"I won't, then," Psyche said. "Although I don't understand why anyone would disapprove."
Her sister smiled at her. "Some don't, I have found, but I suppose Mama is right in that we should be cautious." She rang for a servant, then turned to Tim. "Now do be a good boy and stay here. I will be right back, and you may have all the biscuits you want until I return."
The boy nodded and looked so bereft and. frightened at Cassandra's departure that Psyche felt sorry for him and brought the whole plate of biscuits to him. He gave one wary look at her and seized the plate, stuffing the food into his mouth and into whatever available pockets he had.
But Psyche was glad that Cassandra came back quickly, though, for once the biscuits were stowed away inside and upon Tim's person, he began to stow away other small items in the drawing room, and Psyche was hard put to keep him from doing it. Harry was no help at all! She gave him a meaningful look, but he merely sat on the sofa watching her take one thing after another from Tim, and shaking with silent laughter.
"No, Tim! Put that back, if you please!" Cassandra said as she entered the room and firmly took a small porcelain shepherdess from the boy's hand. "And the rest of the things you have taken!" Cassandra held her hand out to him. "I have some clothes for you—we will go into the kitchen and you will put them on—and then we will go to the nice place in the country. With horses, Tim!"
The boy's eyes widened, and he hastily took five items from his pockets, then followed her out the room. Psyche sighed, eyeing the crumbs on the floor. Cassandra was a very good sort of young lady, and the best of sisters, but sometimes her goodness was very untidy and inconvenient.
* * * *
Lord Blytheland had ruined four neckcloths before he was satisfied with the result this morning. He admitted to himself that he was nervous; one did not go about proposing marriage to young ladies every day after all. It was not that he thought Miss Hathaway would refuse him, of course, for he'd present to her the problems of being an object of gossip, and she'd not want any of that. Further, there were all the advantages of being a titled lady of wealth and substance. That, no doubt, would have some weight with her. These were solid, practical things, and was she not an intelligent lady of good reason? But he still hesitated before he raised the knocker on the Hathaways' door and firmly knocked.
"Is Miss Hathaway in?" he asked the butler, giving him his hat and cane.
The butler bowed. "I believe so, my lord. This way, if you please, my lord." He took the card Lord Blytheland offered him, and led the way upstairs. Blytheland could feel his hands becoming a little damp as the door opened to admit him. He rapidly thought over the words he would say, stepped into the room, and took a deep breath.
"Miss Hathaway, I—" He stopped and looked at the girl in front of him. "Miss Psyche! I hoped your sister was here."
"Oh! I am so sorry," Psyche said, her voice contrite. "Was I wrong in not telling our butler not to admit you? I thought perhaps I should tell you myself. I would not want to be rude, you see, in having only a butler tell you that Cassandra is not here."
"Ah." Blytheland felt a little deflated. He had worked himself up to the point, and it was disappointing to have his efforts go to waste. He smiled at Psyche nevertheless. "I will be perfectly content to say pretty things to you while I am here, since your sister is not here."
Psyche shook her head and laughed. "You need not, you know. I know one needs to have blond or black hair to have pretty things said to them, so I know you would only be funning. But Cassandra will return soon. We are all going to your luncheon, after all. She is only going to see to one of her children and should be back tomorrow—" She pressed her lips together, suddenly remembering that she had promised not to speak of Cassandra's climbing boys. But it must be permissible to tell him, since he was becoming quite a close friend? And if he was as close to marrying Cassandra as Harry said, he could certainly be considered almost family.
"Children?" The marquess went suddenly still and his face seemed to pale.
Psyche began to feel uneasy, for an expression of anger had flickered in his eyes before his face became smooth and polite. "I—I'm sorry. I thought perhaps she had spoken to you of them, because I have heard you are as good as— That is, you are a frequent caller to our house, and have been very amiable. I am not supposed to speak of the boys, because Mama says not everyone approves of such things."
"No, they would not." His voice seemed a little strained.
