Cupid's Mistake (Cupid Regency Romance)

by Harbaugh, Karen

  The marquess turned a blazing look on Miss Hathaway. "Scandal! If she were sunk in it, it would be all that she deserves!"

  "Now, just a moment, Blythe!" Eldon said sternly. "If I were so inclined, I would call you out for that. You heard her. She has no more notion about kisses than an infant. If anything, your argument should be with me."

  "No, no! It was all my fault!" Cassandra cried. "I asked him to—truly, I did! It was an experiment!"

  Blytheland turned to her and grasped her by the shoulders. "You little idiot! Anyone could have seen you here! I certainly did!"

  "Idiot! I am not an idiot!"

  "It was certainly stupid of you to kiss Eldon here in full view of the lake!"

  Lord Eldon wondered if it would be discreet or cowardly if he left the two of them to join the rest of the company at the lake. It was clearly a lover's quarrel and a third party would definitely be de trop. He gazed at the marquess and Miss Hathaway, both of whom looked furiously into each other's eyes.

  "Ahem. If you two don't mind, I thought I might go back to the lake . . . ?" Eldon said tentatively. "I still feel a trifle sharp-set. Thought I might see if there was any of the luncheon left over."

  "It was not in full view of the lake! You can see clearly for yourself how we were hidden!"

  "Oh? And if so, then why did I notice it?"

  They were clearly not interested in his presence at all. Lord Eldon decided that leaving would probably be discreet more than not. And perhaps getting whatever problem was between them aired would be for the better. He picked up his hat, set it neatly on his head, and after an elegant bow in the couple's direction, sauntered back down to the remains of the luncheon.

  Lord Blytheland still grasped Cassandra by her shoulders. "I have never known anyone so indiscreet as you, Miss Cassandra Hathaway! By God, if you are not sending people to point-non-plus in the most embarrassing way with your blunt comments, you are letting yourself be kissed by all and sundry—and in full view of God knows who! Or perhaps you don't particularly care who sees you."

  "I only try to speak the truth, my lord," Cassandra replied furiously. "And as for truth—I do not know how you dare to say I let myself be kissed by 'all and sundry'! You have been the only other one who has kissed me. I asked Lord Eldon to do so only for an experiment."

  "An experiment!" The marquess sneered. He stared at her, rage boiling up inside of him, almost choking him. He had wanted to give her another chance, and she took it— showing her true colors. She lifted her chin—Chloe used to do the same thing when she wished to have her own way. How similar were they? He did not truly know, and God, he wished he did.

  "You need not sneer, you horrid man! I believed we were private, and—"

  "Private! That you should want to be private with—" He released her shoulders, but took her wrist in a tight grip instead. He needed to know, and he would find out, or he would go mad not knowing. A thought flashed through his mind that perhaps he was mad now, for never had he been seized with such anger, such agony, not even with Chloe. But he could not stop, not now. He pulled her toward the maze's entrance, and walked swiftly around one corner and another—right, left, and right again. "Private. You're so deuced indiscreet you don't know the meaning of the word!"

  "What are you doing? Where are you taking me?"

  "Some place private, of course," Blytheland replied through clenched teeth. His steps were swift, and he could hear Cassandra almost running behind him. He turned right again, then left, another left, and two rights, and the enclosing hedges opened up to the center of the maze. A delicate Grecian gazebo stood in the middle of the small garden clearing, but Blytheland strode past it to the hedge behind it. He pushed aside some branches and heavy overhanging ivy, and revealed an old oaken door. He moved the handle, and the door creaked open. Pulling Cassandra through the door, he shut it firmly behind them.

  He had not come here in a long time, not since Chloe died. He watched Cassandra look around her in an angry, bewildered way at the riot of blooms and flowering trees around her, and the sparkling fountain that cascaded diamond-like drops of water into a mosaic pool. She turned and stared angrily at Blytheland instead. "And where is this, pray?"

