Chapter 9
If Lord Blytheland had despised himself for a fool before, he knew he was a hundred times that now. He looked in his chamber's mirror and saw his eye was turning purple. Cassandra had been right to hit him, though he did not expect such a flush hit from a lady. She had said that he had acted worse than his friend Eldon. It was true. He had no right to accuse Eldon of importuning her with a simple kiss, when he had done far worse.
He closed his eyes, and her image rose before him—her eyes full of anger and confusion at his unjust accusation of his friend. And then later, in the center of the maze . . . Mixed in her anger and confusion, he could see disappointment. She had been disappointed in him. The thought made him want to writhe in embarrassment She had, obviously, believed him a gentleman. Except for those kisses at the Marchmonts' ball (for which he had apologized), he had treated her with all the respect and consideration he would normally give to any lady. Even more than that: he had invited her family to his house as visitors, to the alfresco luncheon and to rest for the night before they returned home. He had never given that sort of attention to any woman. She must know it and her hopes had no doubt been raised. He had insulted her and disappointed her and he deserved the black eye he had received.
Blytheland went to a chair by the window and sank into it, pushing his fingers through his hair. What the devil had prompted him to act in such a totally uncontrolled manner? He could not blame her if she thought him mad, for he had acted like he'd come straight from Bedlam. Was there something about Miss Hathaway that caused it? He'd never acted this way around any other woman. Countless times he'd caught himself staring at her: the way her midnight hair framed her face, the laughter in her green eyes, the elegant line of cheek and throat and bosom, the earnest expression that creased her brow whenever she talked of her charities. She was intelligent, too, and had a sense of humor. All these, other women he had known possessed in part. But the sum of them existed in Cassandra, and he found the whole irresistible.
No, he could not blame her. He had been seized with a madness and had acted like an idiot. Was there a way to retrieve her good opinion of him? He had accused her of a terrible thing . . . and did not know if she would forgive him. Certainly, he could not expect it. He closed his eyes tightly and winced, for his eye ached, and it reminded him all over again of why she had hit him.
But she had said she loved him. Perhaps, perhaps there was some hope.
It was that which must have taken the madness from him: the anguished look in her eyes, and her cry that she had loved him. He had felt it suddenly, as if he had been shot through the heart, and the pain of it cleared the hot mist from his eyes. He saw in that instant how stupidly he had acted, without reason or consideration. For all his anguish at Chloe's betrayal, he had not been as consumed with—yes, he admitted it—jealousy as he had when he thought Cassandra cared for Eldon, and not for him. Well, the scales had fallen from his eyes and he saw everything clearly now, and what he saw of himself he despised.
But there was nothing for it: he had to apologize and perhaps if she could forgive him, he might have a chance at proposing marriage to her. He glanced in the mirror at his bruised eye and grimaced. He had little right to hope, however. If she refused to ever speak to him again, it was all that he deserved.
A knock sounded on the door, and Fichet entered, carrying a large piece of raw meat.
"If it please you milor', I 'ave brought ze beef steak," the valet announced. His eyes went to the marquess's messed hair, and a pained and sorrowful expression crossed his face.
Blytheland raised an eyebrow. "I thank you, Fichet, but I do not desire beef for dinner, much less raw beef."
"No, no, milor'! It is not for ze meal, but for ze eye. I 'ave noticed it when you came from le jardin. It is to put upon ze bruise, n'est ce pas?" The man looked at the beef critically. "It is of a very fine cut milor'—not of ze best, but it will make little ze blackness of ze eye."
"Je ne veux pas—and no. I do not want a bloody piece of meat anywhere near my eye. It will do quite well all by itself."
A look of profound understanding grew upon Fichet's countenance. "Ah! C'est l'amour! Why did I not think of it?" the valet murmured, and nodded to himself. "It is ze thing that will make a man mad—even to ze destruction of his coiffure and eye."
"Nonsense." Blytheland shrugged impatiently and turned from him.
"But see, milor'! Your hair! Your eye! They are in a condition deplorable, hein? But because it is la Mademoiselle Hathaway blacks ze eye, la voila! You do not take care of these things."