"You mustn't think she is very unusual for it," Psyche said earnestly. "I have heard other ladies do it, too. Mama says it is an eccentric thing to do." She sighed. "But I suppose we are all a little eccentric, and too softhearted to see any of the children cast off." She peered at him, wary. "You are not angry, are you?"
Lord Blytheland stared at her for a long moment, and Psyche felt a little afraid at the darkness that crossed his face. But then it cleared, and he smiled a little. "No, no, I am not angry at you." He stood up, and his movements seemed stiff. "I have another call to make . . . I hope you will excuse me?"
Psyche nodded and watched her sister's suitor leave the room. She had a dreadful feeling that she had said something she shouldn't have and hoped it wasn't too awful. But she was not at all sure of that.
* * * *
Lord Blytheland strode back to his house, not bothering to get back into his coach to drive home and telling his groom to return it for him. He was not at all certain he could keep his hands steady on the reins, not after the blow he'd received.
The pattern was there, was it not? Miss Hathaway, deep down, was no better than his wife had been. Was she not an intellectual? Was she not a follower of Mrs. Wollstonecraft? And did he not hear Miss Hathaway's own sister say that she had gone to tend her children?
Bile rose in his throat, and he swallowed. He had been astounded that a young girl would even be allowed to know such things, or would talk of it with such ease. Not with total ease! That was clear, for she had stumbled over her words and looked guilty, as if she had let out a secret she was not supposed to know, much less speak of. He had been mistaken in the Hathaway family . . . he had thought they might be respectable enough, since Sir John was an acquaintance of the duke, his father. But his own father had unusual interests, and his associations were not always of good ton. He had assumed—wrongly, for Miss Psyche herself admitted that her family was eccentric—that the association gave the family some cachet, some respectability. It was clear this was not entirely true.
Or, perhaps, in the way of ambitious people—and Lady Hathaway was certainly ambitious—they sought to cover up any indiscretions that might mark their family as undesirable. But to push off an unvirtuous woman as Miss Cassandra Hathaway upon the ton was beyond ambitious, it was supremely foolish. They had neither the connections nor the wealth to pull it off. It did explain, however, why the lovely Miss Hathaway was not yet betrothed despite her adequate fortune, and why the Hathaways had left their home to come to London to snare a husband for her.
A hot anger filled Lord Blytheland, and the street seemed to bum in front of him. He walked faster. He'd been a fool—again. He'd been caught—again. God, when would he stop being such a idiot, led by his passions and his obvious lust? For that was what it was, certainly. He should have slaked his lust on some woman long before this, so that he could have chosen his bride with more sense and reason.
He could ruin them. He could let it be known the kind of woman Miss Cassandra Hathaway was, and they'd never show their faces in London again. A small part of him reminded him of his passions again, and he took a deep breath. No, he could not do that. Miss Psyche, at least, was an innocent, for all that she was being raised in such a family. She'd be ruined, too, by association, and that would be unjust.
Then, too, he'd already invited them to the luncheon. He supposed that he could send a note telling them not to come. But again the memory of Miss Psyche's innocent gaze made him think again. He knew what it was to be betrayed, and he was not going to be one to
betray a promise of a treat to a child like Miss Psyche. But certainly, he could forgo their company—and that of Miss Hathaway's—after that.
He remembered Cassandra's bluntness, and he frowned. She was different that way. The truth was, he was fool enough not to want to believe Cassandra was like Chloe. Perhaps he had misconstrued Miss Psyche's words, perhaps there was some other explanation for them. Anger warred with reason, and memories of Chloe mixed with that of Cassandra. Perhaps he would give her another chance . . . but he had done this with Chloe, too.
He found himself at his house before he knew it, and walked into the house and up the stairs. He had left his violin in his chambers; he would play it again, and he could get all his anger and passions out of himself and into the music. Then he could think clearly once again.
Blytheland took his violin from the case and slashed his bow across the strings, and the violin wailed in despair and anger. He played the music he knew over and over again, it seemed for hours. But when he was done, the house sounded empty and still, and he knew it was not enough for him.
