But it did seem, at least, that in such things as discussions, Lord Blytheland was as other men. As a result, she was that much closer to knowing more of him. And she did so wish to know more of Lord Blytheland. Not, of course, because she wished . . . well, what she wished, she was not certain.
"Do you stay in London long, Miss Hathaway?"
Cassandra turned her attention to the young woman in the barouche next to her. Miss Sophia Amberley was beautiful and had large blue eyes. Cassandra would almost have thought they were innocent eyes, but the sharp, speculative look Miss Amberley gave her and the marquess was not innocent at all. Cassandra's face became warm. Surely Miss Amberley was not thinking that Lord Blytheland could be very much interested in her, Cassandra? No other gentleman had this Season, and there was no reason why he should either.
Stop it! Cassandra scolded herself, and made herself smile at Miss Amberley. "Oh, only until the end of the Season, for there is not much more left to do after that."
A satisfied expression came to Miss Amberley's face. "That is too bad. There are dozens of diversions in London after the Season is over, you know. We often stay into the summer."
Cassandra nodded, pleased that there was something upon which she could converse. "Oh, yes! But it gets terribly warm here in the city by then, and I cannot think the miasma that rises from the river at that time is at all healthy. It could make one look quite sickly.
'That is to say," Cassandra said hurriedly into the silence that ensued, "the fresh country air in the summer is bound to bring a healthy glow to one's complexion—not that you do not have a healthy complexion, Miss Amberley! Or you, Lady Amberley!"
"I am glad to know you think our complexions quite . . . healthy, Miss Hathaway," Lady Amberley said, her voice chilly. "Well, Sophia. I do believe I see Lady Stonebaugh a little farther along the road." She nodded her head to the marquess and barely glanced at Cassandra. "My lord, Miss . . . Hathaway. Good day to you both." She signaled to the coachman, and the barouche went forward.
Cassandra's heart sank. She looked down at her tightly closed hands, then flattened them on her lap. She must have insulted Lady Amberley and her daughter. She glanced at Lord Blytheland. He was not looking at her, but ahead as he slackened the reins, moving the horses forward. For a moment, a small smile played about his mouth and relief flowed into her. Perhaps she had not totally ruined this afternoon carriage ride, for he could not smile and be displeased at the same time.
She felt half regretful and half relieved when they drove up to her family's house once again. They had not spoken of much else except of the weather on the way back, and for this Cassandra was thankful. She had experimented a little by teasing him, to see how he would respond to it, and she felt she had done it quite successfully. But she had also blundered and was just as glad they had started talking of the weather, for she did not want to blunder again. The weather, at least, was a safe subject.
When the carriage stopped. Lord Blytheland handed his reins to his tiger and stepped down to help her from her seat. This time, his eyes were cool as blue eyes were supposed to be, though his smile seemed just as wide as before. She wished, suddenly, that he looked warmly upon her as he had before the carriage ride, and despondency rose in her. It was, no doubt, because she had been so gauche during their carriage ride that he looked so coolly at her now. She was not at all sure now he'd wish to see her again. Why should he? But how she wished he would!
"Shall I see you at the Marchmont's ball, tomorrow?" Cassandra blurted. Lord Blytheland's brows rose, and her face grew warm. "That is I—never mind—I should not have—" She swallowed and looked away, then summoned up a smile. "I am very foolish, am I not? I never know what to say to people. Please excuse me." She stepped down from the carriage and gave him as cheery a smile as she could. "Thank you very much for a most delightful ride, my lord. Our conversation was quite delightful, and the weather was delight…" Her voice faltered. She gazed down at her hands clasped tight together, then turned quickly to the door of the house.
"Miss Hathaway."
Cassandra stopped, her hand on the doorknob.
"I shall be at Lady Marchmont's ball."
She turned to look at him and found he had followed her up the steps. This time she could not help the hope and joy that rose in her heart and made her smile. "I am glad," she said.
