feeling very puzzled. How odd! She could not account for it. Mama had told her all her life to wrap herself up warmly in case a chill breeze should arise, but now she was insisting on a dress and spencer that was not as appropriate as what she had been wearing.

  "Well, then, you shall start a fashion," Lady Hathaway said firmly.

  Cassandra cast her mother another puzzled look, then sighed and turned to her maid to change her dress.

  At last she was done dressing, and Cassandra could not help glancing at her mother a little suspiciously. The green walking dress was well enough; it had a large white frill that draped around the back collar of the dress and outlined the low neckline in front. But the spencer was a little smaller than she remembered it to be and felt tight about her chest. There must be a reason she was told to wear these clothes, but Cassandra could not tell what it could be from Lady Hathaway's proud and satisfied gaze. She smiled at her mother. Surely it was nothing, and surely she must appear quite well; her mother would not look so proud, else.

  But then they entered the parlor, and after Lord Blytheland smiled, stood, and bowed over Lady Hathaway's hand, he bowed over Cassandra's as she curtsied . . . and he seemed to stop breathing for a moment before he rose, slowly. Then he met her eyes.

  His eyes should not be blue, Cassandra thought as she looked into them. Blue was a cold color, and the emotion that showed in his eyes was hot, and caused heat to rise from the pit of her stomach to her face. It frightened her a little, for she did not want to turn away; she wanted to stare and stare at him, and it was a strange, unfamiliar feeling. His smile faded, and his gaze traveled slowly down from her face and up again.

  Cassandra looked down as well, and her face heated even more. He was still holding her hand and—oh, heavens! Her spencer, which had seemed perfectly respectable when she had first put it on, had shifted her dress about during her descent to the parlor, and now gaped open more than it ever used to. She shot an agonized glance at her mother, but all she received in return was a smile and a nod, as if Lady Hathaway was oblivious to her state of dress.

  "Please . . ." she whispered and tugged at her hand. A startled look crossed the marquess's face and he hastily released her. Lord Blytheland smiled again, but his mouth looked a little strained at the comers. He took a step back, putting his hands behind him.

  He cleared his throat. "I am happy, Miss Hathaway, that you were able to accept my invitation on such short notice."

  Cassandra made herself smile. "Yes, I was going to run an errand, but Mama told me she and Psyche could just as well do it, and that I was free to go with you if I wished."

  She heard an exasperated breath from her mother, and wondered if she had said something she should not have.

  Cassandra swallowed. She was not doing as she ought, that was clear, but she did not know quite how to remedy it. However, the marquess smiled at her again, and this time it was wide enough to be a grin. Cassandra almost sighed in relief. At least he was not displeased with her, and perhaps he did not mind her spencer fitting improperly.

  "And did you wish it?" he asked.

  Cassandra smiled, relieved. "Why, of course! I have never been in a high-perch phaeton before, and should like to try it. I used to think it a frightening thing to be up so high, but I am sure you are a competent driver and will not overturn us."

  "Really, Cassandra!" Lady Hathaway's voice was reproving. "You must know that Lord Blytheland belongs to the Four-in-Hand Club!"

  "Does he?" replied Cassandra, not entirely sure of the significance of this. She had heard it mentioned from time to time, but since she was not particularly interested in driving carriages she had not paid much attention to what was said about the club. "I suppose that must be a good thing, then." Her mother gave her an exasperated look, and Cassandra bit her lip. How she wished she had listened! But she had always gone to balls to dance and to concerts to listen to music—that was what they were for, after all—and so had never thought she ought to do more than that.

  She saw Lord Blytheland's smile turn wry. "It is a good thing," he said. "It is almost a guarantee that I will not overturn us." He moved forward and bowed to Lady Hathaway, then turned to Cassandra. "Shall we go?"

  "Yes, please," Cassandra said. She glanced at her mother and an embarrassed irritation grew in her. Mama was looking positively smug, and Cassandra was sure now that Mama meant to try to push her and the marquess together as much as possible. It was clear now why her mother acted strangely, and not as dignified as Cassandra was used to seeing her act. It disturbed her, and the idea that her mother was being mercenary on her behalf suddenly came to her. Perhaps she was wrong . . . . But even though she tried not to listen to gossip, she could not help hearing of estates and dowries, of incomes and titles
when sitting amongst other ladies. It did not sit well with her; how her mother could wish for a monied marriage when she herself had married for love, Cassandra did not know.

  Lord Blytheland took her hand and placed it on his arm and drew her to the parlor door. His arm felt firm underneath her hand, and she felt, somehow, more confident. She would not be swayed by monetary considerations. No, when—if she fell in love with Lord Blytheland, or any other man, for that matter—it would be a true meeting of minds, for how could anyone live one's whole life with someone who did not enter into one's interests or beliefs?

  She would be sensible, and not let her mother's efforts on her behalf—and she was certain her mother meant well, for did she not love all her children dearly?—blind her to a man's true virtue. All she needed was to find out if the man was truly compatible in mind and spirit. She thought of the philosophies she had discussed with her father, and her spirits lightened. She would be scientific about it—did not her father say that logic would someday solve all questions? She would think of it as a scientific experiment, and then she would know to whom she'd give her heart.

  Lord Blytheland was almost certain he would overturn the carriage. For all that Miss Hathaway's dress was modest in its basic lines, the tantalizing glimpse of her bosom revealed between the frills whenever she turned to speak with him distracted him. Twice he had to rein in his horses sharply before he ran into a pedestrian or passed too close to a cart.

  "Is my mother right, saying you belong to the Four-in- Hand Club?" Cassandra asked after he had missed the cart.

  "Yes."

  "Are only the best carriage drivers allowed in it?"

  Lord Blytheland glanced down at her and saw she had pulled her shawl close to her chin. "Yes," he said again and breathed a sigh of relief.

  She gave him a quizzical smile. "I would not have known it just now."

  "I am, however," he said stiffly.

  "Oh, you need not poker up, my lord! I can see you are quite a good whip." Cassandra smiled kindly at him. "I was only teasing you."

  "Really." He stared straight ahead at the traffic, concentrating on squeezing his phaeton between a curricle and a barouche. A good whip. He was, actually, known as one of the best. Irritation twisted within him, and then he felt relieved. There, that was another flaw in Miss Hathaway. She was ignorant of society ways, and therefore not at all the sort of woman he admired. She had no finesse whatsoever. Oddly, a sinking feeling went through him at the thought.