Cupid's Mistake (Cupid Regency Romance)

by Harbaugh, Karen

  With another groan, Blytheland fell back upon his bed and pulled his now badly mauled pillow over his face, half wishing he'd suffocate so he could be put out of his misery. Never had he meant to succumb to Miss Hathaway's charms—of face and form only, for she lacked the skills of refined flirtation he usually found so enjoyable, and was so blunt as to be—almost—vulgar.

  That was it. Vulgar. Blytheland sighed with relief, removed the pillow from atop him, and settled himself down to sleep. He smiled in relief. Lord, the look on Aurelia's face when Miss Hathaway "complimented" her on her jewels! He regretted that he had had a brief liaison with Aurelia two years ago; it was a passion of the moment, but she had obviously wanted something more. She still schemed to get him—between diversions with other men—and he was glad he was out of the liaison. Certainly, Miss Hathaway had put an end to any attempt on Aurelia's part to regain her old status. Cassandra had sent her to point-non-plus in less than a minute.

  And there her upbringing was revealed—Miss Hathaway apparently did not understand that it was vulgar to comment unfavorably about one's person. A small, niggling voice reminded him that Miss Hathaway no doubt truly thought her comments were complimentary, but he dismissed it.

  There now. If he concentrated on it enough, he was sure he could convince himself that she was, in some manner, too unrefined for his taste. Indeed, had he not met and danced with a number of other ladies at the ball? Many of them were far more refined than Miss Hathaway, and a few were more beautiful and higher born as well.

  Relief flowed into him. Miss Hathaway was nothing much above the ordinary, not in looks nor in refinement. He had begun his search for a wife and had seen women far superior to her in birth and fortune. Now that he had seen some of what the ton had to offer in prospective brides, it should be easy to keep these ladies in mind; Miss Hathaway's assets paled in comparison, and whatever attraction he might feel for her would be easy to resist.

  Blytheland settled himself into his pillows and closed his eyes at last. He sighed. Yes, he could resist Miss Hathaway now that he'd seen what the marriage mart had to offer. In fact, he would call upon her tomorrow, just to prove it to himself.

  * * * *

  Harry watched Cassandra and Lord Blytheland leave the Marchmonts' ball. He smiled, satisfied. He was certain die marquess would propose at any time now, and it would be as if his mistake had never happened. Well, he hadn't precisely made a mistake at the time, for it was not his fault that the man had moved at the last moment and fallen in love with the wrong woman the first time. Harry moved away from the Marchmonts' house and flew toward London, to the street where the Hathaway family lived.

  Psyche was quite wrong; she'd soon see that his decision to shoot Lord Blytheland was the right one. Did he not kiss Cassandra—and very passionately, too—for more than five minutes? In this day and age, it was considered a significant thing, and the rules seemed to be that a man could not signal his desires in such a way without submitting an offer of marriage eventually.

  Harry spied the house at last and descended to the open window of Psyche's room. She was a kindly child and left it open for him at night so that he could come out of cold weather if he wished. Quietly, he moved to the side of her bed where she was sleeping, and pushed away a small red curl from her forehead. He did not know why he had come to her rescue those years ago when she was lost in the woods . . . perhaps there was something that reminded him of his own Psyche long ago, and who was lost to him.

  He had taken on the form of a boy, not much older than herself, for he thought it would be less frightening to her to see another child in the dark, than any other shape he could take. He grimaced. The problem with that was one tended to take on the characteristics of whatever form one assumed, and the longer he used mortal form and the longer he stayed away from the realm of the gods, the more mortal he felt and acted. And it was necessary, for he knew his own Psyche was somewhere on earth, and he would take whatever form he needed to find her.

  He grinned suddenly. It was, meanwhile, immensely entertaining to be a young adolescent boy, and even more so to linger around the Hathaway family and see how their fortunes went. He had grown quite fond of Psyche Hathaway—all of the Hathaways, for that matter—no doubt because of her namesake, and also because he never knew quite what she would say next. He gazed out the windows at die lights of London . . . the ton was still out and about. His grin grew wider. It was also very entertaining to see what came of his target practice here in and about London. He moved away from Psyche and went to the window.

