"Yes, although why anyone should be happy that their guests cannot move an inch except on the dance floor, I do not know," Cassandra replied. He laughed. She glanced at him again. He was still smiling, but the emotion she thought she saw in his eyes was gone.
"Nor do I. But it seems to be every hostess's ambition."
"Ambition is not a virtue, my lord. It is very like to greed."
"Just so."
Cassandra cast a suspicious look at him. "Are you laughing at me, sir?"
The marquess put on an innocent look. "I? My dear Miss Hathaway, why should I laugh at you?"
A chuckle bubbled up behind her lips, and she failed to suppress it. "But you are! Odious man! Indeed, I do believe you meant to give me a set-down!"
"Not at all," replied Blytheland. "Were I to give you one, you would definitely know it."
"Now that is a set-down, if ever I heard one."
The marquess laughed again. She smiled but looked at him thoughtfully, and though he grinned down at her she wondered how blistering his set-downs could be. He could be quite unpleasant about it, she felt. There was that intensity about him, despite his meticulous clothing and easy address. It seemed to come out only when he played his music, but she imagined it must always be there, beneath the calm.
"Oh, Lord Blytheland! Is that you?" cried a female voice. Cassandra turned to look and stared. The lady coming toward them must have been the most—"decorated" was the only word Cassandra could think of—person she had ever seen. Her voluptuous form was draped in jewels and necklaces that covered a bosom barely contained within her bodice. Cassandra looked at the marquess. A fleeting, irritated expression seemed to cross his face, then a cool smile took its place. He bowed politely.
"Is it me, Mrs. Bradstead? I thought it was my twin." His smile turned more cool than before.
Mrs. Bradstead seemed not to notice. "Naughty man!" she said, lightly tapping her fan on his arm. "I know you do not have a twin, so you cannot hoax me! Now, tell me, where have you been? It has been an age since I saw you last!"
"An age, ma'am? I thought I saw you just a few days ago."
Her fan traced a line down his lapel. "It seemed an age to me," she said, her voice caressing.
Blytheland's finger halted the fan's progress, and he pushed it away from him. "And here I thought time passed slowly only for the young—or young in mind." He smiled charmingly at Mrs. Bradstead.
The woman looked nonplussed, as if she could not think of a reply. She looked at Cassandra. "And who is your charming—young—companion, my lord?"
The marquess's smile grew wider. "Miss Cassandra Hathaway, ma'am. Miss Hathaway, Mrs. Aurelia Bradstead."
Cassandra curtsied, feeling a little sorry for Mrs. Bradstead. The woman was clearly not good at understanding allusions or metaphor. Lord Blytheland must see this; he should not tease her so! But then, Cassandra had already experienced his teasing earlier; he was not much different in this respect from her brother. She could tolerate it, but it was clear this poor lady could not. Perhaps she should turn the conversation, to spare Mrs. Bradstead discomfort.
"I am pleased to meet you, Mrs. Bradstead. I hope you do not mind, but I cannot help but admire your beautiful necklaces. You do have such a lovely display of them, do you not?" Cassandra smiled kindly at her.
"Why, why, I—I have never—!" Mrs. Bradstead sputtered.
Cassandra nodded and smiled comfortingly. "You need not explain. I know how it is! When one is fond of a certain thing one tends to wear it to excess, does one not? I myself was surprised one day to find that most of my dresses are in varying shades of blue—and how tedious that could be! But there it is! One cannot help wearing what one favors."
Mrs. Bradstead shot her one burning look, then stalked away as fast as the crowded room would allow. Cassandra suddenly felt uncertain. It seemed Mrs. Bradstead had taken offense at something she had said; but how could that be? She had only complimented her on her selection of jewelry.
She glanced at Lord Blytheland, hoping he was not displeased at her. She was surprised to find a wide grin on his face. "I . . . I did not mean to offend your friend, my lord," she said tentatively.
"It does not matter," the marquess replied. He looked down at her, and it seemed that a mischievous light danced in his eyes. Was he laughing at her? Cassandra put up her chin defensively.
