"Oh! Your eye! Does . . . does it hurt much?"
"Er, no, not much." The marquess looked quite uncomfortable, and Cassandra thought he must be in more pain than he admitted.
"I . . . I have heard that a slice of cold beef over the eye will lessen the pain and hasten the healing," she said tentatively.
"I do not want any beef!" he snapped.
"Well, you must excuse me, but I thought it might help!" Cassandra turned from him and stared angrily out the window again. Really! He was the crossest thing imaginable. She was only trying to help, after all!
"It would have been better if you hadn't been so free with your fist—or your kisses—in the first place!"
Cassandra turned swiftly to face him. "You need not throw my actions in my face! I well know I should not have used violence against you—but you must admit, my lord, that I was under extreme provocation!"
"And what provoked you to try your little 'experiment,' pray?" There was a hint of anger in his voice. Anger boiled up within her in response, heating her face.
"Do not start again! I explained it before, and I need not justify my actions to you. What right do you have to dictate to me?" She glared at him. He gave her an icy look in return, but it did nothing to cool her temper.
"Right? I have all the rights of a future husband!"
"What?" Cassandra felt her breath catch in her throat. She stared at Lord Blytheland, uncomprehending.
An uncomfortable look passed across his face, but he lifted his chin and said firmly, "What I meant to say is, will you marry me, Cassandra?"
She clenched her hands. "How dare you make mock of me!"
"No, I am not! You must marry me."
"Must? I think I might have a little say in this, my lord!"
The marquess impatiently paced the floor in front of her. "Not really. We were seen. My valet saw us go into and out of the maze. I think that is all who might have seen us, but I cannot be sure. Not only that, but your father deduced that we were alone together for quite a long time. I have no choice but to ask that you be my wife."
Cassandra's heart beat madly, but whether it was in grief or anger, she did not know. She had dreamed once, a week after they first met, that he had asked her to marry him. She had dismissed it as a notion beyond probability. Now he asked her to marry him in truth, and she felt it was a nightmare. It was all for propriety's sake—a necessary and bloodless thing that she knew many people lived with quite comfortably, but she knew she could not. She had hoped one day when she received a marriage proposal that it would be from a man who loved her. But Lord Blytheland had said nothing of love, nothing of respect or esteem.
She looked up at him, putting all the control she could over her emotions. "You have no choice, do you? Ah, but I do. And I say no. No, Lord Blytheland, I will not marry you."
His lips pressed together briefly, as if he clenched his teeth. "And why not?" he asked.
Cassandra drew in a deep breath. "Because, my lord, I know from your words and actions that you neither esteem nor respect me." Or love, she thought. A stab of pain went through her heart at her own words, but she repressed it. "I, at least, can choose with whom I wish to marry and live for the rest of my life. And I choose not to marry someone who has not even one care for me." She turned away from him and looked out the windows, not seeing at all what was before her.
"I . . . care," said the marquess. His voice sounded closer to her.
Don't turn back to him! Cassandra told herself sternly. You cannot give in to him. She shook her head. "No. You care only for your consequence, and your honor, perhaps. I am sorry, my lord, but no. That sort of care is not enough."
"Then if you must hear it, I love you."
Cassandra gasped, then shook her head. No, impossible. His voice had been low and harsh, as if he'd been forced to confess it against his will. How could he love her and accuse her of base things, thinking she was a woman of no virtue? It made no sense! And your feelings make perfect sense, do they? said the nasty little voice inside of her. She firmly quashed the voice—it was the uncontrolled and unreasonable side of her, and she felt if she listened to it, she would break apart inside. No, it was best to think clearly, and logic told her he did not love her, but wished only to have his way. Cassandra took a deep breath and once more felt in control of herself. She turned to him once again. His expression was confused and lost.
"No, Lord Blytheland, I think you do not know what love is. My answer is most definitely no." She moved from him toward the door and opened it with what she felt was remarkable calm. "Good day, my lord."
"But wait—!"
The door closed behind her.
