The sound of tuning instruments made Cassandra glance eagerly at the musicians again, and she gave her mother a hasty yes in reply. This time she heard the name of the piece—a violin sonata by Herr von Beethoven.
For the first time in her life, Cassandra could not keep her mind on the music playing before her. It was as if each sweet note conspired to make her think of Lord Blytheland and the way he looked, and smiled, and held her hand. It did not help at all when it was time for him to play the solo. His manner was cool and polite as he stood by the orchestra. But once he put the violin against his chest it seemed as if some otherworldly spirit seized him, for his bow and fingers attacked and caressed the strings and brought forth music that sang from heaven or cried up from hell—she knew not which.
Finally, after what seemed an age, the music stopped. Cassandra found she could breathe again in a normal fashion. She still looked at him, and it appeared as if his smile was just a little warmer in her direction when he bowed to the audience. She looked away, irritated at herself for blushing. How silly she was being! She was acting no differently than the shallow schoolgirls she'd known at the Bath girl's school she had stayed in—until, thankfully, Papa had rescued her. There was no education to gain there, Papa had said, and he was in the right of it.
She would speak honestly when they went into supper, she thought, determined to rid herself of the silliness that threatened to overcome her. If the marquess did not like it, why then she was certain Papa would say the man was unworthy of a man's—or woman's—esteem.
Cassandra felt a moment's unease when she remembered her mother's dictum. It was true she tended to speak before she thought. But this time, she would be careful of that. She would think through her responses before she spoke and make certain she spoke as carefully—as truly—as she could. There could be no offense in that.
Perhaps it was a slight noise or a little breeze stirred by his movement toward her, but Cassandra was suddenly aware of the marquess's presence. She looked up and found him smiling down at her.
"Shall we go in to supper, Miss Hathaway?"
Cassandra looked uncertainly at her mother, for her father had left her side to talk with an acquaintance, but Lady Hathaway merely smiled and nodded. "Of course, my dear, do go. Your father and I will follow you, as soon as I can tear him away from discussing his musical theories."
"Thank you, my lord, I shall be pleased to accompany you." Cassandra glanced at him. The marquess was still smiling at her, and she could not help smiling back. He took her hand in his own—gently, caressingly, as if it were some rare treasure. She rose, and he led her to the supper room.
Mrs. Bostitch had set up an informal supper, with little tables in the middle of the room and sideboards filled with delicacies next to the walls. The marquess led Cassandra to a small table set behind some palm fronds. Though the table was otherwise not secluded in any way, Cassandra felt as if the plants lent the table a certain intimacy. She smiled at herself. How fanciful she was becoming! Her parents were clearly in sight—she could see her mother standing patiently next to her father as he talked with his friend. Yet when she looked up at Lord Blytheland, she felt almost as if she were alone in a small room with him. There was something about his deep blue eyes, whose penetrating look seemed to read her heart as well as he surely read music. He said nothing, but seemed content for the while to look at her. His gaze seemed almost assessing—then he glanced away briefly, and she was sure she fancied the whole of it.
"You play beautifully, my lord," Cassandra said. She felt she must say something, for his gaze and the silence had stretched out to an uncomfortable length. "I think the second movement of the sonata was especially well done."
"You are musical, then, Miss Hathaway?"
"Oh, I play the pianoforte, but I am in no way the virtuoso you are."
"You flatter me, ma'am."
Cassandra raised her eyes to his. "Oh, no, I never flatter. You must be quite an acclaimed musician, for I have heard many violinists, but you are far better than any I have heard so far."
Blytheland began to feel a touch of boredom. He had heard these words before, from other quite insipid misses. That was why he generally kept himself to older, much more sophisticated women—fast widows preferably. He wondered if Miss Hathaway was going to gush out further tedious little phrases. It was just as well if she did—that would be the flaw he would concentrate upon, and thus banish any incipient interest he might have. He let his gaze wander away from her.
"However, I did think you could have added a little more forte in the middle phrases of the first movement."
