"Now there," Sir John said, pointing his chin at Lord Ashcombe, "is a well-informed young man. Educated at Oxford, graduated with honors. He knows Arabic! I must see if I can bring him and Blytheland's father together to work on a translation of the De Res Medicos." He sighed. "Wouldn't mind someone like him for a son-in-law."
"Papa! You cannot think that a gentleman's education can be the only consideration for a husband!"
"It would certainly be convenient, though," replied Sir John, looking wistfully at Lord Ashcombe.
Lady Hathaway tapped him on the arm with her fan. "My dear, it is too late, as you can see! Miss Canning and Lord Ashcombe are betrothed and clearly enamored of each other. And your daughter is right. There is more than just education to be thought of in a marriage."
Cassandra looked over at the young couple. If one did not know that the two were betrothed, one could guess it from their demeanor. She watched as Lord Ashcombe tucked his fiancée's hand gently in the crook of his arm, how Miss Canning looked up at him with a tender smile, and how he returned it with a regard that was more than warm. Cassandra felt a small ache in her heart and wondered if anyone would someday look at her in that way.
The door opened once more, and she looked up to see Lord Blytheland enter the parlor. His gaze immediately went to hers, and then turned to the rest of the company. There was little expression in his eyes except for a cool civility.
"If the ladies and gentlemen are ready, we can all proceed to the lake. The servants should have set up our luncheon there by the time we arrive."
There was a general murmur of assent, and everyone went out into the sunlight once again.
"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Psyche, "I wonder if we should have brought umbrellas?" She was looking toward the west, and Cassandra followed her gaze. A thin line of clouds obscured the horizon, although in front of the cloud bank the sky was a brilliant blue.
Cassandra smiled at her sister comfortingly. "I believe we shall be quite comfortable; we have only a breeze blowing from the east, you see, so I doubt we will have any rain at all."
It was not very far to the lake. They walked past the gardens and the maze, which the marquess invited the guests to try later if they liked. The house and gardens were on a small rise, and down the hill and further, for a few yards away the servants had set out the luncheon by the lake.
It took a great deal of self-restraint for Psyche not to run as she wished to down to the luncheon. The day was beautiful and the field was just the sort on which to run until one was breathless. She eyed the other people closer to her age, but they were few and she did not feel inclined to converse with them. One girl looked quite standoffish, and even sneered in her direction. A tall, thin boy walking not far from her own family had eyes for nothing but the luncheon. Not very likely people to talk to, thought Psyche.
Blytheland's servants had set out various tables for the guests, and makeshift sideboards groaning with food. It was a snatch-pastry's dream—not that she, Psyche, was a snatch-pastry. Harry certainly was, however. She watched enviously as he flew swiftly toward what looked to be a sumptuous spread of edible delights. How she wished she could fly, unseen, wherever she wanted! She had never seen him eat much before, and she had often wondered if he ate only for show—or in earnest. Well, she did now know it was in earnest: though he picked at this dish or that, he picked much. There were lobster patties and hams, bread and cakes and tarts. Wine was served as well, although she was only allowed lemonade. Harry, she noted enviously, helped himself to the wine.
Hoping that her parents would not notice her immediate escape, Psyche inched herself toward the luncheon. She noticed the tall, thin boy—older than Harry, she thought— was already at the table and had picked up a dish. Well, Mama could not say she had made unseemly haste to the food. That boy was here before her after all, and she had walked very slowly to the table.
She glanced shyly up at the boy. He smiled kindly at her.
"Hallo! Do try the jam tarts. They really are superb," he said, his voice a little muffled from a bite he'd just taken. "My name is Garthwaite. Bertram Garthwaite. Oh, and the lobster patties are first rate!" He put two more on his plate.
"Are they? I do like them, they're my favorite," Psyche replied. "I am Psyche Hathaway." She looked at his burgeoning plate. "Goodness, but you must be hungry!"
"I am," he replied frankly. "I've just come down from Cambridge on holiday. Never get enough to eat there, let me tell you! And what they have is pretty poor fare, to boot."