Chapter 10
"You did what?" Lady Hathaway's voice rose to a shriek on the last word.
"I refused him," Cassandra said calmly. She carefully put the last pair of earrings into her jewelry box and handed the box to her maid.
Lady Hathaway sat abruptly upon a chair and stared at Cassandra and wondered if a cockatrice was hiding beneath her daughter's apparently unmoved countenance. Certainly she felt as if she'd turned into stone, for Cassandra's words had stopped her heart and she felt numb. She became aware of the maid's interested gaze and waved her hand at her in dismissal. The maid left, her steps clearly reluctant. Lady Hathaway took a deep breath.
"Now, let me see if I heard correctly. Paul Templeton, Marquess of Blytheland, heir to the Duke of Beaumont— Lord Blytheland, who is a young, highly eligible, handsome, talented man of great fortune—proposed marriage to you, and you refused his suit." She held up her hand as Cassandra opened her mouth to speak. "No, no! Say nothing, at least for a few minutes . . . I wish to savor the fantasy that I did not hear the words, that I have reached my dotage at last, and have lost all my senses and faculties of mind."
There was an obedient silence as Lady Hathaway closed her eyes and indulged in this hopeless flight of fancy . . . hopeless, indeed, for she opened her eyes and saw her daughter before her, lips firmly closed and eyes downcast.
She could not believe it. Oh, she could believe that all the material benefits of marriage to the marquess would not have weight with Cassandra. But she had been so certain that her daughter's affections had been engaged, and the girl certainly had not objected when the man had kissed her at the Marchmonts' ball! Why, she had even admitted to finding his kisses pleasant!
What had gone wrong? The man had positively haunted the house and Lady Hathaway had been certain he'd propose—and she'd been right! Anyone could see he was clearly enamored of Cassandra; it was the talk of the town, if the gossips were to be believed. They had been right, too, for he had proposed.
And had been refused. Her daughter Cassandra had refused him. Had she gone mad?
"Come, look at me, Cassandra."
The girl raised her head and stepped forward, and Lady Hathaway could see at last the shadows beneath her daughter's eyes, her pale skin, and her eyes dark with grief. Something was terribly wrong, and Cassandra was clearly miserable. Her heart melted. Silently, Lady Hathaway held her arms out to her. With a sob, Cassandra ran forward and flung her arms around her mother's neck. She wept noisily, as she had not done since she was a child, and Lady Hathaway stroked her hair.
"Hush, hush, child," she murmured. "That's it, love, a little crying will make you feel better."
Her words seemed to make Cassandra cry harder, but it was always thus, thought Lady Hathaway, even when she was a little girl. Cassandra had always been logical, her father's daughter, and tried so hard to emulate his intellectual demeanor. But Lady Hathaway knew she was also like herself, with a deep well of womanly passions, and for all Cassandra's training and studiousness those feelings would surface, will she, nil she. Those emotions always exploded from her, like the steam from a boiling pot too tightly closed, and Cassandra was always better for some venting. Lady Hathaway patted her daughter's back, rocking a little, as she used to do when Cassandra was a child.
At last Cassandra's sobs subsided, and after a
few hiccups, she raised her head and smiled weakly at her mother. She searched about her for a handkerchief, then took the one Lady Hathaway gave her and dabbed her eyes.
'Thank you, Mama. How stupid of me! I cannot understand what overcame me. Why, I—"
"Enough, Cassandra! I nursed you myself when you were a babe, unfashionable though it was in some circles, and I remember every tear and smile you gave me since then. I am your mother! Would I not know when you are hurt to your very heart?"
Cassandra's smile wavered, and she shook her head. "Oh, don't—I fear you will make me cry again, Mama."
Lady Hathaway smiled and squeezed her daughter's hand. "Well, I think you have done quite a lot of that already. Perhaps a better idea would be to tell me what transpired between you and Lord Blytheland."