  "This, my dear Cassandra, is the heart of the maze. It is a place so damned private that no one would see us together. No one would see anything we might do here. What a wonderful way to avoid scandal, yes?" He pulled her to him and lifted her chin so that she stared into his eyes. She was still angry. He felt a queer relief at it—perhaps he was wrong about her. He hoped she felt as furious as he did . . . but he needed to know, dear God, he needed to know. 'Tell me, my dear. Why did you kiss Eldon?"

  "I told you, it was an experiment! I wanted to find out how his kiss might compare with yours, and that was all!" She stamped her foot. It would have landed on his toe, but he moved it in time. "And I did not give you permission to use my Christian name!"

  Anger seized him again. "Oh, my. I think the blunt and truthful Miss Hathaway has told a lie! I definitely remember a ball, out on the terrace—"

  Her face flamed red in memory, then paled again in clear fury. "I did not say yes to your using my name!"

  "Then what did you say yes to? Kissing me? Do you always say yes to requests like that—or was that an experiment, too?"

  "No! Yes! Oh, you odious—!" She stamped her foot again.

  "Odious, am I? Are my kisses odious to you, too? Well, how does this compare with Eldon's?"

  His lips took hers swiftly, hard against her mouth at first, but he let out a deep sigh and moved upon her lips more softly. How could he not? He drew away briefly, staring at her delicately formed lips. They were full and open, and he remembered them the way they were when she had played the piano at the musicale. It would be a sin not to savor them slowly, feeling every little indentation and curve against his own. Her green eyes were wide and startled as they looked into his. He felt he could drown in them. Blytheland gently brought his lips to hers again.

  They were as soft as he'd remembered them from the Marchmonts' ball. He tasted the sweet sherry she'd had at luncheon, and breathed in the scent of violets that emanated from her. She opened her mouth on a sighing moan, and suddenly the passion was there—as he had imagined it, as he'd experienced it before. Now her lips moved upon his, her arms came around his neck, and she pressed herself close to him. He deepened his kiss in response and moved his hands to her waist.

  He needed to feel her closer. . . . He bent his knees slightly and tried to feel for one of the benches or chairs he knew were in the garden. But then Cassandra leaned forward even more, and they tumbled down upon the grass. She landed half on top of him, and the marquess pulled her fully to him so that she was, indeed, much closer.

  "Ah, God, how I've wanted you, Cassandra," Blytheland murmured against her lips.

  "Yes . . ."

  "Paul. My name is Paul." He rolled to his side, taking her with him and brought his hand up to her breast.

  "Ohh, Paul. . ." she sighed, and pressed her lips against his again.

  He must have lost his mind—love and fear had robbed him of all reason. He kissed her cheek, her lips, her throat.

  She responded with even more passion than he'd thought possible, arching against his hands and his body. Heat moved through him and he shifted his lips from her mouth, trailing kisses on her cheek, her neck, and down to the soft skin his hand had uncovered.

  Cassandra shivered as she felt his—Paul's—lips move upon her throat and lower, and lower until—

  A drop of water splashed upon her cheek. Then another on her forehead, one on her nose, and another on her eyelid. She opened her eyes. The thin clouds that had appeared at the beginning of their luncheon had gathered to a large thunderous mass. It was raining, and raining in earnest.

  Warm kisses coursed across the top of her breasts, trailing downward. She struggled to rise.

  "Stop! Oh, please stop!" Cassandra pushed the marquess away from her and sat up. To her horror, her dre
ss gaped open, and one cross-end of it flapped in the wind that had suddenly sprung up. Oh, heavens, how could she have allowed it?

  Hastily she closed her dress and looked at the marquess. He, too, sat up. He had a bewildered expression on his face and seemed oblivious to the rain now pouring steadily upon his head. He held out his hand tentatively toward her.

  "Cassandra—"

  "How dare you!" she cried.

  "But I—"

  "You dare accuse Lord Eldon of molesting me when you—you went far further than a mere kiss!"

  Blytheland's eyes snapped angrily. "Well, I didn't hear you protesting!"

  "That is neither here nor there! What we are discussing are your base assumptions about Lord Eldon's actions and my intent. He did not force me to the middle of this maze, or force his attentions upon me!" A stab of guilt passed through Cassandra's mind, but she dismissed it.