  Harry pulled an arrow from his quiver and twirled it around between his fingers. He chuckled quietly. The night was still young for the high and mighty, and it would be very amusing to see how far they could fall.

  Chapter 6

  "You must be in excellent spirits, my dear," Sir John said, looking at his wife over his spectacles. "You have been humming a tune for the last quarter of an hour."

  "Have I? Well, it is not at all surprising if I am." Lady Hathaway put down her embroidery. She was making a pretty counterpane with pink hearts and blue flowers, just the thing for a newlywed's chambers. She could see the significance of Lord Blytheland's walk with Cassandra two weeks ago at the Marchmont ball. She sighed happily. "Oh, husband, I do think Lord Blytheland will declare himself soon! Only think! He has gone to every function at which Cassandra has appeared, and has danced at least once with her at each one. And at Lady Harley's, he even danced twice with her!"

  "Well, well, our Cassandra a marchioness. But. . . perhaps he is overly fond of dancing?"

  Lady Hathaway sat up stiffly in her chair. "It is not dancing he is fond of—" She broke off, for she caught the twinkle in her husband's eye. She let out an exasperated breath. "Oh, John, you are such a provoking man!"

  He grinned at her. "But you rise so easily to bait, my dear." He sobered and looked at her keenly. "Are you sure his affections are engaged?"

  His wife looked affronted. "Of course I am! The man almost haunts our house! If he is not calling on her to practice music, he is taking her out in his curricle, or inviting us to the theater. Last night Hetty Chatwick actually asked me if we had any interesting announcements to make in the near future—so I know Blytheland's attentions have come to people's notice. Well, of course I said that we certainly did not, but I am afraid I could not help feeling a little conscious.''

  Sir John rolled his eyes and pushed his fingers through his thick, graying hair, messing it terribly. "Amelia, now all of London will believe it is a promised thing. Hetty Chatwick! Good Lord, what a gossip! You must know now that the supposed betrothal of Blytheland and our daughter will be all over town by tomorrow."

  "But I denied it!"

  "Yes. and 'feeling a little conscious,' you no doubt looked it!"

  "Not at all! Indeed, I looked most stern and forbade her to speak of it."

  "Of course that will make her say nothing of the subject at all," Sir John replied, his voice ironic.

  Lady Hathaway could not reply. She glanced at her husband resentfully and worked with great concentration on her needlework. She well knew that Mrs. Chatwick would spread it about that Cassandra was as good as promised to the marquess. But how could she help it? Any good mother would want an eligible connection for her children, and she did not exaggerate when she said Blytheland practically haunted the house. Well, so did other gentlemen, now that it seemed Cassandra had become so popular of late.

  And there! That was another thing. It was clear to her that the marquess brought Cassandra into fashion. He was a much sought-after man, and any lady to whom he paid attention became just as sought-after. And if—although she could not think it at all likely—if Blytheland should not declare himself to Cassandra, why then her daughter need only choose one of her other admirers. But of course, that would not be the case, for the marquess must be in love with her.

  To be sure, it had been only two months since he had been first introduced to Cassandra. But then Lady Hathaway had
known of affections that had been animated to the point of a marriage proposal in less than a month's time. The little courtesies, the minute-too-long holding of her hand, the way Blytheland looked at her daughter—those had not escaped her notice. Then, too, there were the kisses on the hand— not unknown coming from her own, Lady Hathaway's, contemporaries, but unusual from the younger generation.

  The door opened and Sir John and Lady Hathaway looked up.

  "Mama, Papa." Cassandra smiled at them, but there was a tense air about her.

  "Is there something you wished to see us about, my dear?" Sir John asked. He gestured to a chair near his, and his daughter sat down upon it, arranging her skirts neatly about her.

  "I . . . I do not want to seem vain, but perhaps you have noticed that I have more . . . gentlemen callers than before." She glanced uncertainly at her mother.

  Lady Hathaway smiled encouragingly. "Well, of course. And a most fortunate girl you are, Cassandra! Now, you see what comes of listening to me, and holding your peace in polite company."