"What did you say?" The marquess swiveled his head abruptly toward his servant.
"Milor' you do not turn the head so fast! It will ruin the cravat!"
"The devil take the cravat! What did you say about Miss Hathaway?"
The valet threw up his hands. "English! Le Diable will not take the cravat; it is around the neck of milor' le Marquis, and ruined because you jiggle ze head around. Not even le Diable would take ze ruined cravat."
Blytheland's glance at Fichet was stormy. "Enough of cravats! How did you know that Miss Hathaway . . . blacked my eye?"
Fichet shrugged. "It was for all to see—if zey looked out ze chambre of milor', as I did. I see ze maze, you, and Mademoiselle Hathaway. When you leave, the dress of Mademoiselle is wet, as is milor's coat zat is now in a state ze most execrable. It make me to think. 'Ow is ze clothes so wet, but ze rain just begin?" The valet tapped his head wisely. "But of course! Zere is a pond. Ze beautiful mademoiselle, ze most distinguished marquis—it is a course naturelle." The valet put his hand over his heart, and closed his eyes. "La voilà! Zey have l'amour so violent zey fall into ze pond!" He sighed soulfully.
The marquess ground his teeth. "We did not make love in the pond, Fichet!"
His servant only smiled, bowed, and looked at him skeptically.
"Besides, if—if we were so enamored of each other, how is it that I received a blackened eye?"
"Ze English have no finesse, even you, milor' sometimes," Fichet replied placidly. "La pauvre petite was frightened of ze violence of ze passions, hein? Eh bien! She strikes ze eye. With ze Frenchman, it would 'ave been different."
"Oh, really?" Blytheland snarled.
"But of course," the valet said, clearly unmoved by his employer's mood. He lifted the piece of meat expectantly. "Now, milor', ze beef. . . T
A grimace of a smile formed on the marquess's lips. "Of course. Do let me take it from you, Fichet." He took the meat between his fingers, went to the window, opened it, and threw it out.
"Milor' Marquis! The beef!" The valet looked offended.
"I do not want the beef. In fact, I am beginning to detest beef," Blytheland said between his teeth.
"But ze bruise! What are you to do of it?"
"I, Fichet, am going to ask for Miss Hathaway's hand in marriage."
"But zat 'as nothing to do with ze eye!"
The marquess sighed. "It has everything to do with it."
* * * *
Cassandra awoke with a slight headache. She rose from the bed, and went to the mirror. She looked very much like she felt: her face was pale, her eyes puffy, and there were dark streaks under her eyes. Covering her eyes, she groaned. She simply could not appear like this at supper.
A knock sounded on the door. "Yes? Who is it?" She desperately hoped that it was not her mother.
"It is I, Mary, ma'am. You asked that I wake you in time for dinner."
"Yes, yes of course. Please come in." Cassandra sighed with relief.
The maid looked at her curiously. "Excuse me, miss, but is there aught I can do for you?"
I must really look dreadful, thought Cassandra. "No— yes. If you would be so kind, will you bring some cold water and a cloth for me? I have a bit of the headache."
"Of course, ma'am."
Cassandra sighed and sat down on the bed, looking absently at her hands. She opened and closed them, holding them out flat and then curling them into fists.
She closed her eyes and bit her lip, feeling her face grow warm. How could she have lost control over herself and hit the marquess? Oh, but she had been so angry! He had been so unfair, so, so accusatory and insulting! As if she had done something horribly wrong. Well, perhaps she should have chosen a more secluded spot for kissing Lord Eldon, but no one else saw! And then when they were in the maze . . .
Feeling her face grow hot, she pressed her hands to her face. What in the world did he think he had been doing? Well, that was clear—he thought her nothing but a light skirt. What in the world did you think you were doing, murmured a nasty little voice in her head. It is not my fault! she mentally cried back to that voice. I did not know he was going to do—all that! But you must have known it was not proper. . . and you did not stop him until you were almost undressed, replied the horrid little voice.