Blytheland returned his gaze swiftly to Miss Hathaway's face. Her expression was open and clear of guile or coquetry. Indeed, her brow creased in thought, and her eyes seemed to consider the subject seriously.
"How so?" He wondered how much of music Miss Hathaway really knew.
"Well, I have always believed that Herr Beethoven favored the pianoforte above any other instrument, and it is clear even in this sonata. However, it is a piano and violin sonata, and the composer gave the violin the opportunity to express itself in the middle phrases of the first movement by having the pianoforte play a less complex melody than the violin there. It was your opportunity to establish that this, indeed, was the violin's place. I felt you did not take complete advantage of the opportunity."
The marquess did not know whether to feel delighted or annoyed. He looked at her large green eyes, her soft pink lips, and delicate skin. She dressed in good taste and becomingly—not daringly—but well enough to enhance her charms and hint at more intriguing assets.
For now it could not hurt to be delighted, he decided. "You are quite right, Miss Hathaway. That passage has always been a difficult one for me, and I tend to take it with more caution and less spirit than I should."
Miss Hathaway looked at him in a considering manner. "But you are clearly a most excellent musician. I would think you could easily overcome any difficulty and play it with ease."
He now saw she said this with no intention to flatter. She furrowed her brow as if she were working out a puzzle, and she stated her opinion simply, as if she expected her reasoning would be taken seriously.
Blytheland smiled. "I fear you vastly overrate my abilities."
She gazed at him, her eyes earnest. "Oh, no, my lord. I fear you vastly underrate your abilities. I am excessively fond of music, and I have never heard anyone quite as proficient as you are." She reached over in an impulsive gesture and pressed his hand. "You really should have more confidence in yourself, Lord Blytheland," she said kindly. "How else can you continue to improve?"
The marquess opened his mouth and then shut it, suddenly bereft of words. He wondered if she was aware that she praised and insulted in the same breath. And yet, he felt he could not take offense, for clearly she spoke nothing but what she perceived to be the truth, and clearly she meant well. A mischievous part of his mind wondered how other people took her blunt statements. It would be very, very amusing to see.
"Improve?" he said, "and I thought you said I was of virtuoso status! I am sorely cast down, Miss Hathaway." He put on a look of extreme dejection.
He noticed she blushed wonderfully. "I did not mean— That is to say—" She stopped, looked at him straightly, and lifted her chin. "You, my lord, are a terrible tease."
"I?" He put on a wounded expression and spread his hand over his heart. "My dear Miss Hathaway, how can you say so?"
"Very easily! Do you have sisters?"
"Yes, I do."
"Then I daresay you were a menace to them."
"Not I! Rather the opposite. Never was a poor, helpless boy so besieged by his termagant sisters."
"With reason, I am sure!" But her lips quivered upward.
"Ah, there you are!"
Blytheland turned to find that Lady Hathaway had arrived with Sir John in tow. Sir John had an abstracted air about him, as if he were in profound thought. The lady smiled benevolently at her daughter a
nd the marquess.
"I am terribly sorry we were delayed," she said. "I hope Cassandra has been keeping you entertained." Blytheland noted wryly that she did not look sorry in the least. No doubt she considered him a good "catch" for her daughter. He would put an end to that notion, and soon . . . although it could not hurt to linger in Miss Hathaway's presence for just a little longer.
"Quite," he replied. "Miss Hathaway, I find, is a music connoisseur." He turned to Miss Hathaway. "Do you play your pianoforte often, ma'am?"
"Oh, I try, but it is nothing—not with the skill you have at the violin, my lord." Miss Hathaway blushed, but the marquess felt perhaps this was not false modesty. There were very few ladies who played with much skill or talent, after all.
"Perhaps I may ask that you play for me at some time, Miss Hathaway?" Blytheland surprised himself. He did not intend to say that at all. But as he looked into her beautiful eyes, he could not help but continue. "Tomorrow, if it is not inconvenient?"