  "But that is just it, Mama! I speak as I always have—oh, it is not as if I have not tried to heed your words and hold my tongue, but I know I have not been very successful. And then, too, when I go about to these social functions—more than I ever have before—I find an increasing number of people who say the most cutting things about others! I cannot stay silent, Mama, truly I cannot!"

  "Well, well, you must have improved somewhat, for you do have a good number of admirers," Lady Hathaway said.

  "No. I think something else has changed. I say what I think, and it seems everyone believes I have uttered a witticism! I cannot understand it!" Cassandra rose from her chair, her hands clasping tightly together.

  Sir John chuckled. "Ah, my dear, you have become fashionable. Once you are claimed a diamond of the first water—by those who would know and whose words have weight with the frivolous—you may say anything you like, and it will be considered manna from heaven."

  "John, really!" cried his wife, scandalized.

  Cassandra turned troubled eyes to her mother. "Mama, is this true?"

  "Well, it is more likely—in general—that people will view one in a more favorable light than if one were not fashionable . . ."

  "Oh, how—how detestable! As if—as if I could want them to listen to me for such a reason, and not because I spoke the truth!"

  "Oh, for heaven's sake, Cassandra! Try not to be such a ninny!" cried her mother impatiently. "Be glad they listen to you now at all, for you must know they never did before!" Immediately she wished the words back, for her daughter paled and looked stricken. Lady Hathaway opened her mouth to say a few consoling words, but then closed it firmly. No. For all that she was sad for Cassandra's disillusionment, the girl simply had to accommodate herself to the ways of society and human nature. Better she bear a set-down from her mother who loves her, Lady Hathaway thought, than end up living a lonely spinster's life, shunned by those who could make her life so much more comfortable.

  "I am afraid your mother is right, Cassandra," Sir John said, glancing sternly at his wife, nevertheless. "Consider which is preferable: the truth ignored, or the truth at least accepted, though lightly?"

  Lady Hathaway cast a surprised look at her husband for his support. It was a different approach than she would have taken herself, but perhaps it would work.

  "The truth accepted, of course," Cassandra replied reluctantly.

  "Very good," her father said and smiled approvingly.

  "Then, too, my dear, you must know that it is Lord Blytheland who has so kindly brought you into fashion," Lady Hathaway interjected. "You cannot wish to be so ungrateful as to repel his efforts on your behalf."

  A glow effused Cassandra's face, and her eyes shone. "Oh, no, no! Of course I could not! I am sure he meant well by it, even though it is not what I could like. He is so very kind, is he not, Mama?"

  My lady was not quite certain how to reply to this, for Lord Blytheland was not as kind to everyone, from what she had heard of him. She looked up at her husband and found him watching her. "I am sure, my dear, that his attentions to you have been all that is amiable and pleasing," Lady Hathaway said. She threw a challenging look at him. There! He could not say that she said anything not remarked upon by anyone else.

  Sir John merely smiled, turned to his daughter, and gave his wife another shock by saying, "Your mother is quite right, and I am pleased, Cassandra, that you understand his actions were meant for your benefit, and that you are properly grateful."

  Lady Hathaway stared at her husband. Could it be that he approved of Blytheland? Of course, any man would be a fool to pass over such an eligible prospect for his daughter! But Sir John was not just any man. He had little respect for titles or wealth, and he associated with any manner of people who she had to admit were of great intelligence, but some of whom were decidedly odd. She dared let hope rise in her heart: her husband favorable to the match, Blytheland sure to propose soon, and her daughter. . . She sighed. Now if only Cassandra would be so inclined as to go along with it all! But there was no depending on that. Although. . .

  Lady Hathaway gazed at her daughter's face and saw a dreamy smile hovering about her lips. Could it be. . . ? She had not really watched her daughter's behavior in the marquess's presence; she well knew that Cassandra had more than enough modesty to keep her from doing anything scandalous. She had concentrated on his manners instead, watching for any signs of a tendre for the girl.

  "You have found Lord Blytheland's attentions . . . pleasant, have you not, Cassandra?" she said tentatively.