She listened in silence as Cassandra haltingly told her of her "experiment" and how Lord Blytheland had seen it. Lady Hathaway suspected from her daughter's hesitant speech that she did not tell her everything . . . but she would deal with that later. She suppressed the despairing sigh that threatened to burst from her. Heavens! She had not known Cassandra was so naive—she had thought her intelligence would make it easy for her to understand society's ways. Then, too, she'd thought a little naiveté would be an attractive thing in a young lady, but this was more than a little! It was her own fault for not insisting that Cassandra stay in the select boarding school she'd sent her to, but had allowed her husband to teach her instead. And she should have expected that her daughter would turn out so, for she herself had learned discretion and proper conduct at the young ladies' academy to which she had gone when she was a girl.
Clearly Cassandra had misconstrued her instructions and had taken her acceptance of Lord Blytheland's kisses in general terms.
It was clear to Lady Hathaway why Lord Blytheland had lost his temper—he was jealous, and possibly mad with love. Such madness was a rare thing, but she had seen it happen and she was sure it was thus with Lord Blytheland, for he had never been known to act in such a way before, not even in rumor. But it was not time for her to reveal this to Cassandra quite yet. For as she listened to her daughter, there was no hint the girl would admit to loving him, or that her grief and pain came from love, and not from mere insult. She was certain, however, that Cassandra did love him, and was most probably aware of it.
But as Lady Hathaway listened, a burning anger grew in her as well. For however Cassandra had acted, he had behaved in far less than a gentlemanly manner when he took her into the maze, kissed her, and accused her of a lack of virtue. It mattered not whether he was mad with love or was jealous; he should have had better control over his passions than that. And to suspect Cassandra's climbing boys to be her own! If it were not so insulting, she would have laughed. She suspected that someone had referred to the charity in vague terms . . . possibly Psyche, for that literal-minded child had been warned not to mention climbing boys, and only the family referred to the charity as "Cassandra's children." She would definitely have to talk to Psyche soon.
She patted Cassandra's hand and squeezed it in a comforting manner, and her daughter smiled in return.
"Well, we shall be leaving this house soon, and Lord Blytheland need not bother you again. He has proposed—as he should have done, after practically compromising your virtue!—and you have refused. I am sorely disappointed in him—he had seemed so gentlemanly as well as eligible! But that is the end of it, and we need not acknowledge his invitations or his calls to us in town if you do not feel you can face him. And I would not blame you if you did not wish to see him! For all that you were indiscreet—and I will not excuse you on that head!—you did not deserve such treatment from him."
Cassandra cast a tentative look at her mother. "Could we . . . could we leave London and go home, at least for a while?"
"No, that would be admitting you were at fault, should word of this ever come out to the ton, as it will, eventually. However painful it is, we must return, and put a good face on it. Besides, you were the one to refuse his proposal, therefore there must be something wrong with him, not you. If we left London, it would be thought quite otherwise." Cassandra nodded and was silent, clearly taking in this advice with deep consideration. Lady Hathaway gazed at her, and felt that something had changed, that Cassandra would perhaps show a different face to society than she once had. Lady Hathaway knew a moment of regret and sighed, for she felt tom. Part of her wished that the blunt, outspoken Cassandra had stayed, for it was how she had been since a child, and to see it modified or changed was to see her daughter as a little girl no more. But Cassandra was a woman grown, and to try to keep her from being one was foolishness.
"Besides, you have grown quite popular, have you not? There is no reason why you should not enjoy the entertainments during the rest of the Season. There are other eligible gentlemen in London, too, when you are able to think of proposals again—Lord Eldon, after all, did not refuse to kiss you, after all! But there is time enough to think of that later," Lady Hathaway said hastily at Cassandra's despairing expression. "It is best to think of balls and dresses and other frivolous things."
Cassandra raised her brows. "But frivolous things—"
"No, I do not want any of your homilies about frivolity," Lady Hathaway said. "There is such a thing as balance in one's life, and I think you have had enough of seriousness and disappointments for now, am I not right?"
There was silence, then Cassandra pressed her lips together and nodded. She looked at Lady Hathaway and smiled gratefully. "You are the best of mothers! I know you must be disappointed, for you seemed to like Lord Blytheland over any other gentleman .. . and he is the only one who has proposed, after all. He could be my only—" She swallowed, then smiled again, though it was a smile full of pain. 'The only proposal I will receive."