* * * *
Lord Blytheland cursed himself roundly as he put away his violin and made ready to leave Mrs. Bostitch's house. If he had any sense at all, he'd quit society and become a monk. He'd only meant to seek out some flaw in Miss Hathaway when he had introduced himself to her and her family. Well, he'd found one, but had he concentrated upon it and politely detached himself from her and his attraction to her? No, he had not. Instead, he had asked to call upon the Hathaways and asked to listen to Miss Hathaway play the piano.
An image of Lady Hathaway's smug smile and eager agreement that Miss Hathaway should play for him came before him. He grimaced. Not only had he allowed himself to be drawn into the Miss Hathaway's company, he had raised Lady Hathaway's matrimonial hopes for her daughter. He sincerely hoped Miss Cassandra Hathaway was a wretched pianist and he could depress any pretensions in that quarter, and in her mother. He closed and latched his violin case with a decided snap.
"Hit a sour note, old man?" said a familiar voice.
Blytheland looked up to see his friend Lord Eldon, and he grinned. "No. Not that you'd notice if I did—which makes me wonder why you are here, El."
"Oh, you know how it is with my sister and the mater. It isn't enough to have my younger brother caught in the parson's mousetrap—although I must say Susan is quite a pretty little thing—they must have me caught, too." Lord Eldon held up a hand. "And before you accuse me of being led around by the nose by the females in my family, I came only because St. Vire's here—damnably fond of music these days, it seems—he told me he'd reveal the trick to trying a perfect Mathematical."
Blytheland eyed the impeccably tied neckcloth around his friend's collar. "Seems like you already know the trick, El."
Eldon looked pained. "One may always improve. A man of fashion does not rest on his laurels."
"Nor does he ignore the ladies when his mother tells him he needs to produce heirs."
Eldon gave a disappointed sigh. "How you malign me—" But a grin broke out on his face. "Well, there it is. If I don't see what's available in the marriage market this year, I'll never hear the last of it from the mater, and will have to leave town just to get out of earshot. Damned awkward, that, especially when I need to replenish my supply of waistcoats." He shrugged. "I'll just cast a glance at the usual gaggle at Almack's, tell the mater they're not worthy of the Eldon name, then spend the rest of my time at White's." He lifted an eyebrow at Blytheland. "Although I must say, the lady to whom you were so attentive was above the usual run of misses one sees in London these days. Thinking of giving another try at a nursery, Blythe?"
The marquess turned a sardonic eye to his friend. "Misery loves company, is that it? A nursery—hardly. Why you should think so is beyond me. Just because a man speaks with a young woman, it does not mean he's thinking of matrimony."
'True, true. But it seems she was accompanied by her parents . . . and I've not seen you go near a marriageable young thing in a while."
Blytheland shrugged. "Sir John Hathaway is a classical scholar, as is my father, and they are acquainted. Sir John wished to ask after an ancient manuscript, that is all."
"Of course." Lord Eldon grinned widely.
"Stubble it, El." The marquess picked up his violin case and gave his friend an irritated glance before stalking from the room.
"Anything you say, Blythe," Eldon called after him and chuckled.
* * * *
Eros kept himself fairly insubstantial and hovered near the ceiling so that his glow would blend with that of the chandelier's candlelight. Well, he had done it, and he was quite satisfied. He had known for a long time that Miss Cassandra Hathaway would be the right mate for Lord Blytheland, although it had taken him three tries to do it. He had hit the marquess each time, but for some reason, the man had seemed unmoved, as if he had not seen Cassandra at all. Instead, he had had a brief affair with some other woman, over in less than a month.
The thought that something was quite wrong with the marquess had definitely occurred to Eros, and even now made him feel a little uneasy. He shook his head and grinned. Well, it was of no matter now; Lord Blytheland had seen Cassandra at last, and certainly must have fallen in love with her.
Chapter 2
"Cassandra," said Psyche. "Do listen to me."
Cassandra turned slowly toward her younger sister as if pulled unwillingly from a delightful dream. She looked at the girl blankly.
"I am sorry, Psyche. Did you say something?"
"Only that you have knotted your fringe in a terrible tangle"
"Oh, have I?" Cassandra looked down in her lap at the fringe she was trying to make. Her face suddenly lost its dreamlike expression and she let out an exasperated sigh. "Oh, good heavens! So I have." She turned a rueful smile to her sister. "Dear Psyche, do be a good child and unknot this for me. You know how terrible I am at fringing, and you are so good at disentangling things."
