"Ah, I see!" Miss Hathaway's voice was contrite. "You are offended, are you not? I am sorry, but I did not realize you could not take a joke," she said.
Blytheland stared at her, but she had turned away and her bonnet obscured her face. How did she do it? She apologized, apparently sincere, but in the same breath strongly implied she found him humorless.
"Miss Hathaway, I can indeed take a joke."
"Really."
He shot her a keen glance and glimpsed her smile and the mischievous sparkle in her eyes before she turned away again. He burst out laughing. "You are a minx, Miss Hathaway! How is it that you have escaped strangulation at the hands of your siblings?"
"Oh, we have a rule at home, my lord, that speaking the truth does not constitute grounds for execution." This time she smiled widely.
Blytheland laughed again and caught up her hand and kissed it. "Why is it that I have not met you
?" Miss Hathaway blushed. "Well, I—This is my first Season, my lord."
He watched how the blush fired her cheeks and then descended to her neck—and then a shout caught his attention. He quickly reined in his horses before he touched wheels with another carriage, and was glad he could concentrate on something that needed his immediate attention. He grimaced. Miss Hathaway was right; no one could tell by his driving today that he belonged to the Four-in-Hand Club.
He glanced at her still-pink face and knew he had gone too far—he had kissed her hand again, perhaps raising her expectations. Or did she have expectations? Certainly, she seemed not to employ any of the tricks young ladies did when trying to attract a man. He took in a deep breath and let it out again.
"You astonish me," he said, making his voice more cool than before. "Since we are trading frank words, 1 would guess you to be at least one-and-twenty."
"I am three-and-twenty and more," Cassandra said primly. "Practically on the shelf, or so my mother says." "And your parents did not want you to leave their home so early?"
"No . . ." For one moment she hesitated, and then smiled at him. "I did not want to leave at first. My life has always been comfortable and useful at home; why should I wish to change it? Why should anyone?"
Blytheland felt much in charity with this attitude, and nodded. He, too, had a pleasant life now, and did as he wished; why should he want to change? But she had hesitated . . . .
"But what of marriage and children?" he asked. That was not an unusual question to ask, surely, especially since she had revealed a reluctance to change her life.
Cassandra blushed again, but looked at him. "I think I could be just as happy caring for my parents in their old age, if I cannot find love as they have. Then, too, I can easily occupy myself in such pursuits as my—in my charitable pursuits."
Blytheland gazed at Miss Hathaway for a moment and smiled slightly. He was certain she had just caught herself before blurting something she shouldn't. Should he try to find out what had changed her mind? A brief, anxious look crossed her face, and he decided he would not pry. If she wished to talk of charities, so be it. It was a safe enough topic, after all.
"And to what charities do you contribute?" He watched her as she looked even more anxious.
"I. . . the usual ones, my lord."
He smiled. "I am afraid I will sound like a selfish fellow if I say I do not know what the 'usual' charities are. But I do contribute to a few as well."
Cassandra cast him a glance that was clearly relieved. "I am so glad you do!" she said, then looked worried. "Oh dear. I did not mean to imply that I thought you uncharitable! It is just that talking of one's charities is akin to talking of one's virtues, and that is a prideful thing. I don't wish to seem prideful."
What knots she seemed to tie herself into! Blytheland could not help feeling a little sorry for her. Her bluntness was clearly often at war with her wish to be virtuous, and it was just as clear she knew she blundered—after the fact, unfortunately. He smiled widely at her.
"I promise I will not think you prideful, Miss Hathaway." He turned the carriage on to Hyde Park, then glanced down at her.
Her lips were slightly parted in a smile of gratitude and the sun chose just then to peep from behind the clouds and shine upon her hair, making her curls seem like the waves of the sea at night. The light kissed her cheek and chin and brushed her lips with the color of coral. Suddenly he wanted to plunge his hands into her hair and kiss those lips as the sun had kissed them, to see if they were as warm as they looked.
