Cupid's Mistake (Cupid Regency Romance)

by Harbaugh, Karen

  Cassandra looked up at her mother and smiled. "Oh, no! I have thought of a famous scheme! I wrote to our vicar last month and enlisted his aid. He was very approving of it, and so has got up a collection for the boys. So I only spent what it took to send little Tommy home."

  Lady Hathaway groaned and sank into a chair.

  "Is there something the matter, Mama?" Cassandra asked, a worried frown creasing her brow.

  "No, of course not," Lady Hathaway replied, and she could not help the irony that crept into her voice. "Only that Vicar Thomason is one of the worst gossips in our county. I can depend upon him to spread the news of your generosity all over the village, and everyone will think you more of an eccentric than before. Heavens, why do you do these things, girl?"

  Cassandra looked at her mother earnestly. "But if you had only seen little Tommy, Mama! He was so thin, and shaking with cold and pain. And that monster of a chimney sweep! He asked the most exorbitant price for him, and then he hit Tommy when the child did not come to me straightaway!"

  Lady Hathaway's heart melted, though she kept her face stern. "Well . . . well, I suppose in this instance it would have been difficult to ignore. But, Cassandra, do try not to be so impulsive! And don't mention your activities to anyone in the ton, if you please!"

  "But I do not see—"

  The door opened, and Sir John wandered in, spectacles at the end of his nose, brandishing a dry quill. He looked vaguely about, and then his gaze sharpened as he spied his quarry. "Ah! Thucydides! Now how did it come to be in the parlor, and on this table? I know I had the book in my study yesterday." He gazed severely at his wife and daughter, as if somehow they had stolen into his inner sanctum and taken it for some nefarious purpose.

  Lady Hathaway felt bewildered, but Cassandra smiled fondly at her father. "Papa, you know you brought it down this morning. You were looking for Euripides, and exchanged Thucydides for it."

  "Oh, is that how it was?" Sir John's brow cleared, and his smile encompassed both Lady Hathaway and Cassandra in its beam. "Well, then, I shall be more careful, and not leave my books laying about." He put down his quill on the table, and picking up the book, he opened it. "Yes. Here it is. . ." he mused, and walked in the direction of the parlor door, leaving his quill behind.

  "Oh, my love!" Lady Hathaway called to him.

  "Eh?"

  "I wish you would speak to your daughter!"

  Sir John looked at his wife over his spectacles. "But I just did speak to her, my dear," he said reasonably.

  "No, no! About her forwardness! Her lack of discretion!"

  "What is this, my girl? Have you been seeing some man clandestinely?" He turned to Cassandra, his voice stern.

  "Heavens, John!"

  "Oh, no, Papa!"

  "Well, what is it, then?" Sir John said impatiently.

  "She is so . . . so impetuous in her speech!" Lady Hathaway said.

  "And—?"

  "Papa, I have taken in another climbing boy," Cassandra confessed. She looked at him earnestly and told him of her encounter with the chimney sweep. 'Truly, I could not ignore his plight!"

  Sir John's brow creased as he bent his powerful brain to the question. "Of course, you could not!" he said at last, and smiled proudly at his daughter. "That's my good girl!"

  "But what of her reputation? Do you really think a well-connected gentleman would wish to marry a young woman who spends all her money on such things? It is not as if Cassandra's dowry were a fortune, after all!" Lady Hathaway protested.

  Both husband and daughter looked at her with clear incomprehension.

  Lady Hathaway let loose a sigh that was almost a moan of despair. How was she to tame Cassandra's impulses when Sir John agreed with her? There were a number of reformers amongst the ton, but they were people with a great deal of money and could afford such things. If it came to anyone's ears that Cassandra spent her allowance on climbing boys as if she considered them her sole responsibility, she would not only be seen as an eccentric but possibly a liability. Who would wish to marry a girl who would no doubt insist on bringing her charity cases along with her? Face, figure, and a good dowry would be as nothing compared with the burden of the climbing boys. It would be worse than marrying a young woman with a poverty- stricken family. Certainly it would be seen as a drain on the estate and the future of one's own family.