"Cambridge! Do you know my brother Kenneth Hathaway?"
"Mmmm. . . Oh, yes. Doesn't run with my set—he's a year ahead of me—but I've met him. He's a great gun, up for any lark. I imagine he'll come home to you any day now."
Psyche felt some consternation. No one had received word that Kenneth was coming home. She hoped that he was not in trouble again. "Is . . . is he in a scrape, do you think?"
Bertram looked nonplussed. "Well—That is to say—I've heard he does have the most deuced good luck—it might not be as bad as all that."
"Oh, dear." Psyche bit her lip. "Well, I will not worry about it. It is something Papa will need to deal with, after all."
"That's the ticket." He nodded approvingly. "No need to worry about something you can't influence."
She looked across the table and saw that Harry was looking at Bertram intently. She grew alarmed and made what she hoped was a dismissing motion with her hand at Harry. Mr. Garthwaite seemed a good sort of young man, and she didn't want Harry to shoot him with any of his arrows. She wriggled her eyebrows at her friend, hoping that he would take it as a warning to stay away from Mr. Garthwaite as well.
Harry rolled his eyes, then shrugged his shoulders. He reached over and cut off a cluster of grapes from a bowl, and started eating the grapes.
"I say, did you see that?"
Psyche glanced up to see Bertram staring at the grape bowl.
"See what?"
"Those grapes. There was a cluster of them I had my eyes on, and then they disappeared!"
She threw Harry a reproachful look and turned to Bertram again. "Are you sure? I did not see them."
He shook his head. "Must be hunger pangs. They are affecting my vision. I must tell Father I need more of an allowance for food." He nodded in a bemused fashion at Psyche and went off with his plate to the edge of the lake.
"Oh, Harry! If you refuse to show yourself to anyone else but me, I do wish you would be more discreet!" she scolded him. She was glad no one else had come to the buffet table yet, so that she could talk to her friend without whispering.
"You needn't worry, Psyche. He did not see me, and only thought the grapes were his imagination."
"Well, that is true, but do be careful! And why were you staring at him so?"
"Oh, you know, just seeing if he was worth bothering with."
"Bothering with?"
Harry popped another grape into his mouth. "Yes. There wasn't anyone around who I thought might be suitable for him. And he's young yet—only eighteen. No need to hurry; he's not wild like your brother. Or stubborn like your sister and the marquess."
"Remember your promise, Harry!"
Harry sighed. "I remember!"
"Besides, Cassandra and Lord Blytheland are doing very well by themselves. You must have seen them in his curricle!" Psyche picked up a lobster patty that the amiable Mr. Garthwaite had recommended.
"Yes. But Lord Blytheland is angry about something, and I think your sister is planning something with Lord Eldon, instead."
"What? How can you say so?" Psyche's lobster patty stopped halfway to her mouth.
"I have kept watch on them, if you have not. She keeps casting glances at Lord Eldon instead of the marquess. And Lord Blytheland doesn't look happy. But then, he tends to be rather moody, so that may not mean a great deal."
"No. You must be mistaken!" She put her food down upon her plate again and gazed at Harry skeptically. "Besides, how can you tell just by looking at her?
She could just be trying to catch his attention."
"Oh, she is catching his attention all right and tight," Harry replied. "And I know because I am very good at reading faces. I learned it from my cousin Hermes."
"Cousin? I did not know you had a cousin," Psyche said, intrigued. Harry only rarely spoke of his friends or relations.
He smiled. "You never asked. Besides, I thought your father would have told you all about me and my family."
"Now that is nothing but a faradiddle and you know it, Harry! Papa telling me of you, indeed! Why you said my father did not believe you existed, and that you were all from my imagination!"
"He does."
Psyche shook her head impatiently at him. "Oh, do stop roasting me, Harry! Now let us get back to Cassandra."
"Yes, do let's," Harry said. "I'll wager you your jam tart that your sister will stroll across the grass with Lord Eldon instead of the marquess. You'll see what comes of my not shooting my arrows."