And then the sun hid behind the clouds again. He grew conscious of the silence between them, how her eyes seemed at once confused and lost, and how he held the reins so tightly that the horses stopped. She must not fall in love with me, for her own sake. I do not have what she needs for me to give. He looked away from her and concentrated on his horses.
What nonsense! He took a deep breath, and it cleared his mind. He did not know the state of her heart and would prefer not to think of it. He smiled wryly to himself. Indeed, what arrogance it was for him to think she might love him! No woman really had before, or not that he could tell, not even Chloe. And truly, it was better that way. He'd best tend to his own unruly passions instead of pondering the doubtless nonexistent ones of Miss Hathaway, and think in a more rational vein than he had lately.
"Did I say something amiss, my lord?" Cassandra's voice was uncertain.
He smiled at her. "No. Or rather, because you have not yet told me what charities you sponsor, I was left to my own imaginings. For all I know, you are devoted to the reclamation of abused coal scuttles." Cassandra laughed. "One never knows what charity will be in fashion next," he said.
She frowned for a moment, then said, "I suppose there are many who contribute because it is fashionable to do so. And though it is not the best reason to do so, one must be practical about these things."
"You, of course, have chosen a far more practical one than coal scuttles, I imagine?"
Cassandra smiled briefly, then pressed her lips together for a moment. "Yes. I. . . there are various parishes that need help. Food, clothing, blankets—I try to provide them."
She seemed to watch him for some reaction, and her voice was hesitant, as if expecting a reprimand. He wondered for a moment who it was had told her it was not a thing to mention in society. Her mother, probably. Perhaps it was not something most young ladies indulged in, but it was not a socially damning thing after all. He felt a slight touch on his sleeve and looked down at Cassandra's earnest face.
"It is a terrible thing, the way the poor ch—people live, Lord Blytheland—often abused and starved. No one who has seen one can help but be moved to one's very heart."
He raised his brows. "You have seen them?" he was accustomed to people who gave to charities and spared themselves the sight of the recipient.
Cassandra bit her lip. "I. . . I have seen some at the meetings I go to."
Shown off like a freak at a raree-show, Blytheland thought with distaste. But he supposed it was an effective way of eliciting sympathy for one's cause. He nodded.
"A worthy cause, Miss Hathaway. I commend you."
Her smile lit up her face, and it was as if the sun had come out from the clouds again. Again, he nearly touched wheels with another carriage, and exasperated, gave it up.
He turned to Cassandra. "Would you like to walk a little? I believe the ground is not damp."
"Yes, please," Cassandra said.
"Tim, take the reins," he said to the tiger sitting behind them as he slowed, then stopped the phaeton. They descended the carriage and walked next to the line of trees next to the roadway.
He took Miss Hathaway's hand and put it on his arm, and they walked in silence for a moment. He heard her sigh and he looked down at her. She had a speculative look on her face as she gazed at him, and at once he felt wary. He'd seen that look before on women's faces, and it usually meant they wished to entrap him in some manner. Was she, after all, like other young ladies with an eye toward marriage? He felt some disappointment, though,
really, he should be pleased she was not above the ordinary.
"Is there something you wish to say, Miss Hathaway?" he said. He thought of a number of set-downs he could use if she decided to flirt with him after all.
"I was wondering . . . if, well. . ." She hesitated, and a slight blush appeared on her cheeks.
If she asked him if he would attend some social function or other, he would definitely say no. He had too many commitments as it was. "Yes, Miss Hathaway?"
"I was wondering if perhaps you might be interested in contributing to our charity," she said all in a rush, and her cheeks grew even more pink.
Lord Blytheland could not help feeling some chagrin. She was not, apparently, interested in his presence anywhere at all. He felt quite the fool, thinking that she might. He wondered if perhaps he was becoming arrogant, and if it showed.