  "Oh, so I forced my attentions on you, did I? Did you scream? My, my, I must be getting deaf in my old age," he replied, his voice ironic. "If you recall, I stopped when you told me to—quite some time after we began."

  "Ohhh, you odious—! How could I say anything when you—you had your lips over mine?" Cassandra rose swiftly to her feet. Blytheland did as well.

  The marquess looked pointedly at her bodice. "I recall instances when my lips were not on yours at all." A slow smile grew on his face.

  Cassandra's hands itched to slap that expression from his face. She closed her hands against the sensation and formed two tight fists instead. Oh! How could he? She had thought him a true gentleman, but his actions proved her wrong. Why, he was no better than her younger brother Kenneth, who kissed maidservants! And the marquess had no excuse, for he was well over Kenneth's immature nineteen years of age! Well, she was no lowly chambermaid! But as she looked at him, his face grew dark and contemptuous.

  "Besides, how do I know you don't do this—as well as kiss—other men as well? Your sister told me of your children, after all."

  "Children?" Cassandra stared at him, bewildered. "What do my climbing boys have to do with this?"

  The contemptuous look vanished, and the marquess seemed to pale. "Climbing boys? Your sister said she had been warned not to speak of it. . . I thought—"

  "You thought—you thought—" Cassandra gasped, her breath almost taken away with grief and anger. "I never— how could you ever think I am that kind of—" She clenched her fists tighter, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to burst from her. "You thought I was—And to think I came to love you, while all the time you—" Her voice caught in a sob.

  A sudden fluttering sound, a burst of wind pushed the hair from her face, and a quick twanging hiss of a bowshot seemed to sear her ear. But Cassandra paid no attention to it, or to the rain that fell hard and fast upon her. She stared at Lord Blytheland, at his clearly confused and handsome face, and for one small moment hatred flared, then turned into white-hot anger. Humiliation and shame warred fiercely with it in her heart, and she could feel her face flame hotly. Anger won.

  Her fist flew out. With a right curve that would have gained the approval of Gentleman Jackson himself, it landed directly on the marquess's right eye. Blytheland fell—arms flailing—right into the mosaic-lined pool.

  Cassandra stared at him, horrified at what she'd done, her hands clenched tightly against her lips. Lord Blytheland sat in the pool with a stunned look on his face, his eye slowly turning color. A lily pad floated gently across his middle. Rain dripped upon his head, and a tiny stream of fountain water coursed down his forehead and trickled off the end of his aristocratic nose.

  Oh, heavens! Never, never had she even thought of violence against another person, much less done it. She had been raised to act like a lady by loving parents, and never had a hand been raised against her as a child, for her parents did not believe in corporal punishment. She abhorred violence, but now she had hit someone—Lord Blytheland. She had thought she had more control over herself than that, even when she had been at her angriest, however she might justifiably be angry. What was wrong with her? Ever since she had met the marquess, she had acted in a manner that she despised: blushing and stuttering like the merest schoolgirl, allowing her passions—yes, she admitted to herself, passions—to rule her instead of her mind, and now this! She turned away and covered her eyes in shame, confusion, and anger now at herself.

  "Miss Hathaway, if I may ask a favor of you . . . ?"

  Cassandra turned back to him. He was still sitting in the pool, but was holding a hand out to her. He smiled at her charmingly, and if she did not know better she would have thought that smile on his face was positively merry. Was he mad? She had just hit him, with good reason, it was true, but one did not grin happily upon receiving a flush hit.

  "If you would be so kind, ma'am, I believe I need some help from this pond."

  "Of course!" It was the least she could do, after inflicting violence upon him, and it would show she had gained control over herself again. She went to him and grasped his hand.

  A hard tug pulled her into the pool with a splash. The initial shock of cold water made her gasp, and she choked, spluttering water from her mouth. She fell against the marquess's hard body, and looked up to find her face inches from his. His expression had definitely lightened, and the darkness she had seen in him had fled. He stared speculatively at her face, and then grinned, almost boyishly. "What's sauce for the gander. . ." He bent his head to kiss her.