"Done!" replied Psyche, and she walked quickly back to where her parents were sitting.
She gazed at her sister. Cassandra seemed a little abstracted, the same look she always wore when she would try to puzzle out a problem. She sat on the other side of their parents, but Psyche sat herself down where she could surreptitiously observe her.
She watched as Cassandra glanced at Lord Eldon, not once, not twice, but three times. The third time, he responded with a smile and came over to her.
Psyche bit her lip. Oh dear, she thought. Harry has just won my jam tart. She looked at her friend, then silently held the tart out to him.
Harry looked at the tart but did not take it. He could not. He felt something odd—he'd call it remorse, if he were a mortal. He remembered feeling it once, literally ages ago, when the presence of the gods was felt more strongly than it was now, but not since that time. Perhaps he felt it because he had no friend in the world of the mortals, except for this young girl. He did not know, and it annoyed him. "What do you wish me to do?" he asked, and then wished he hadn't said it. It was almost an admission that he had made another mistake.
Psyche sighed and smiled at him, clearly relieved. "Don't shoot any arrows at Cassandra. I would feel horrid if she became all silly like the Mademoiselle Lavoisin and the Comte de la Fer. Could you . . . could you make Lord Blytheland the way he was before you shot any of your arrows at him?"
"It won't work if I do, Psyche."
She pressed her lips together and lifted her chin stubbornly. "They have met already, and have got to know each other. I don't think they need any more help with your arrows."
Harry stared at her for a few more moments, wondering why he bothered with her or the Hathaway family . . . but the thought of leaving them made him feel even more odd than that remorse-like thing he'd felt earlier.
"Oh, very well!" he said. He made a face at her, feeling childishly better for doing it—well, was he not in boy- form, after all?—but Psyche merely smiled at him gratefully.
"Thank you! You are a true friend, Harry! You'll see, they'll come about properly!" She looked away from him toward where her sister had sat, but Cassandra was gone.
"Don't worry," Harry said. "Lord Blytheland's gone with them, it seems. I'll find them." He selected an arrow from his quiver, a different one than he'd used before, and rose into the air. He sighed. Perhaps Psyche was right. . . but he doubted it. He was the god of love, after all, and no mortal knew more of love than he did, especially not a young girl.
Chapter 8
Miss Hathaway, Lord Eldon noted, kept glancing at him, and he could not help wondering why. He had never received so much attention from her before.
"I think I need to walk a little—I feel a little stiff from travel still," Miss Hathaway said. She put down her fork on the plate the servant had given her. She had hardly touched the food, although she had taken a little lemonade and then wine. Lord Eldon caught another glance from her. He could see also Blytheland turning toward them at her words, but she did not look toward the marquess at all. Lord Eldon felt a stirring of curiosity. Something in the wind? he wondered.
"I would be most happy to oblige, Miss Hathaway," he said, and smiled at her. He rose and offered his hand. She returned an uncertain smile and put her hand in his. Lord Eldon risked a glance at his friend and almost burst out laughing. Blytheland's expression was a mix of surprise and irritation. So much for his insistence that she was only "a superb pianist," to him, eh? He could tell his friend was madly in love with Miss Hathaway, and she would be perfect for him. He had disliked Chloe from the start, and he often thought she still had her claws in Blythe even though she was gone. Well, there was nothing like a bit of rivalry to get a man to realize what he might be losing.
Eldon turned to the lady at his side. "And where would you like to stroll, ma'am?"
She glanced at him, again uncertainly. "I. . . I think perhaps the gardens, by the maze. It seems very pretty there, and I would like to see the flowers."
"It would be my pleasure."
They walked up the rise to where the gardens formed the entrance to the maze. They conversed about the weather and Miss Hathaway exclaimed over the flowers. Lord Eldon noted with amusement that it was the most desultory and unenlightening conversation he had ever had with her. Something must be bothering her, he thought, and it must have to do with my dear old friend. How amusing. Miss Hathaway must have more than a passing fancy for Blythe, he was sure of it. But why did she choose him, Eldon, to escort her to the garden?