"The poor ch—people,they are so hungry!" Cassandra looked at him pleadingly. "You don't know how horribly they've been treated, and some of them so very young, only babies!" He saw her swallow, and turn away, taking a deep breath before she continued. "Some of them fear even the kindest of approaches, thinking we come to cause them harm." She gazed at him, and he could see her eyes, wide and with a hint of tears. She touched his sleeve. "Please . . . it is a terrible thing, and should happen to no child—no one in England."
"But of course, Miss Hathaway," he said, before he could stop himself.
She gave him another smile of clear gratitude, and pressed his arm. A speculative look entered her eyes, and she said tentatively, "And do you think perhaps you can persuade your father to speak on the matter when he goes to Parliament?"
Blytheland gave her a sharp look. She immediately hung her head as if in chagrin, then peeped up at him from beneath her lashes. She looked very much like a puppy who wanted to play but had gone beyond the line, Blytheland thought. And then she grinned and shrugged her shoulders.
Blytheland burst into laughter. "You are incorrigible, Miss Hathaway!"
"Ah, well. I thought I ought to try."
Blytheland opened his mouth to speak, but hesitated. He wondered what her reaction would be if he did as she asked. She would smile at him again. He realized suddenly that he liked to see her smile; her mouth curved in at the comers in a slight curl and made him want to kiss her. It was pleasant to have such an attractive companion, of course, but it was a trying thing to walk beside her and not give in to his impulse to—He let out a slow breath and tried not to think of his impulses.
Well, it would not hurt to approach his father about the poverty in the parishes about town . . . and it was not as if the duke was opposed to such things, after all. "You are very devoted to your cause, I see," he said.
Cassandra's expression sobered. "One cannot help being so, after seeing the poverty."
"I suppose I could speak to my father upon the matter . . ."
A tiny shriek made him look down at her, and he found his hands seized in hers and squeezed tightly. Cassandra's face was alight with joy, and she gave a little jump, almost seeming about to dance. But she bit her lip instead, clearly restraining herself, then raised his hand to her cheek. "How good you are!" she exclaimed.
Blytheland stared at her, feeling the warmth of her cheek against his hand. If she moved her head but a fraction of an inch, he'd feel her lips against his hand, and he could not help imagining what it would feel like. Warm, of course, but nothing compared to what it would probably feel like if it were his lips instead of his hand. He looked into her eyes and found she was staring at him. A blush rose in her cheeks and she hastily released him, and he was able to look away at last. He sighed. In a way, he wished she would not smile at him. It was her best feature, and it distracted him.
"I am not as good as you think, Miss Hathaway," he said. "Besides, I cannot guarantee my father will agree to speak on the matter at all."
"It is enough that you ask him—and I know I was impertinent to ask it of you, so I think you are indeed very good to agree." She gave a happy sigh. "It is more than anyone else has agreed to do."
Blytheland grinned at her. "Do you always go about impertinently demanding support for your charities?"
"No, because I have learned that it puts off a great many people when I do. But you looked as if you understood about the—parishes, and then your eyes were smiling in such a way that I thought you would not mind."
"Do my thoughts show that much, then?" He did not like the idea that they might.
Cassandra pursed her lips in a thoughtful manner and swung her reticule to and fro as she walked beside him. "No . . . no, not really. I doubt most would be able to discern your state of mind. But I have had to watch people carefully—I suppose you have noticed that I sometimes say things I ought not?"
Blytheland could not help laughing. "Yes, I am afraid I have."
"You should not laugh at me, my lord," Cassandra said, her voice solemn, but then she sighed. "Well, I suppose it is something I must become used to, for I forget, you know, and cannot keep from saying what I think, though I do try! And it is certainly better than being angry at me. But one good thing I have learned is to watch people carefully, so that I may discern whether they are angry or not. I think I have become fairly good at reading countenances."
He nodded, thinking that perhaps it was necessary for someone as defenseless as Miss Hathaway to find some way of dealing with others. He hadn't thought of it before, but he supposed she was rather defenseless, since she seemed to have very little notion as to how to navigate through the ton. It was an uncomfortable thought and nothing he should be concerned about, certainly.