"I don't know why you even try fringing at all, Cassandra," Psyche said, taking the piecework from her sister and curling up in an armchair by the parlor fire. She carefully started picking it apart. "I thought you had given it up long ago."
"Well, I thought it might be good for me. Mama says that fine work helps keep one even-tempered."
"I do not see how she can say that," Psyche replied, cocking her head to one side in a considering manner. "I have always been good at needlework, but Mama always says I am too unruly for words." She gazed assessingly at Cassandra. "And why do you need to be even-tempered?"
Psyche had always thought that Cassandra must be the best-behaved young lady ever, for she never got into trouble like she herself did.
"Oh, goodness, I don't know! I truly do not know what came over me—I detest fringing." Cassandra rose from her chair and poked at the fire in the grate.
"Harry says it's the marquess." Psyche nodded her head wisely.
"Really, Psyche, how can you say so?" She turned around and faced her sister. Psyche smiled privately to herself. She'd be willing to wager that the heat of the fire alone did not cause the pink in Cassandra's cheeks.
"Well, Cassandra, I don't. That's what Harry says."
"You know very well that your Harry is purely imaginary. And you also know Mama does not like you to speak about him—it! You are all of twelve, Psyche, and should have outgrown your pretend playmate long ago."
"He isn't pretend. Besides, Papa believes me."
"Oh, I daresay Papa thinks you are speaking in metaphors." Cassandra walked to the pianoforte and absently toyed with a melody.
"No he doesn't, and Papa does believe me—he told me so!" Psyche retorted. "Not only that, but Harry is here right this minute, turning the pages of—what is it? Oh, it's Aristophanes."
Cassandra turned to look at the open book Psyche pointed to across the room. It sat on a table close to the window. As she watched, a page flipped over. She started, but then recovered.
"Oh, nonsense, Psyche! It is only that this house is dreadfully drafty. It is merely a breeze—and yes, look here—s
omeone's left the window open." Cassandra closed it with a snap.
"Window or no, Cassandra, you must admit that some things have come about that you couldn't."
"Such as—?"
"Our butler and housekeeper. They used to have dreadful rows belowstairs, and now the maids say the Thrimbles act like a new-wed pair. Harry told me he detested their noise and so he shot his arrows at them."
Cassandra smiled kindly. "I think it was more the books on marriage Vicar Thomason asked me to give them, Psyche, than any of Harry's arrows." She let out an exasperated breath. "Oh, now you have me talking of him—it!—as if Harry were real!" Her eyes settled on the clock upon the mantelpiece. "Oh, heavens! I must change my dress! I think the mar—That is, we will be having callers soon." Gathering up her skirts, Cassandra rushed out the door.
"I told you."
Psyche put down the fringe and looked at the boy sitting on the table near the window. She made a face at him. "So you did. But I really wish you would let another one of my family see you, too!"
Harry leaned back, clasping one knee in his hands, and his wings waved lazily. He grinned. "You needn't talk about me, you know. Then there would be nothing for them to disbelieve."
"How can I stop when you pinch housemaids, for instance? And Kenneth was unjustly accused of it, too!"
"I do not pinch housemaids," Harry replied loftily. "It was only one housemaid. Besides, it is not as if your brother hasn't pinched housemaids himself—and got away with it."
"Well, I think it's beastly of you—whatever did that poor maid do to you?"
"Oh, nothing—more's the pity," Harry said. He looked up at the ceiling, folded his wings, and looked quite angelic.
Psyche put her hands on her waist. "Don't come the innocent with me, Harry! I know you must have been up to mischief!"
"Not I! I was only seeing that justice was done."
"What, by pinching the maid?"
"No, by seeing that your brother was accused of it. I find it unfair that any number of housemaids have fallen head- over-tails in love with Kenneth, and all he does is steal a kiss and pinch them."
Cupid's Mistake (Cupid Regency Romance) Page 3
