"I don't see why I should tell you, especially if you're going to be a witch about it all." A mulish look settled about his chin, and he stared at her angrily.
"You shall tell me!" Psyche cried. "It's important! I know my sister has a broken heart—she cried and cried and she never cries! If you don't I swear I'll not leave my window open at night, and you will have to stay outside until morning and if you catch a horrid cold it shall be all that you deserve!"
"What do I care? I don't catch colds," Harry said scornfully.
Psyche bit her lip again, for she could feel it begin to quiver and she didn't want to cry again.
"Oh—very well!" Harry said impatiently. "If I shoot too many arrows in someone they become mad. They don't always act as they ought and sometimes they become stupidly jealous. There. I hope you are satisfied."
The ache Psyche had felt earlier grew hard and hurt worse now. She stared at Harry and knew some of the ache was disappointment, for though she knew he was not perfect, a part of her always thought he was. But now his actions had made Lord Blytheland act in a mean way to Cassandra, and now Cassandra's heart was broken. And Harry could not even admit he had made a mistake!
"You horrid, beastly boy!" Psyche cried. "It was all because of you that Lord Blytheland was so odious to my sister! I told you, you should not have shot him! I told you it was a mistake! But you didn't listen, did you? You knew so much more than I! You never make a mistake, do you?"
"I suppose your blabbing about Cassandra's climbing boys to Lord Blytheland had nothing to do with it?" Harry hunched a disdainful shoulder. "If you think me so odious, I wonder you care to have me about!"
"Well, I don't!" Psyche retorted. "I hope I never see you again!"
Harry gave her one burning, angry look, and with a rush of wind and feathers he was gone.
"Harry!" Psyche whirled around, looking for him. "Harry, where are you?" No answer, no glowing light, no whisper of feathers or rattle of arrows. He was gone, truly gone. Her lip trembled in earnest now. Oh, heavens. He had been right, really—she was still partly at fault, even though most of the fault was his. But she had been so angry!
"Harry?" she whispered. Silence. She was alone now, and she wished she had not scolded him. And. . . she had told him that she never wanted to see him again. "I didn't mean it! Please come back." She flung the window open wider and strained to see into the night's darkness.
But still there was silence, no sound except the wind outside the chamber window.
* * * *
Lord Blytheland watched the guests leave in their carriages and watched in particular one coach in which a young lady sat. He lifted his hand and placed his fingers on the drawing-room window. The coach now looked no larger than the width of his thumb. If he could, he'd pluck up the carriage and bring Cassandra Hathaway back to him again.
But he could not, of course. He picked up a glass and swallowed a mouthful of brandy, not tasting it, and hardly feeling the heat of it going down his throat. Grimacing, he put the glass down on the marble-topped table beside him. The madness that had seized him was gone now. How long had it held him? He was not certain, and there was only confusion and despair left in its wake. He had pushed her away with his jealous rage, he was sure.
He pressed his palms against his eyes and groaned. There was no reason Miss Hathaway—Cassandra—should forgive him. He had not only insulted her but his proposal of marriage had been so badly done that no self-respecting woman would have accepted him.
But she had said she had loved him. He should not hope; his actions should have killed any love she might have had for him. And yet. . . and yet she had not said that she hated him, not precisely. It was not much, perhaps, but it was something.
It was, he realized, more than he had had from his wife or from any of his mistresses. None of them had said words of love to him—appreciation, perhaps, for he was fairly skilled at lovemaking and showering those under his protection with trinkets and other expensive gifts. But none of them had said they loved him. He knew now he'd come to expect it: that for all his wealth and title, there was something wrong with him, something in him that was ultimately unlovable. Blytheland half groaned, half laughed. How ironic it was that he'd hear it at last from blunt, outspoken Cassandra, after showing how unlovable he could be. And now she'd left his life—possibly forever, if the cold, haughty looks he received from Lady Hathaway were any indication.
The door opened, and his butler bowed. "Lord Eldon to see you, my lord." Blytheland nodded, and the butler opened the door wider.
Lord Eldon raised his quizzing glass and peered at his friend, his gaze resting for a moment on Blytheland's black eye. "Now that's a wisty castor. Didn't know rococo molding protruded that far out from the wall. Architecture's a damned nuisance, if you ask me."
"It wasn't rococo molding, El," Blytheland said.
"Ah. Thought not. La Hathaway has a handy bunch of fives on her, eh?"
"Flush hit. Knocked me down flat into the pond."
Eldon's brows raised. "Remind me not to have a lover's quarrel with her. Can't hit a lady, after all, and I wouldn't have a sporting chance, then."
Blytheland laughed reluctantly, then looked steadily at his friend. "The field's clear for you, El. She's refused me. Not that I blame her. I'm a villain, a monster, the way I've treated her. She deserves much better for a husband than someone like me." He gave another bitter laugh. "You should have called me out when you had the chance. I deserved it. In fact, feel free to use my pistols now. I promise I won't return the shot."
"Happy to oblige, Blythe-my-old, but I might get blood on my hessians. Can't have that."