Lord Blytheland stared at her for one moment, his expression serious. "Will you save a dance for me?" he asked. There was an intent air about him, as if he were holding his breath.
It was a ridiculous thing to be so happy over such a small thing as a dance, Cassandra thought. But she was happy, and she felt sure she looked like an idiot, grinning so widely as she was. "Oh yes!" she said, then firmly reined in her feelings. "Yes, thank you, my lord."
The marquess took her hand and kissed it. "I shall definitely look forward to it, then." He gave a brief smile, bowed, and went down the steps to his carriage again. Cassandra watched him as he touched his hat to her in another bow and drove off.
Cassandra turned and stared at the door of the house as she went up the stairs. She missed the doorknob at first when trying to open it, then shook her head at herself for being in such a daze. How silly she was!
She sighed and went up to her room to change her dress. Silly indeed. There was no depending upon a man's interest, really. No man had been all that interested in her before, and there was no reason why Lord Blytheland should, either.
But he has paid more attention to you than any other man, whispered a little voice that crept into her mind.
Cassandra pressed her lips together and took the little voice to task. Well, there! she told herself firmly. She was becoming foolish over a thing that was wholly insignificant. So what of Lord Blytheland's attentions? That he had paid her more attention than any other man was an insignificant thing. He could very well stop at any time, as did the others. Besides, he had only been with her one or two times.
It could be three or four or five . . . said the little voice.
And what was the use of "could be" in such matters? she argued. One was best served by placing one's reliance on what was and what should be.
A clock tolled the hour and Cassandra hurried up the rest of the stairs. It was almost time for the meeting of the Society for the Rescue of Climbing Boys. She had done very well, she thought, in speaking in general terms about her charitable pursuits. Mama would be quite pleased that she had not mentioned climbing boys at all during the ride with Lord Blytheland.
She hastened into her room; she would have to change her clothes quickly. Most certainly she could not wear this spencer and dress to the meeting! She glanced down at the dress and blushed—it had become disarrayed even more than before. Heavens! She would give the spencer away to Psyche, for whom it would be a little large and certainly not as indecent. What could her mother have been thinking?
The little voice began to speak up, but Cassandra quashed it as firmly as she shut the door to her room.
Chapter 5
Miss Hathaway was definitely not the sort of woman he usually liked. Lord Blytheland smiled at his reflection in his chamber's mirror as he adjusted his neckcloth. Slowly he let down his chin upon the folds of cloth. Satisfied, he turned to his valet and put on his coat.
No, Miss Cassandra Hathaway was too blunt for him, too impetuous in her speech, and she blurted out whatever happened to be in her mind. She had little finesse, though in general her manners were good, and she was inept in company. Further, it was clear she was a bluestocking, and worse, a believer in that Wollstonecraft woman's ideas.
Like Chloe.
A hard, hot anger surged in his chest, and for one moment his hand stilled before he drew his jacket together. He took in a deep breath.
No, to be fair, not like Chloe. He let out his breath and frowned slightly. Chloe had had a great deal of charm, and a sparkling wit. She would never inadvertently insult anyone. He remembered suddenly a smiling remark his wife had once uttered, and h
ow he had thought her clever for giving a set-down to an encroaching guest with such finesse. She had done this often, he realized.
Miss Hathaway was not like this. There was something about her He grinned. She often seemed to have a bewildered, worried air, as if she were some small wild creature suddenly uncovered from under a sheaf of bracken.
Somehow he could not imagine her giving a deliberate set- down to anyone.
Which was why, despite all her awkwardness, her gaucherie, and her definite bluestocking interests, he'd asked her for a dance at the Marchmonts' ball. Blytheland pulled on his greatcoat—the Marchmonts' house was a good half hour from town, and the night was cool—then sighed as he took his hat from his valet. He had attempted to depress her pretensions, and when she had looked at him with her wide, hurt eyes, he had felt like a cad.