Cassandra groaned. She felt foreign to herself, she who prided herself on her learning and her logic. Pride was a sin, indeed, for now she had her reward: all she had was confusion and could not see or think clearly at all. He did not make sense to her, and worse, she did not make sense to herself either.
Cassandra sighed and made herself sit up straight. That was the crux of it, was it not? He was not what she thought him. She'd thought him a gentleman, someone considerate of others' sensibilities. Someone who was kind and gentle. It was true that he had kissed her at the Marchmonts' ball, but it bore only a tangential resemblance to what she'd experienced in the maze. At the Marchmonts' the kiss had been gentle and absorbing. But this one! It had been hard— well, at first—and, and overwhelming. She reviewed her past encounters with the marquess and nodded her head. Yes. She had thought once that perhaps there was more to his surface calm, and she had been right. She had been deceived by his manners and outward consideration. Really, it would be better for her to keep her distance from him.
But you love him, and now you are afraid, the irritating voice said, and a responding cry of despair almost wrenched its way past her throat. But Cassandra shook her head and firmly banished that horrid little voice to a deep, dark chamber in her mind. She was afraid of nothing.
Mary returned with the cloth and water and started laying out Cassandra's dress for the evening. Cassandra pressed the cold cloth to her eyes. She simply must go down tonight. She could not stay upstairs, or else her parents—indeed the guests—would think that something was amiss. She could very well plead the headache, since it was true. But her headache was not nearly close to bad at all, and there was no excuse for cowardice.
When Cassandra put on her dress, she looked in the mirror and sighed. Her eyes were no longer puffy, but the light green satin did little to enhance her pale face and seemed to emphasize the shadows beneath her eyes. She pinched her cheeks, but that only brought two high spots of color to them. She sighed again and shrugged. It did not matter. It really did not matter. Hitting Lord Blytheland was perhaps remotely excusable, considering his horrible opinion of her, but she could hardly expect anything more than civility now. What had been between them—what she had thought was between them—was over.
* * * *
The marquess paced his study and nervously put a finger between his neck and neckcloth. He really should not have tied it so tightly. But it was too late to remedy that right now. Sir John had sent up his note that he would meet with him shortly. Two raps on the door preceded the butler's entrance.
"Sir John Hathaway, my lord." The butler bowed and ushered Cassandra's father into the room.
Sir John gave him a sharp, assessing glance. "You wished to speak with me, Lord Blytheland?"
"Of course. That is, yes. Er, would you like to be seated? And refreshment. Brandy. Would you like some brandy?" The marquess groaned mentally. God, but he must sound inane. How does one set about asking a man for his daughter's hand in marriage?
"Why, thank you, my lord. Brandy would be excellent."
Blytheland was not certain, but he thought he saw amusement in Sir John's eyes. He looked at the older man again, but the expression was gone. He poured a glass for him and then after a short pause poured a small one for himself. The marquess drank it almost without tasting it, feeling the brandy's heat flow down his throat. He did not feel all that much better, however.
"You must be wondering why I requested your presence here today," Blytheland said.
Sir John merely smiled and gazed at him with interest.
"You must have noticed that my attentions to your daughter, Miss Hathaway, have been most marked of late. Indeed, I must confess that I have not always acted as a gentleman ought in her presence."
Sir John's eyebrows rose. "Kissed her, did you?"
"Er, yes." Blytheland could feel his face heating, but damn it, he could not bring himself to tell the man he had done more than that. Surely it was not necessary.
"Thought so."
Lord Blytheland looked a question at him.
"From the way she reacted when she mentioned the Marchmonts' ball, you see. It seemed she was not. . . unmoved." Sir John gave a slight smile.
'Then perhaps she would not be adverse to my suit for her hand in marriage," said the marquess, all in a rush. He felt his face grow warmer. "That is, with your permission, sir."
Sir John waved a careless hand. "Of course, of course."
"Thank you."
Silence ensued. Lord Blytheland cleared his throat. What did one do next? He did not remember it being this difficult with Chloe. Becoming engaged was a damnably awkward thing.
"However," Sir John said suddenly, "there is the question whether she will accept you." He looked pointedly at Blytheland's blackened eye. "I assume it was Cassandra who blacked your eye?"