He watched her as she spoke of more inconsequential things and noted a rising blush in her cheeks. A mischievous urge rose in him. He would so much like to see how much pinker Miss Hathaway could blush.
"I see you must be a little overheated, ma'am. Perhaps you would like to sit for a little while?" He was rewarded by seeing her turn two shades more pink than before.
"Yes, yes please. Perhaps over there on that bench, where it is private." A guilty look appeared in her eyes, and her cheeks turned positively red.
Private? thought Lord Eldon. Well, well. Now what?
They sat, and Miss Hathaway arranged her skirts around her neatly, and then fiddled with them some more. They were somewhat in shadow, for part of the hedge and ivy that covered the maze overhung the marble bench on which they sat. Eldon removed his hat, looked at her downcast gaze, and waited, suppressing a wide grin. Poor Miss Hathaway! She was no doubt getting up the courage to say something, but what?
She looked up earnestly at him. "Lord Eldon, will you kiss me?" she said, all in a rush.
"Eh?"
"Kiss me. For—for experimental purposes, you see."
Lord Eldon paused before he spoke, trying to put strong control over his overwhelming urge to laugh. Oh, Lord! Was that what this was all about? And why in the world did she feel she had to do this? He thought of Blytheland and wondered if he had kissed her—probably. He certainly had the chance to do so at the Marchmont ball!
"For experimental purposes?" he managed to reply after a short struggle with another upsurge of laughter.
"Oh, please don't be offended, my lord! I like you very well, and I was wondering if, if your kiss would be like— That is, what your kiss would be like."
"Oh, is that it? Well, I would be most happy to oblige, Miss Hathaway. For experimental purposes, of course."
"Would you?"
"Yes."
"Oh." She stared at him for a moment and then put on a resolute expression. She closed her eyes and presented her face.
Lord Eldon gazed at her for a long moment. Oh, he shouldn't. He really shouldn't. But his deeply ingrained mischievousness could not let this priceless moment pass by. Especially when he noted from the corner of his eye his dear old friend Blythe coming up the path. He bent over Miss Hathaway and kissed her firmly on the lips.
They parted, and she looked up at him, clearly puzzled. "That was pleasant, Lord Eldon, but. . . Did it feel pleasant to you?"
"Most pleasant, Miss Hathaway," he replied. He had
to admit to feeling a bit warmer than usual. La Hathaway was, after all, a most delectable young lady.
"What the devil is the meaning of all this?" The marquess stood before them, his hands balled tightly into fists, fury writ clear in his eyes.
Miss Hathaway rose hastily and pressed her hands to her mouth. Lord Eldon stood as well, but more slowly, and carefully brushed the dust from his coattails.
"What did it look like, Blythe-my-old?" Eldon replied provocatively.
"It looked damn well like you were kissing Miss Hathaway! I don't take well to having any of my female guests molested!"
"Molested? Strong words, old man." He turned to the lady by his side. "Was I molesting you, ma'am?"
"Oh, no! I—I asked him to kiss me, you see," Miss Hathaway replied.
"You did what!?" Blytheland's voice rose.
"It was for—for an experiment. I asked him to kiss me."
Poor Miss Hathaway! She looked more and more distressed. Lord Eldon sighed regretfully. He really should put a stop to this.
"Look here, Blytheland. It was all very innocent. In fact, I knew you were coming up the hill and I couldn't help tweaking at you a little. Being a bit of a dog in the manger, don't you think? You never said you had any claim on her—denied it, in fact. And I did tell you I thought I might try for her affections myself, since you didn't say I shouldn't."
"You said you'd have a touch at her! By God, Eldon that was a damn sight more than a touch! I should call you out for this!"
"No!" cried Cassandra.
Both men ignored her.
"Nonsense, my old. You know I wouldn't oblige; I detest arising before eleven o'clock. Besides, I know you wouldn't shoot me—I wouldn't shoot you! We've been friends too long, and it would cause a devil of a scandal for Miss Hathaway here."
Cupid's Mistake (Cupid Regency Romance) Page 13