"If you must know, I thought you were teasing her, so I tried to turn the conversation." She gazed at him sternly.
"And very successfully, too, Miss Hathaway."
"I cannot see that. Why, she acted as if I offended her terribly."
"Of course you were successful. You turned the conversation so well that she turned and left."
"So I did offend her!" Cassandra looked down at her clenched hands, then gazed at Lord Blytheland earnestly. "I must go after her and apologize!" She turned to go.
She felt a firm hand on her arm. "No, don't," he said. "If you must know, I was trying to give her a set-down myself."
"That was not well done of you, my lord," Cassandra replied gravely.
"Was it? She is an encroaching creature, and malicious. I did not know it when I first—met her. It is just as well she left us." The look he gave her was as cool as the one he had given Mrs. Bradstead.
Cassandra's heart sank. She had offended him, now. But it was not wrong to speak the truth. She gave him a firm look. "And that set-down was meant for me, was it not?"
"Yes, but it was not very effective, was it?"
"No," Cassandra replied baldly. "I spoke nothing but the truth, after all."
Lord Blytheland's eyes lightened, and he laughed. "I see it was not at all effective."
She looked at him uncertainly. How unpredictable he was, to be sure!
They came to where the dance set had formed, but their conversation with Mrs. Bradstead had delayed them and the dance had already started. "Alas, we are too late. Would you mind taking a stroll along the terrace instead, Miss Hathaway?"
A little disappointed that she was not to dance with him, Cassandra nodded. Feeling a little diffident, she cast a glance at her mother across the room.
Apparently catching her look, Lord Blytheland said, "I will ask your parents for permission, of course." Cassandra nodded and watched him maneuver through the crowd, then bow before her mother and father. She saw them talk, and then saw her mother look in her direction. Lady Hathaway merely smiled at her, and Cassandra felt more at ease.
The marquess gave one more bow before he turned back toward Cassandra. He was carrying something, and as he came closer she could see it was her shawl. How thoughtful of him! A glowing warmth crept into her heart, and Cassandra smiled at him. She had not thought that she might be chilled in the night air, but he had.
As they stepped through the threshold onto the terrace, Cassandra felt suddenly uncertain. She thought there might be others on the terrace as well, but she could see only the vague shapes of a low stone wall and shrubbery beyond that, for the curtains kept much of the candlelight from escaping the ballroom. She did not see any people, but there must have been, for she thought she heard the murmur of voices some distance away. Well, it was not, certainly, as if they were totally alone.
The night air was cool and a light breeze brushed the curls around her face. Something else intimately brushed her neck and shoulder, but it was not a breeze, for it was warmer. Her heart beat faster. She turned to find the marquess smiling down at her, and then her small spark of alarm faded, for he had only draped her delicate woolen shawl across her shoulders. Really, Cassandra! she scolded herself. As if Lord Blytheland would do anything improper! She let out her breath in a long sigh.
"I thank you, my lord. This is pleasant, is it not? I am glad you suggested it." She looked up at the stars sparkling like tiny candles in the sky and gave a little chuckle. "When I was a girl, I used to think each star was an angel that played an instrument, and that someday I would hear a symphony if I listened hard enough."
"Ah, but th
ey are angels, don't you know."
His voice was closer to her than she expected, and she quickly glanced at him to see him gazing reflectively at her. I will not be missish, she told herself, and looked steadily out at the night.
"It is best on a clear night like this; you need only concentrate, and listen," the marquess said softly. She could feel his breath upon her ear as he spoke, and then felt his fingers brush against her shoulder. He lifted a curl that lay against her neck and let it drop. She looked up at him, wondering what he was thinking, but felt she dare not ask.
"I—I am afraid the noise of the guests from the ballroom drowns them out."
"Pretend the guests are not there." He put his fingers under her chin, lifting it so that she looked him in the eye. He was gazing at her with a serious, considering expression. Cassandra held her breath. Was he . . . was he going to kiss her? And if so, would she let him?
She closed her eyes briefly, and felt a touch upon her mouth—but it was not a kiss. His fingers still held her chin, but his thumb slowly, gently outlined the contours of her lips. It seemed he watched his thumb's movement, then looked at her as if searching for something. He sighed.