  "Oh, heavens!" Lady Hathaway said, irritated. "You may do as you like, Cassandra, with your charity cases. But don't speak of them, if you please. It is not considered . . . polite conversation." Inspiration suddenly struck her and she smiled triumphantly. "Indeed, it would seem much like boasting of one's virtues, and you cannot think that would be at all becoming!"

  Cassandra blushed and stared at her mother in consternation. "Oh, no! I would never, never wish to puff myself off in that manner!"

  "See that you do not, then," Lady Hathaway said sternly. She sighed in relief. Thank goodness! It was one less thing to worry about in company. She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece and rose from her chair. "We will need to be at the musicale in the next hour. Do go up and ready yourselves for it—hurry! And don't forget your quill, husband, for you will come wandering down again and lose yourself for at least a half hour looking for it."

  An hour later her irritation faded completely when she gazed at her eldest child. Cassandra's green eyes sparkled, her cheeks glowed, and her lips were parted with eagerness. And nothing could have been more demure or ladylike than her demeanor upon entering Mrs. Bostitch's house. Lady Hathaway bit her lower lip anxiously. Perhaps this time all would go well. Cassandra's bluntness and scholarship were only known at home, around and about Tunbridge Wells, and not yet in London. Surely, she had talked stringently enough with Cassandra so that she would guard her tongue and not speak with such alarming forthrightness. But Lady Hathaway remembered how her daughter had reprimanded Lady Amberley and could not dismiss her uneasiness. Well, Cassandra had not precisely reprimanded—perhaps "corrected" was the more accurate word. Lady Hathaway winced. "Corrected" was no better.

  But there had been sympathetic looks from some of the other ladies. Perhaps the display of Cassandra's warmth of heart and sense of Christian charity for Miss Matchett had found favor with a few of the ladies who were Lady Amber- ley's equals. Who, after all, could fault a generous impulse?

  Lady Hathaway sighed and could not help the uneasiness that lodged itself in her heart. She knew London society far better than either her husband or her daughter, and well knew that diplomacy often took one farther than honesty and good-heartedness.

  The first faint sounds of the musicians tuning their instruments floated down the hall as the Bostitchs' butler led her, Sir John, and Cassandra to the conservatory. Cassandra looked up at her mother, anticipation clearly in her smile, and Lady Hathaway smiled in return. Perhaps it would not be so bad, she thought. Perhaps Cassandra would occupy her mind with the music and keep her comments to musical appreciation and away from any other subject.

  Lady Hathaway sighed again. One could always hope.

  * * * *

  Paul, Marquess of Blytheland, brushed the air in front of him with his hand, as if brushing away an annoying fly. He frowned. This had happened before. It was as if a warm draft of air briefly blew upon his face. Sometimes it was accompanied by a soft sound, like the fluttering of wings. He would not have thought much of it had it occurred out of doors, but it had lately happened indoors, at night, and now mostly just before a performance. Perhaps someone had opened a window. He shrugged and bent his attention upon his violin again.

  An odd, sharp ache suddenly struck his chest, a sudden weeping agony, and the image of Chloe flashed before him. He drew in a long, slow breath, and then it disappeared. This was another thing that had happened before. He knew what this was, however. Every once in a while, when he was preparing to play his violin, the anticipated emotion of the music opened the wounds of the past, and painful memories of his wife would try to surface once again. He had always been succe
ssful in suppressing them—better now, for she had died more than two years ago. But that was the danger of playing music, was it not? Music was an emotional thing, after all. In fact, he had lately been very successful at using that emotion and putting it into his performances. That was the secret of an artist, a great musician once told him: using one's own pain and making it sing in one's music. Lord Blytheland smiled and raised his eyes to the guests waiting in front of him.

  And his fingers failed on the strings of his violin. The instrument let out a small moan at being so mishandled, but the marquess ignored it.