  "No!" Cassandra pushed herself away from him and rolled to find herself sitting next to him in the pond. She struggled to stand up, but fell onto her hands and knees. She had almost been hypnotized by his look, but she pulled forth all the will she had left within her and made herself move. "No. You will not. Not again!"

  Her dress dragged against her limbs as she crawled out of the pond. It was ruined; there was no doubt in her mind about that. Cassandra could feel strands of her hair straggling over her face, and though she had managed to tie the wet ends of the dress ribbons together, they had become tangled in her haste and she knew she would have to cut them off when she changed clothes. She must look dreadful.

  The rain fell in sheets, and thunder roared in the distance. The marquess rose from the pond, sodden, his hair plastered to his head. His pantaloons adhered to his legs like a second skin. It made no difference; somehow he looked just as elegant as always. It was maddening.

  Cassandra pushed a lock of hair from her eyes. "You . . . horrid . . . man! I thought you were a gentleman. I thought—I thought you cared just a little." She felt tears start to her eyes, but she bit her lip to keep them from flowing. "But you never did. You thought me no better than a—a whore." She forced her voice to be sarcastic.

  Blytheland's face turned stormy at her first words, but the look faded, and his expression became confused. "I— Cassandra, I did not mean—I shouldn't have—That is, I thought. . ." He stopped, seeming at a loss for words.

  His loss was her gain. Cassandra gathered herself together and said in a dignified tone, "I would appreciate it, Lord Blytheland, if you would escort me out of this maze."

  "Of course." The marquess's voice was subdued. He offered his arm to her, but she looked pointedly at it and did her best to sneer. She had never sneered at anyone before, but it seemed she succeeded, for Blytheland's face grew stony and he turned from her.

  "Very well, ma'am. Follow me."

  Careful to stay close enough not to lose him, Cassandra followed. She was glad she had quelled the impulse to leave by herself, for she knew she would have become quite lost. They turned this way and that, and after a few minutes finally walked into the garden. The other guests were long gone; down the hill she could see the last of the servants carrying away the remains of the luncheon in a sack upon his back.

  Cassandra wanted to leave Blytheland as quickly as she could. She almost ran and stumbled in her attempt to hurry. A hand caught her elbow before she fell, and she looked up into the marquess's face.

  "Unhand me, sir," she sa
id, and stared steadily at him. Anger flared clearly in his eyes, and she almost thought she saw despair—but it was gone, and she knew she must be mistaken. He pressed his lips together, causing them to whiten.

  "Very well, ma'am." His voice was terse and strained, and he let go of her arm instantly.

  Walking quickly, Cassandra headed toward the marquess's house and was soon at the doorstep. She could not help looking back at him.

  He had not moved from the garden. He stood there, hands clenched at his sides, but for all his clearly angry stance, he looked curiously bereft. Cassandra bit her lip and shook her head. No. She must not let her emotions overcome her reason. He had not said one tender word to her, but had insulted her, and clearly saw her as someone too far beneath him to consider for anything more than a— Cassandra swallowed down a feeling dangerously close to grief. He was a marquess, and someday to be a duke. He could look higher than a Miss Hathaway for a wife. He was not in love with her at all, but had thought her a fallen woman. She was a fool even to have thought he had cared for her.

  Taking a deep breath, she opened the door and went up the stairs to the room allotted to her. She ignored the slap- slap of her dress against her legs and the wet trail she was sure followed in her wake. Once in her room, she rang for the maid and carefully took off her dress, even untangling the mess of ribbons at the sides of it with slow, controlled movements.

  The maid arrived, exclaimed at the ruin of her dress, and wrapped Cassandra in a warm quilt.

  "Please, I would like to rest for a while. Could you make sure I am not disturbed? I believe I have the headache," Cassandra murmured.

  "Of course, miss. Shall I get you a tisane?" the maid replied.

  "No. No, rest is all I require."

  "Very well, miss. When shall I wake you?"

  "Before dinner, or if my mother asks for me." The maid left.

  Cassandra lay down on the bed and pulled the quilt over her head. Then she cried and raged and cried again, for she knew she still loved Lord Blytheland, against all reason, against all hope. And she had not one idea how to stop it.