Chloe had never been like that. She had made fine play with her eyes, had coaxed and cajoled, she had tossed her fiery hair or smiled and reasoned with one in such a way that her desires seemed altogether sensible. He would not be so trapped again.
Yet, he was not imperceptive, either. It was clear to him that Miss Hathaway was not at all like Chloe in nature. Miss Hathaway did not cajole or coax, and he wondered if she knew how to flirt with her eyes. When she looked at him, it was as if she searched for something beneath his words, down to his very heart.
Perhaps her interest in radical ideas was not deep, and perhaps she could be persuaded away from them. And who would do the persuading? The thought made him pause one moment before ascending the steps to his coach.
"Thinking of setting up a nursery?" Eldon had said. Blytheland leaned back onto the squabs of the carriage and carefully let the thought settle into his mind. He was six- and-twenty years old, the only heir of his father, the Duke of Beaumont. Though his father had not pressured him into a second marriage, Blytheland was quite aware of his obligation to continue the line.
It had been two years . . . two years since Chloe had lain with another man and died of the result. An anger still burned in him from time to time, and sometimes he felt an odd ache of emptiness. No one could fill Chloe's place, for she had played a role he thought he had loved and now knew he hated.
But was he not older now, and wiser? And he was not so much of a fool as to think that all women were like Chloe. Was not his own mother a devoted wife? And his sisters were certainly faithful also, and no scandal had ever touched them.
He smiled and felt the tension fall away from his shoulders. Eldon may have been teasing, but he was quite right. It was time to think of marrying a suitable young lady of good morals and good birth. Indeed, it did not matter if he loved the lady or not, it was an heir he needed and a respectable, honest young woman who would neither play him nor the title false. He would go about it in a reasonable manner this time and would select his new wife with careful reason, and pay strict attention to all that he required in a wife.
Indeed, his preoccupation with Miss Hathaway—and he admitted his thoughts had been a little too filled with her image of late—was a clear indication of one thing: it was time he was married again. He needed to continue the Templeton line after all. Marriage would certainly help assuage whatever passions he'd been experiencing lately, and he was growing tired of flitting from one brief liaison to another.
The coach rumbled to a halt in front of the Marchmonts' house, and the image of Miss Hathaway rose in his mind. Blytheland smiled to himself. Oh, she was eligible, for her breeding was good, however socially inept she was, but he could do better than Cassandra Hathaway, a baronet's daughter of moderate fortune. He was heir to a dukedom, and owed the title a lady worthy of it. One who was elegant and beautiful, preferably, and certainly one who had much better address than Miss Hathaway.
The Marchmonts' ball would be just the place to start his search. There should be many eligible ladies attending, because the Marchmonts were of good ton and had many connections with the best families in England. There should be no question that he had no more interest—perhaps even less—in Miss Hathaway than in any other young lady. Once he looked over the unwedded female portion of the guests, he could have his mother handle the rest. . . or perhaps not. His mother tended to have strong opinions about who was suitable and who was not, and she had objected mightily to his choice of Chloe. He grimaced. Well, she was right in that case. Perhaps it would be good to have her handle the whole, winnow out the objectionable ones, so to speak, so he could pick the one he liked best. Yes, he would do that.
He smiled as he descended the coach and stepped up to the Marchmonts' door. All he needed was a young lady of good family, comely enough for him to wish to bed, intelligent enough not to bore him, appreciative enough of music so as not to deplore his interest in it, and her family wealthy enough not to be a drain on his estate and the future of his family. Once more the image of Cassandra Hathaway rose in front of him, but he pushed it firmly aside. She was one possible candidate only, and perhaps he'd dance only the one dance he had requested of her. There would be many other eligible ladies at the ball. With such opportunities, how difficult could it be to find a wife, after all?
* * * *
Bright candlelight shimmered through the windows of the Marchmonts' house. Cassandra's hands clutched her ivory-handled fan tightly. For the first time since she'd come to London with her family, she felt agitated about going to a ball. To be sure, her first one had made her a little nervous, but she'd found since then that though she was not popular as were some other ladies, she always danced at least a few dances, talked with at least a few people, and generally enjoyed the music. It became an expected thing, a weekly routine.