* * * *
The late May sun shone brightly and warm upon the group of ladies and gentlemen as they rode in their various conveniences to Marquess of Blytheland's alfresco luncheon. It was not a large group, small enough to make it convivial, but with enough variety in its members to make for interesting conversation. Psyche had been overjoyed when Lord Blytheland had included all of her family in his invitation—except Kenneth, of course, for he was at Cambridge.
How wonderful to be out in the sunshine after a week of being cribbed indoors! Psyche leaned out against the coach's side, staring out at the countryside. She could see the marquess's curricle far ahead of them, and could barely make out his and Cassandra's forms there. They were nearing what must have been one of Blytheland's country houses just outside of London, for they turned off the main road through black iron gates onto a smaller road.
"Do stop leaning out the side of the coach, Psyche, and maintain a ladylike demeanor!" Lady Hathaway said, but it was said without any real reproof in her voice. Psyche nevertheless sat back in her seat.
"Now, I hope you understand, child, that you are to keep out of people's notice," continued her mother.
"Yes, Mama."
"And I do not want you to wander off where you might get lost!"
"Yes, Mama."
"I understand there are other young people about your age, but you are to comport yourself as a mature young lady. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Mama."
Lady Hathaway patted her daughter's hand, satisfied. "You are a good child, Psyche. I hope you will show it today."
"Yes, Mama." Psyche looked up to where the coachman was and nearly burst out laughing. Harry was sitting next to the coachman, behind her mother, shaking his finger at her in a mock-admonishing way. Really, she wished Harry would not do that. It made her want to giggle, and was disrespectful of Mama. But she was glad Harry was coming to the luncheon, nevertheless. It was her first grown-up event, and though she felt excited about it, she was also quite glad there would be someone else she knew. Would she be able to do all that she ought?
Looking at Harry, she noted that he had brought his bow and a quiver full of arrows. She felt a little nervous, but remembered his promise. Harry always kept his promises and never lied to her, so she knew she should not worry that he would shoot Blytheland or Cassandra. The thing was, he never promised he wouldn't shoot anyone else. She would definitely have to keep her eye on him. Oh, but the day was too beautiful for worries! Psyche sighed. Perhaps it would not hurt to let Harry have a little bit of fun with his arrows—as long as it was not with her sister or her beau. It seemed to be Harry's nature to matchmake.
The coach slowed, and Psyche found that they were at the doors of the marquess's country house. It was possibly twice the size of her own home in the country, and her father was not an impoverished man by any means. She watched Cassandra descending the steps of the curricle in front of them, then Lord Blytheland escorting her to the house.
* * * *
Cassandra felt uneasy. The marquess had been very attentive to her, even when driving his curricle. It must have been a difficult thing to maintain an amusing conversation with her while directing the horses, but he did it with an ease that belied the fast pace or the powerful action of the horses. And yet, there was something still and cool about him. No, not cool; that was only a veneer. She gazed at him when he brought his attention to his horses and tried to discern what it was that made him seem so distant, and. . . tense was the best word for it. But she could not elicit much more than common pleasantries from him, and she was no wiser than when they had started out.
When they reached the marquess's house, the ladies and gentlemen retired to their separate rooms to refresh themselves before the luncheon. Cassandra could not help marveling at the fine carpentry of the rooms, the bright brocade tapestries, and the fine Aubusson rugs that cushioned her footsteps. It was just, just a little intimidating. Her own family had far and above enough funds to provide large dowries for herself and Psyche, as well as maintain a comfortable abode both in town and in the country. But this! This was opulence—in no way vulgar, but the sheer elegance and fine workmanship of the house spoke of a far more than comfortable income, indeed.
Quite, quite above your touch, my girl, said a small voice in her mind. Oh, it was not that she did not come from a respectable and old family, to be sure! It was just that looking at this house brought all the inequalities of their stations to the fore. Her father was by heredity a baronet; the marquess would someday become a duke. Lord Blytheland, of a surety could, and most probably would, look higher than a mere Miss Hathaway.