  She was not the most beautiful lady he had ever seen, but she was, indeed, very lovely. The lady caught him staring, blushed, then looked away. Blytheland recovered himself. He concentrated on tuning his violin, and accidentally twisted a pin too far. He cursed under his breath and glanced toward the lady again. She walked into the room with a slightly familiar, graying gentleman and a middle- aged lady who bore a strong resemblance to the young woman—her parents, no doubt. He would recall the name of the gentleman if he gave himself time to think of it. He twisted the pin again, and now it was too loose.

  "May I be of assistance, my lord?" asked one of the musicians politely.

  "What? Oh, no, my good man, just a little nervous."

  The musician smiled as he bowed in assent. Blytheland at last tuned his violin correctly and tried not to look at the young woman in the audience.

  He failed. She seemed almost to float within her dress, like a fairy woman walking through a mist of rose silk and silver net. She glanced at him from across the room, and there was something at once innocent and frank in her gaze. He wondered who she was.

  He smiled to himself. It was often thus just before and during a performance. He had often thought the anticipation and sizzling energy he always felt as he prepared to play and when he was in the midst of a performance was similar to that of seduction. Music was a sensual thing that made the heart beat faster and made the mind fly in wild imaginings. It was easy to be influenced by the sight of a lovely woman when in such a state.

  His smile turned bitter. Still, after two years, after his experience with Chloe, he was susceptible. How contemptible and weak he was! But he had learned to be discriminating, at least. All he needed was to find some fault with the woman and concentrate on that, and he would grow bored or contemptuous. There was nothing better than boredom or contempt to obliterate the beginnings of any interest he might feel. If his attention was still tied to the young woman by the end of the piece, he would be sure to obliterate it quite thoroughly.

  * * * *

  I will be on my best behavior, Cassandra thought to herself, and will not worry Mama again. She sat down with her parents, fairly close to the musicians, feeling slightly embarrassed at her own behavior, but could not help glancing from time to time at the violinist who had stared at her so when she first came in. She gave herself a pinch. There! You will not stare, because you know it is rude, and heaven help you if Mama catches you doing it. She smiled, satisfied. She could be vigilant of her own behavior.

  She rewarded herself with another glance at the violinist—it was just a glance, after all, not a stare. Of course, he was not one of the professional musicians, for his clothes were too fine for that. He affected a slightly more colorful raiment than most other gentlemen she'd seen so far, but it suited him. His hair was swept back from his forehead and he wore a coat of Bath superfine. His waistcoat was blue-and-silver chased, and in the intricate folds of his neckcloth sparkled a sapphire pin. If his collar was not so high as some she had seen, perhaps it was because it would interfere with the playing of his violin. Was he a dandy, perhaps? She saw none of the padding to broaden the shoulders that so many dandies used, however, and his knee breeches outlined his legs—Cassandra looked away, blushing, and gave herself another admonishing pinch. She was not merely glancing, but staring again, and she must not do so, for she had promised her mother to pay strict attention to her manners.

  A tapping of the baton brought Cassandra's attention to the musicians again. She felt irritated at herself. She had been so intent on not looking at the man that she had missed hearing who he was, and what the musicians would play. Perhaps it was a piece she had heard before—she had a good memory for music, and she would know the title as soon as she heard the first few notes.

  It was a Mozart divertimento. Cassandra sighed and lifted her eyes to the violinist again; surely it was proper to look at him while he was playing.

  He was looking at her, and she could feel her face become warm. Once again she looked away, but not before she noticed that he had blue eyes. The music! That is why you came to the musicale, Cassandra told herself sternly. Do pay attention!

  The music flowed around her, and the high, sweet notes pulsed an alluring andante beat. Once again she looked up, and to her relief she saw the violinist was not looking at her. Cassandra allowed herself to be pulled into the music, as she always had in the past. And yet she could not feel comfortable. The music seemed different somehow—that was why she was feeling so strange. The rhythm became slow, but at the end of the movement she felt breathless, as if she had been running, and that had never happened to her before. The violinist was a virtuoso, it was clear; it was the skill and intensity of his performance that made her feel so.

  And yet, the divertimento finished before she was quite aware it had come near the end. Cassandra applauded politely, again annoyed at herself. She had not listened closely as she had always done, but had been partly caught up in watching the violinist. How stupid she was being! One came to a musicale to listen to music, not to stare at the company or the musicians.