  "Oh, yes!" And then to her surprise, Cassandra's face turned beet red. "Th-that is to say, his attentions have been very—He has been most—Not that he has been—" She stopped, looked with confused eyes at her parents, and rushed out the library door.

  "Well, well! I do believe our daughter finds Lord Blytheland's attentions most pleasant indeed." Sir John chuckled.

  "For heaven's sake, John, have you no sense of propriety?" cried Lady Hathaway. "For all we know he might have—have importuned her in an improper manner!"

  "Kissed her, do you mean, Amelia?"

  "John!"

  "Oh, come now, my dear. I think you remember a few kisses before we were married . . . ?" He sat next to her on the sofa, slipped his arm around her ample waist, and kissed her ear.

  It was Lady Hathaway's turn to blush, now. She slapped lightly at his hand, although a small smile lingered about her mouth. "That is neither here nor there! I must go to her and find out the extent of Blytheland's, ah, attentions."

  "My dear wife, you would do best to leave it alone. The marquess is a gentleman. Though he is clearly fond of the ladies, I have not heard of any profoundly libertine tendencies about him. I have no doubt he behaved as any gentleman might around our daughter."

  "That is precisely what I am afraid of!" Lady Hathaway said. She caught Sir John's quizzical look and sighed. "Oh, I do not know! Before Cassandra's coming into fashion, any gentleman could be counted to keep their distance. Now I do not know what to think! I wish Blytheland had kissed her!"

  He smiled. "Never mind, my dear. No doubt he has. Why else should our daughter look so conscious?"

  Lady Hathaway looked at her husband, aghast. "John! Do you mean to sit there, sure that Blytheland has kissed Cassandra, and do nothing?"

  "No. Not at all. I plan to wait, and see how things come about."

  "But that is as good as doing nothing at all!" cried his lady, despairing.

  "And what do you wish me to do? Challenge him to a duel unless he marries Cassandra?" Sir John took off his spectacles and polished them thoughtfully with the end of his neckcloth. "Nonsense, Amelia. The truth will be revealed of itself, you know. What falls out will be for the best."

  "Well, that is precisely what I fear! That it will all fall out!" said Lady Hathaway testily.

  "Have faith, my dear," Sir John said. "All will be well."

  His lady sighed. Her husband was the dea
rest man, but not at all practical. She herself would have to see what could be done. "Yes, John," she said, resigned.

  * * * *

  Cassandra sat on her bed, pressing her hands to her face. "Oh, how could I be so stupid?" she cried. "I should have told them he kissed me—but I couldn't."

  She rose, wet a cloth with the water that was left at the washstand, and pressed the cloth to her cheeks. She felt warm and knew she was blushing just thinking of kisses. It would be much better to resolve to herself that she would not allow it—if, that is, Lord Blytheland tried it again. Which he would not, of course, because he was after all a gentleman, and not an adolescent like her brother, Kenneth, who kissed maids indiscriminately.

  A knock sounded on her door. "Come in!"

  "Cassandra . . ." Lady Hathaway entered, taking what seemed to be tentative steps into the chamber. Cassandra looked at her mother in surprise. She looked at once hesitant and concerned—and oddly, a little guilty.

  "Is—is there something the matter, Mama?"

  "Oh, no, no. That is to say—Actually, Cassandra, I was wondering if you had anything to say to me."

  "I? I cannot think what you might mean." Cassandra went to a stool by the fire and sat down upon it, staring into the flames.

  "Come now, my dear, this is unlike you! Why it was obvious to your father and me that something overset you." Her mother's voice sounded so very comfortable and warm, as it always had whenever Cassandra had been in a scrape or needed to confide in her.

  "I . . . .

  "Is it Lord Blytheland? Has he . . . importuned you in any distasteful manner?"

  Cassandra jumped up from her seat, feeling her face grow hot again. "Oh, no, Mama! How can you think it? He has always been very much the gentleman."

  Lady Hathaway smiled comfortingly at her. "Then what is it? You cannot be blushing as red as a beet root and there be nothing the matter!"

  "He—I—we kissed. At the Marchmonts' ball." There was silence for one moment, and Cassandra swallowed nervously.