But this time he would be there—Lord Blytheland. Please, dear God, she prayed silently, keep me from acting like a ninny. Cassandra sighed as she descended the coach with her mother and father. Heaven knows she had not been herself since meeting the marquess. Stammering and blushing like a girl of thirteen instead of a lady of three- and-twenty! Indeed, worse, for even Psyche did not falter and stumble over her speech when in his presence. Really, Cassandra, she mentally scolded herself, Lord Blytheland is just a man—not any different from, say, your father or your brother!
Oh, but he was different! whispered what she believed was her baser side. She could not deny that. How could he not be? He looked nothing like her father, and as for any comparison of character with her younger brother—! Ridiculous! How kind the marquess was to call on her and listen to her play the sonata. Cassandra bit her lip. She should not have played the "Appassionata"; she knew her mother preferred her to play more feminine music—a ballad, or a dainty divertimento. But she'd found the music for Herr Beethoven's work at the bookseller's and could not resist playing such a moving piece for the marquess. Not that she wanted him to be moved, of course! It was merely that she thought Lord Blytheland might appreciate the sonata's beauty and power as she did, since he was such a talented musician. It seemed he thought the music unladylike as well, but he so kindly praised her on it, and even asked to play a duet with her at a future date. Perhaps he did appreciate it. She hoped so.
As Cassandra and her parents entered the Marchmonts' ballroom, she could not help looking about her for the marquess. She did not see him. Her shoulders went up in a small, involuntary shrug, warding off disappointment. Well, it was as she thought. He was merely being kind when he had asked for a dance. Whatever the case, she would enjoy the ball. She had dressed with care in a royal blue round gown with a silver-net overdress—a trifle more low-cut than she was accustomed, but which her mother said looked very becoming on her. What did it matter that Lord Blytheland was not here to see her? She was not, after all, an ornament to be displayed.
They sat to one side of the room, close to the refreshments. "Dashed thirsty work, this dancing," Sir John said, although Cassandra did not know how her father could say this since he would dance only with her and her mother, and perhaps one other lady—if forced. She noticed that he found a seat next to an old acquaintance, and was soon
deep in a discussion of Greek plays. Cassandra smiled and allowed herself to relax, watching the people begin to gather for the first set of the dance.
"Miss Hathaway, would you grant me the honor of this dance?"
The marquess's soft voice startled her, and she jerked her head around to look at him.
She'd thought Lord Blytheland handsome before, but she had rated him low. He was dressed in a blue coat so dark as to seem black, his knee breeches were of the palest yellow, his shirt points were high, and a sapphire pin glistened within the folds of his neckcloth. The close-fitting coat displayed his wide shoulders to perfection, and the breeches clung to his long and well-muscled legs. His gold embroidered cream waistcoat declared him one of the dandy set, and on any other man the effect would have been overdone. Instead, it set off Lord Blytheland's tall and elegant form, and he looked magnificent.
Cassandra felt herself blushing, but she was determined not to be missish. Drawing in a deep breath to calm herself, she put her hand in his outstretched one and said, "I would be delighted to dance with you, Lord Blytheland."
She smiled at him, for she had succeeded in controlling her voice so that it did not shake or stutter—but then she was glad she'd said her piece before she looked into his face. He was gazing at her intently, and a smile slowly warmed his expression. It reached his eyes and there something seemed to glow as if a stronger emotion than kindness existed for her.
She must be imagining it! Looking hurriedly away, Cassandra concentrated on getting to the dance set before her. It was a simple country dance, and there would be little chance for them to talk. She sighed with relief.
"A sad crush, is it not? Lady Marchmont should be happy." The marquess tapped a guest's shoulder, smiled, and passed through a small gap in the crowd.
Cupid's Mistake (Cupid Regency Romance) Page 7