Cassandra sighed and picked up a wet cloth to freshen her face. She wished she knew what his intentions were. A light flirtation? Something more serious? She did not know if she should let herself—Well, she would think it: let herself love him.
Oh, it would be an easy thing to do. He need only gaze at her warmly, press his lips to her hand, and smile his smile upon her once or twice more. He had paid her more attention than any man had before; she was quite afraid that he would go away like so many others. She had fancied at the beginning of the Season, that she had formed a tendre for one or two gentlemen. But they had left for other young ladies, and it had all come to naught. So she put a guard on her heart, knowing that she was not the most attractive lady in looks or demeanor in London, and understanding that she would be fortunate, indeed, to find someone who would regard her with affection.
But now, here was the marquess, who escorted her to his home, who danced with her, and took her to the theater.
And with him came his friends—Lord Eldon, Mr. Rowland, and Sir Ellery. They, too, paid her a great deal of attention, although she believed they did so merely for the sake of fashion. Lord Eldon was very much a Pink of the ton, a bit more dandified than Lord Blytheland. The marquess, though he took a great deal of care about his clothes, leaned more toward the Corinthians in his preferences, she had discovered.
Cassandra put down the cloth and carefully combed back stray hairs from her face. Perhaps . . . perhaps if Lord Blytheland was merely interested in a flirtation, she could look to Lord Eldon. He seemed more and more attentive of late. A little ache seemed to settle in her heart at the thought of looking elsewhere, but she had to be practiced, and could not risk being hurt again. She was tired of hoping. Certainly the baron was closer to her station in life than the marquess. And yet, her heart sank when she thought of it.
Nonsense! Lord Eldon was all that is amiable and gentlemanly, she told herself firmly. How could she know if she could feel for him the same—if not more—than what she felt for the marquess? Her mind wandered over the sensations she felt when near Lord Blytheland, and then she thought of Lord Eldon. Well, they were not the same. She felt a regard, and a friendship toward the baron. As for Lord Blytheland she, well, she did not know what to make of her reactions to him at all. She despised t
he way she acted so insipidly around him, blushing and stuttering like an idiot. How could he like her at all? Cassandra sighed, and wished she could comport herself with more assurance and maturity.
Perhaps she should favor Lord Eldon; she had no difficulty acting in an intelligent manner around him. But then, her experiences with these two men were quite, quite different. The marquess, for one, had kissed her. Lord Eldon had not. Perhaps if she tried to kiss Lord Eldon also, she would know if she was destined to act like a ninny around men who kissed her. Cassandra felt her face growing warm at the thought, and she put the cloth again to her cheeks.
It would be an experiment, she told herself, and done quite scientifically. If she kissed Lord Eldon and felt the same as she did with the marquess, then she would know whether she would act just as stupidly around men who kissed her. After all, it was something men did with their wives, and how awkward it would be to be such an idiot around one's husband. And besides, Mama did not say kissing was a bad thing, after all, just as long as she didn't do it often, and if no one saw.
Cassandra felt much better. There now! She would do her little experiment, and then she could decide what she felt, and if she should encourage Lord Eldon's attentions. Papa was right. One needed only to think things through logically, and one would find the answers. On that thought, she lifted her chin in a resolute manner and left the chamber.
When Cassandra went down to the hall, she saw most of the company were there. Lord Eldon, who was talking to the petite blonde Miss Hamilton, glanced up briefly at her entrance and smiled. There was Sir Jeremy Swift and his lady, and Lady Swift's daughter Georgia Canning (whom she remembered vaguely from her brief stay at the Bath boarding school) and her betrothed, Lord Ashcombe. A few other gentlemen and ladies were also there, but she did not know their names. She looked around the room and caught her father's eye, and he beckoned to her. She smiled at him and her mother as she approached. Psyche, she noticed, was standing quietly behind Lady Hathaway, looking intently at everything in the room. She glanced at Cassandra, gave her a quizzical look, and then continued her perusal of the room. Cassandra almost shook her head. Sometimes she was not sure she understood her young sister.
Cupid's Mistake (Cupid Regency Romance) Page 12