Lady Hathaway patted her hand. "I would not want a husband for you who did not love you as you deserve, my dear. And I am not at all in despair! Why, Hetty Chatwick told me last week that the Viscount Bennington was quite taken with you when he saw you in our opera box! And did not Mr. Rowland and Sir Ellery Heysmith both dance with you at the Marchmonts' ball and at Almack's?"
She chattered on, watching Cassandra's face as she outlined new entertainments and future balls. Her expression had lightened a little and she was clearly listening to her mother's advice. But a dark sadness still lingered in her eyes, and Lady Hathaway feared that her daughter's heart might be badly broken.
* * * *
"It is my fault. It is all my fault," Psyche said, and pressed her hands to her eyes. She had heard her mother's shriek, and had—admittedly—eavesdropped, then ran to her bedroom. She knew she would weep and did not want anyone to see her, and it was close to the time she usually slept anyway. "I mentioned the climbing boys and I shouldn't have, and it made Lord Blytheland angry at Cassandra, and she hit him on his eye and now she is angry at him, and they will never be happy again!"
Harry flew down from his perch on the window ledge to the bed upon which Psyche sat and hugged her comfortingly. "No, it was not your fault he was being stupid. Besides, he said it was the rococo molding."
Psyche shook her head and wiped away a tear with the back of her hand. "No, I know she must have hit him, because I saw them come out of the maze and his eye looked terrible. He hadn't walked into molding at all." She bit her lower lip to keep it from quivering but her tears still fell. "Oh, I wish I hadn't told him! I have ruined it for both of them! I am so disappointed in Lord Blytheland. I never, never thought he would be mean to Cassandra, for he has always been kind to me. How could he be so horrid to her? I don't understand! I thought you said he was in love with her, Harry!"
There was silence, and Psyche looked up at her friend. He felt tense next to her, and an odd expression, a mix of affront, surprise, and guilt was on his face. She had seen him affronted before, but she had never seen him look surprised or guilty about anything.
"Is there something the matter?" she asked.
He looked at h
er, and this time the guilt was clear in his eyes. He swallowed. "I think . . . I think it is my fault a little, Psyche."
"But I thought you turned him back to what he was before you shot him with your love arrows!"
"I did! But, well, I, er, got there too late," he said in a rush. He definitely looked uncomfortable now.
"Oh, Harry!" Psyche said.
"I thought there was no need . . . I thought perhaps it would work well as it was, and I suppose . . . I suppose I didn't go as fast as I should have." He rose from the sofa, went to the fireplace, and fiddled with a few of the ornaments on the mantelpiece. He put them down and walked to the window, then back to the fireplace again, his movements restless. "And . . . and I think I might have shot too many love arrows into him the first time."
'Too many arrows? Why?" Psyche felt a queer ache inside of her, as if something she held dear was quickly sliding from her grasp.
"He was stubborn! He refused to think he could love anyone, or that he could be loved! All he could think of was his stupid dead wife who could never truly love anyone and who he—Who he—" Harry clenched his fists, frowning terribly. "With whom he fell in love because he looked at the wrong woman when I shot him with one of my arrows!"
"You mean you made a mistake."
"No, I never make mistakes. It wasn't my fault he looked at the wrong woman!"
"Not your fault! Why, I would say you should have known he could have looked at the wrong woman if there were more than one about him! Oh, you and your, your hubris!" Psyche said hotly. "You say we mortals shouldn't have it because it offends you and your relatives, but I think it's precisely the opposite! If you hadn't been so toplofty as to think you never make a mistake—and you certainly did, don't deny it!—you would have been more careful! You wouldn't have had to shoot Lord Blytheland with too many arrows and—"
She stopped and stared at Harry. "You said too many arrows . . . what did you mean by that? What do too many arrows do?"
Cupid's Mistake (Cupid Regency Romance) Page 16