"You should not go out walking alone with me on terraces."
"There . . . there are others walking out here as well." Cassandra felt breathless and oddly dissatisfied, though she should be glad, indeed, that he did not do something so improper as to kiss her.
A wide grin spread across his face. "Others who have invisibility amongst their talents, of course."
"I thought I heard some voices . . . ." Cassandra could feel a blush rising in her cheeks.
"Perhaps. However, they are not anywhere in sight. We are quite private here."
"Are we?" But she knew it was so, even as she spoke. They stood just past the windowed doors that let out to the terrace, near the low stone wall that curved into the mansion itself. The curtains obscured the light from the ballroom, and only dimly illuminated Blytheland's countenance. She was glad she was in shadow, for then the marquess could not see her blushes—and then realized the reason she was in shadow was because she stood in a corner, and he blocked her way out.
From within the ballroom the orchestra struck up, and Cassandra knew that another dance set had begun. The music had a hypnotic beat, and she felt her own heart beat faster to its rhythm. Blytheland's hand came up, and she could feel his thumb trace circles along the line of her jaw, in rhythm to the music. She closed her eyes.
"Will you kiss me, Cassandra?" His voice was low and soft.
"I—I have not given you permission to use my—my Christian name, sir."
'Then give it to me now."
"I—"
"Please."
A deep sigh escaped her, and perhaps there was a yes in it somewhere. Cassandra did not have time to consider which question she might have answered, for the marquess's lips came down upon hers, swiftly, firmly, gently. She did not know what to do at first, for she had never been kissed—at least not as Lord Blytheland kissed her. There was something insistent beneath the softness of his caress, and she was half afraid of it, for she felt it was related to that intensity she'd glimpsed within his eyes before. But it seemed as if some natural force within her knew the right response and cared not for any fears she might have: a small gasp opened her mouth and she leaned forward, matching his intensity with passion.
"My God," she heard him murmur as he parted from her only a hairbreadth and for a heartbeat's time.
The music from the ballroom swirled through the open windows and around them, and made Cassandra's perceptions rise to an acute sensitivity. Blytheland's fingers moved from her cheek to her neck and left a scintillating trail, like champagne trickling across her skin. She shivered and pressed closer to him, savoring his warmth in the cool night. His lips shifted from her lips to her cheek, and then down to her throat.
Then he stilled, and stopped, and moved away. Bewildered, Cassandra gazed at his solemn face, but he looked toward the open doors. Voices, louder than she'd heard before.
Reality doused her like ice water across the face, and she drew in a swift breath. Oh, merciful heavens, someone was coming! What had she been doing? How could she be so stupid? It was obvious what she'd been doing. She hoped that it would not be obvious to anyone who might see her. She blushed hotly at the thought.
"I think we need to walk, Miss Hathaway," the marquess said.
"Y-yes, of course."
He bent and picked up her shawl, which had fallen to the ground, shook it, and put it around her shoulders. She pulled it tightly around her.
"Thank you."
Blytheland shot a surprised look at her.
"I meant for my shawl!"
"Of course." A small smile crossed his lips. He tucked her hand upon his arm, and they moved out from the shadows.
Cassandra was glad they strolled about the terrace. The night breeze had picked up and had become chill, and cooled her too-warm cheeks. Another couple did indeed come upon them, but they barely acknowledged Cassandra's and Blytheland's presence, for the couple were too absorbed looking into each other's eyes. Cassandra looked away, embarrassed. Is that how she had looked at Lord Blytheland? She groaned mentally. She was only thankful the couple barely noticed her.
Before they entered the ballroom, the marquess stopped and turned to her gravely. "I have little excuse to have . . . done what I did. I only hope you will forgive me any unpleasantness I might have inflicted on you."
"It wasn't," Cassandra blurted.
"Excuse me?"
"Unpleasant. It wasn't—Oh heavens! What am I saying?" She pressed her hand to her cheek, trying to suppress another blush.