"Whyever do you assume so, sir?" Blytheland replied, hedging wildly. He almost groaned aloud. Damn, did everyone know?
"Logic and reason will someday answer the questions of the universe, my lord. To apply the mind's ordered faculties to such matters as your blackened eye is but a trivial exercise." Sir John pulled off his spectacles and paced the room, eyes concentrating mightily on the floor.
"Is it?" the marquess replied, his voice full of ice. He had not until this time thought his eye a trivial matter.
"Of course," Sir John said, apparently oblivious to the marquess's change of tone. "The bruise is of a shape similar to that of a lady's fist—should a lady know how to make a proper fist, that is. I recall, once, my son Kenneth showing Cassandra a few techniques of the art of pugilism—which she despises, by the way. There is the possibility she recalled it from somewhere in the recesses of her mind. Then there was my daughter's absence from the luncheon, and then yours. Lord Eldon returned before you, but since he is your friend and his expression was untroubled and merry and his appetite unaffected, I believe he was not the one who hit you. Prior to your absence, your eye was unmarked. Some hours after we returned to the house, you appeared with the bruise. You mentioned to your guests earlier that you stumbled and collided with a piece of rococo molding in the library. A maid tells my wife that Cassandra is indisposed with a headache."
The baronet paused in his pacing and cocked an eyebrow at Blytheland. "My daughter," he continued, "almost never has headaches. And rococo molding does not protrude to such a distance from the paneling that it would blacken anyone's eye. The most probable conclusion?" He paused.
"You behold me in breathless anticipation," Blytheland said, and could not help his sarcastic tone of voice.
A small smile touched Sir John's mouth. "The conclusion cannot be anything but that Cassandra hit your eye." He gazed critically at the marquess's bruise. "And a rather flush hit, if I may say so myself. I have heard that a slice of beef over the eye will reduce the swelling."
"I do not want beef, I thank you, sir," Blytheland replied through clenched teeth.
"Ah, well. But I warn you, my lord, Cassandra is not your ordinary young miss. The things that attract most young ladies do not hold much weight with my daughter. She may not accept you."
Blytheland smiled cyn
ically. "Oh, 1 concede she is certainly not ordinary. But she cannot be so far different from her peers that a title and all the luxuries of life hold no sway with her."
Sir John gave him a quizzical look. "Ah, but my dear Lord Blytheland, Cassandra has few peers."
"Of course."
"You think I am a overly fond father, I see." Sir John gave a wry smile that was also kind. "Well, I perceive I cannot convince you. You must find out for yourself whether my daughter will accept you or not. I understand she has risen from her rest. Perhaps she will see you now." He put his spectacles back on his nose, bowed, and gave his leave.
Blytheland stared at the door Sir John had just closed. Perhaps he should go to her now—or, no, did he not have some business with his bailiff—? On the other hand, there was no need to hold Miss Hathaway in suspense. Perhaps she was expecting some declaration or apology from him. It was the honorable thing to do, after all. Yes. Yes, he would ask for her, and declare himself immediately. He sighed. "If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly," he murmured to himself. Then remembering the context of that quote from Macbeth, he grimaced. He wished he did not feel he was going to an execution instead of proposing marriage.
* * * *
Cassandra started nervously when she heard the parlor door open. She stared out the window at the landscape before her, but the gray clouds dulled the trees' and flowers' colors and did nothing to lighten her mood. She shivered, feeling just as cold and colorless as the view.
Her father had said that Lord Blytheland wanted to speak with her, and she could not help thinking that his desire to see her was quite unnecessary. What would he say? Would he apologize? Would he reproach her for striking him?
"Miss Hathaway."
She turned, slowly raised her head to look at him, and could not suppress a small gasp. A broad purple-and-yellow spot colored the area just below the marquess's right eyebrow, the side of his nose looked red, and a dark streak under the eye emphasized it all. The rest of him was, as usual, impeccable. But the eye ruined the effect; it was a blight on an otherwise pure landscape, a marring spot on a perfectly executed painting.
Cupid's Mistake (Cupid Regency Romance) Page 15