  The violinist bowed very elegantly to the crowd and then once again in her direction. Cassandra blushed and looked down at her lap. Did he mean to do that?

  "Quite excellent," Lady Hathaway commented. "It is almost a pity young Blytheland is a marquess. His talent outshines most professionals."

  So, he is the Marquess of Blytheland, thought Cassandra. And it seems Mama knows him—or knows of him. She shook herself mentally. Really! Her thoughts were quite wayward this evening. She looked up again and saw that the marquess was no longer with the musicians. She firmly tamped down a spark of disappointment. She was here to listen to music, not think of possible beaux. Cassandra smiled wryly to herself. As if someone as talented and handsome as the marquess could be one of hers! She understood by now that she could not rate her attractions high at all; to think that Lord Blytheland would—Sheer foolishness!

  "Ah, Sir John! I hope I find you well?" said a soft baritone voice next to her. Cassandra looked up. It was the marquess.

  "Eh? Oh, yes, Blytheland!" Sir John wiped his spectacles with the end of his neckcloth and put them on his nose again. "Quite well, quite well! And how does the duke, your father? I understand he has found a manuscript of great antiquity—an Arabic translation of De Res Medicos. I am not at all proficient in Arabic, however—Eh, what was that, my love?"

  Lady Hathaway smiled sweetly at her husband. "My dear, I am sure Lord Blytheland would like to discuss his father's discovery at length—later."

  Sir John's eyes focused at last upon his wife and daughter. "Ah, of course! Not enough time at a musicale."

  "But perhaps at supper?" said the marquess. His gaze went to Cassandra, and he smiled at her. Cassandra could feel her face grow warm, but she could not help responding with one of her own. His smile was truly charming—it lifted up on one side of his mouth more than the other and gave him a slightly boyish look.

  At his wife's nudge, Sir John looked at the marquess and his daughter. "Ah, yes! If you would permit me to introduce my wife and daughter. . ."

  The marquess bowed most elegantly over Lady Hathaway's hand and Cassandra's. Perhaps it was her imagination, but did he linger just a little more over her hand than her mother's? His lips hovered just a few inches above her fingers before he rose from his bow. She could feel the warmth of his hand through her gloves, and when he
released her hand she felt, almost, as if the warmth remained.

  "I am most pleased to meet you, my lord," said Cassandra.

  "And I, also. But I would be further pleased if you accompanied me to the supper later—if you would do me the honor?" He looked to Sir John and Lady Hathaway for permission. Lady Hathaway smiled and nodded.

  "Oh, yes!" Cassandra said, then blushed. "That is, I am flattered that you ask me, sir. I would be happy to accompany you."

  The marquess smiled at her again, bowed to Sir John and Lady Hathaway, and left. Cassandra watched his passage through the crowd. Could it be that he found her attractive? It seemed that some men had found her so, since her arrival in London. However, they never did call again after the first couple of meetings. It was a surface, transitory thing then, this apparent attraction, and not to be taken seriously, she was sure.

  She had never considered her looks before—it never seemed important, and Papa had always taught her that true beauty came from the mind and heart. But since they'd come to town, the notion that one's physical appearance had more than ordinary significance—aside from sheer aesthetic appreciation—to the world at large, kept intruding upon her attention. Indeed, she was nigh infected with the idea. Certainly, the marquess's appearance seemed to have affected her in more than a purely aesthetic way. She shook her head. How odd it was!

  She felt a touch on her arm and found her mother gazing sternly at her. "Now, Cassandra, when Lord Blytheland comes to take you into supper, you must be all that is amiable and pleasant. And please do not blurt out every thought that comes to your mind. Gentlemen do not find that way of speaking at all attractive."

  "Yes, Mama," Cassandra said.

  A look of deep misgiving came over Lady Hathaway's face.

  "I will try, Mama!" Cassandra exclaimed. "Truly! Have I not tried these past weeks?"

  Lady Hathaway's expression softened. "I know you have tried, my dear, and you have improved. But really, do be careful."