"The ever-truthful Miss Hathaway." Blytheland chuckled. They stepped into the ballroom, and Cassandra saw that a set was just forming. "Perhaps we should dance this time—if you are agreeable?"
Nodding, she laid her shawl across a vacant chair and prepared herself for the dance. She was relieved the music started quickly, for then any high color in her cheeks could easily be attributed to the exertions of the dance. The marquess was no more than polite and as kind as he had been earlier before their . . . kiss. She was glad of that—glad that his behavior was no more or less than normal now—for it allowed her to gain her composure again. When he brought her back to her parents, he bowed over her hand and with a last smile merged into the ballroom crowd.
But Cassandra was not to sit quietly by her mother and father at all, as she was used to after a dance. Immediately upon the heels of Blytheland's departure, three young men came up to her parents, claiming some acquaintance through friends or relations. Lady Hathaway, beaming, introduced them all to her daughter.
"May I have the honor of this dance, Miss Hathaway?" a stocky, dark-haired gentleman asked. Sir Ellery Heysmith, Cassandra remembered.
"Oh, no, Miss Hathaway," Mr. Rowland cut in, grinning at Sir Ellery. "You must know that my friend Heysmith here is the merest caper merchant. He'll stomp your feet to splinters. You'd be much better off with me as your dance partner."
His friend gave him a wry grin. "And you, Roily, are a rattle, and would deafen her by the end of the dance with all your tittle-tattle."
"Here's your answer, then, ma'am," said Lord Eldon, smiling at her. "It is I with whom you must dance. Between a caper merchant, a rattle, and myself—is there any question?" He gave an elegant bow, and his friends rolled their eyes in disgust at him.
Cassandra broke out laughing. "Oh, heavens! What am I to do if I am to be fair? Let us see . . . ah! I have it. I shall choose alphabetically: Lord Eldon first, Sir Ellery second, and Mr. Rowland third."
Mr. Rowland put on a dejected look, and put his hand over his heart. "Alas, put off by an accident of birth!"
Cassandra laughed again, and Lord Eldon grinned. "Sorry, old friend. Better luck next time!"
She enjoyed a vigorous dance with him. Suddenly, it seemed she found an astonishing number of other gentlemen who had at least a passing acquaintance
with some relative or friend of her parents; between them all there was not one dance in which she did not participate.
Later at home, when Cassandra finally reached her bed in the wee hours of the morning, her feet ached, and she was exhausted. Never had she had so many dance partners in her life! Her thoughts settled briefly on why she was so suddenly popular, but floated away from sheer fatigue.
"At least," she murmured to herself before slipping into sleep, "I did not think of Lord Blytheland's kisses all the while. Not while I was dancing . . ."
* * * *
Lord Blytheland, however, did think of kisses. He could not avoid it. They were there before him—her pink and delectable lips—every time he closed his eyes to sleep. He could even feel them, soft and sweet, then opening and moving upon his with all the passion he'd imagined when she had played the piano but a few weeks ago. He groaned aloud and rolled over, pressing his face into his pillow.
After a moment, he drove his fist into its goose-down depths. The mattress beneath him only made it worse. It reminded him of the press of her form against him—firm yet supple and warm.
He sat up in his bed and pressed the heels of his hands upon his eyes. Good God, he must have been mad. How could he have taken Cassandra out on the terrace and made what amounted to passionate love to her? He had only meant to dance one dance with her—which he did, for all the good it did him. Thank God he was able to collect himself afterward and retain the cool exterior he so carefully cultivated. He sighed. What the devil possessed him to take her out somewhere so damned private it was as good as a bedroom?
She was lovely, but he had been around beautiful women before, both experienced and innocent. But he'd never allowed himself to imply, either by word or gesture, that he was anything more than interested in a light flirtation with any dewy-eyed damsel. Indeed, he had always kept himself to more mature and experienced women who liked their independence and would most likely not marry him if he asked—which he never did, of course, just in case. But Cassand—no, Miss Hathaway—now. He had been within an inch of letting his lips follow the smooth curve of her shoulder down to her soft and delightful—
Cupid's Mistake (Cupid Regency Romance) Page 8