The wind picked up and blew against Miss Hathaway's bonnet, and Lord Blytheland looked up to see that heavier clouds were forming above them. "I think we should return to the carriage," he said.
They hurried their steps and found Blytheland's tiger bringing up the carriage. Hastily they ascended and seated themselves.
"But all of this—your charitable pursuits—should be no barrier to marriage, Miss Hathaway," Blytheland said, taking up the reins again. "You could just as easily do them if you married." The horses moved forward.
She hesitated, looking oddly . . . bereft, was the closest he could come to a description, then said, "I have no guarantee that my husband would be a good man. Why should I risk possible unhappiness when I can logically, sensibly choose the happy life I already know?"
"And where did you get such ideas, Miss Hathaway?"
"Oh, from a book I read by Mrs. Wollstonecraft." Her voice faltered slightly at the end.
A hard, hot anger seized Blytheland's gut, and his hands clenched, bringing the horses to a stop.
"Lord Blytheland?" Cassandra's voice sounded tentative.
His fingers were digging into his gloved palms. He loosened them, and the horses went forward again.
"Your father allowed you to read such nonsense?" He could not help the sneer that came to his voice.
An angry light entered Cassandra's eyes. "It is not nonsense—not all of it You need only look about you to see that there are people who are not happy in their marriages."
"It is not necessary that people be happy or unhappy in their marriages. It is a thing one does to continue the family."
Cassandra felt as if a chill had come over her, and she pulled her shawl tighter around her. "I daresay many people think that. But I believe it is best that a marriage be a loving one. If one cannot have one such, it is better to remain unwed, and even better, find a useful occupation so as not to be a burden on anyone."
For one moment an uncertain expression crossed Lord Blytheland's face. Then he smiled coolly.
"You are an idealist, Miss Hathaway. As you said, there are no guarantees about one's husband or wife. The best anyone can do is to rub along amiably."
Cassandra gazed at him doubtfully. Before the uncertainty, anger had marred his expression. Something she had said had caused him to be angry, but she did not know what it was.
"And how would you know, Lord
Blytheland?" she asked. She supposed he must base his opinion upon his own family, but she had heard nothing scandalous of either his father the Duke of Beaumont, or his mother the duchess. The reports were that they were always amiably disposed toward each other, at least in company. Although, this was not saying much, to be sure, for she rarely listened to gossip and probably would not have remembered if she had heard it.
He smiled coolly, then looked past her. "Ah, I see Lady Amberley waving to me, and her most charming daughter is with her." He nodded to a carriage coming toward them.
Cassandra smiled to herself. So, that was one of his set- downs. It comforted her in a way, for it was one more puzzle piece she had gathered for a better picture of his nature. Lord Blytheland was not the sort of person she was used to . . . there was a part of him that seemed hidden somehow. She was used to being able to assess easily those she met and pin down the pattern of their behavior. Once she understood, it was a little easier to refrain from saying things that would offend them. She sighed. But oh, people did become offended at the most innocent things! And the fact that the marquess was not so easily assessed, disconcerted her. How was she to know what would offend him or not? The only way was to speak what she thought and see how he responded. If he became offended, then she would know enough not to speak of things that offended him.
Cassandra made herself smile in a friendly manner at Lady Amberley and her daughter Sophia when Lord Blytheland introduced them, though she felt rather abstracted. She was still puzzling over the marquess. For one moment she felt a little guilty. Perhaps it was not a very well-mannered thing to do, making people reveal themselves. She sighed. But what else was she to do? Men, she found, were the most contrary sort of people of all. One could not always use much logic with them, for all their claim to be the more logical sex. They tended to become quite emotional when one reasoned with them—and how logical was that? Not at all, to be sure.
Cupid's Mistake (Cupid Regency Romance) Page 6