"No, of course not."
There was silence for a moment, then Eldon said, 'Truth to tell, Blythe, I was hoping to hear wedding bells for you. Seems I miscalculated."
The marquess raised his head and stared at his friend.
Lord Eldon looked a little uncomfortable. "Thing is, you were dancing around the lady so much we all thought it was a promised thing. Betting on it at White's, too. Then you told me it wasn't in the pocket at all. Bad thing to do, friend, especially when she was so clearly top over tails in love with you from the start."
"I couldn't see it, El." Blytheland hesitated. "No, I did not want to."
"Chloe?"
"Yes."
Silence again. Eldon, apparently in deep thought, twirled his quizzing glass on the end of its ribbon.
"Well, I believe you know what I thought of Chloe," he said. "So I won't go into that. But I'll be frank: I had Miss Hathaway figured as the perfect match for you. Everyone did. Music, brains, charities, not to mention a lovely face and form—most everything you like, my old. Thought you could see that, too."
"Had a thought to play the matchmaker, did you, El?" Blytheland said mockingly.
Eldon rubbed the side of his nose and looked a little embarrassed. "You'd been moping about Chloe for, deuce take it, two, three years now? Time to stop mourning for a woman who was little better than a whore."
The marquess stood up abruptly, fists clenched. "I'll remind you not to talk about—"
"Oh, stubble it, Blytheland! What else do you call a woman who came home only to whelp another man's child?"
Lord Blytheland caught his breath. "How do you know—"
"If you'll remember, you lost your way down Pall Mall, after imbibing three bottles of White's finest the night she died. If I hadn't peeled you off the lamppost and brought you to my lodgings to sleep it off, you'd probably have blabbed the whole to the street." Lord Eldon bent a kindly eye upon his friend. "You were pretty badly off, so I daresay you might not remember it. I would have been the same with three bottles in me—in fact, I was, the last time Lightning-Be-Gone placed fifth at Ascot. Lost a deuced thousand pounds, too, and was sick as a dog the next morning.
"Thing is," he continued after Blytheland sat down again, "you're a marrying man. Thought perhaps Miss Hathaway would be the ticket to church for you. But you denied it every time
, despite the way you were hovering around her like a bee to honey. So, when she asked me to participate in her, ah, experiment, I thought it'd be just the thing to make you think about what you might be losing." An embarrassed look grew on his face. "Thing was, I didn't think you'd rake Miss Hathaway over the coals, or insult her. You never did that before to a lady, not even with Chloe when you found out about her, ah, indiscretions."
"I'll thank you, El, not to interfere in my affairs in the future," Blytheland said, but he said it with no heat, no anger. He had, after all, no one but himself to blame, and Eldon was quite right. Miss Hathaway was perfect for him, and he'd been making up excuses right and left trying to tell himself she was not. "Well, it's too late now." He rubbed his hand over his face. God, he was tired thinking of it all, and the brandy was not making it any better. "I'll see you in town in a month or so."
Eldon nodded in an understanding manner. "Can't be seen in town sporting an eye like that."
Lord Blytheland hesitated and then gazed at his friend. "Would you look out for her, El? I won't be in town, but she will. She has no more notion about how to go about society than a kitten, for all her intelligence. I suppose . . . I suppose with all the attention I have been paying her, there will be gossip. Let it about that I did propose, and she refused me." He smiled wryly. "If they wish to think I am suffering a decline in the country because of her rejection of my suit, they may do so."
"No, no, not so bad as that!" Eldon protested, clearly revulsed. "But I shall see that she's partnered at every dance, at least."
'Thank you, El. You're a true friend." Blytheland poured himself another glass of brandy and drank it down.
Lord Eldon cleared his throat and looked embarrassed. "Not at all, not at all. You'd do the same for me, should the occasion rise." A look of horror crept upon his countenance. "That is—Good God. I hope not. Not that La Hathaway isn't what a man would want—That is, I wouldn't want to be in the same boat as you right now. No offense meant, Blythe-my-old," he said, looking uncomfortable.
The marquess laughed at last. "No, I know you don't." His smile twisted, and he shook his friend's hand. "Let me know how she goes on, will you?"
"Of course." Eldon turned to leave, but hesitated. "Think you might try again?"
Blytheland sighed and wearily rubbed his unbruised eye with his hand. "I do not know, El. I really don't. Sometimes I think—Well, I suppose it doesn't matter."
Lord Eldon gazed at his friend sympathetically for a moment, then took his leave and closed the door. He frowned. Blythe was in a bad way, but heaven only knew how he'd get himself out of it. He was willing to wager that Miss Hathaway was fair to being miserable, too, by the look of her face before she left. Lord, what a tangle! Well, he'd watch out for Miss Hathaway as his friend had asked, and perhaps put in a good word or two for old Blythe as well.
He'd denied that his friend would go into a decline, but he was not all that certain of it. Blytheland's bottle of brandy was already half empty, and the look on his face was worse than the one he'd had the night Chloe died. He doubted that the man would feel much better in the morning. Worse, in fact. Much worse.
Chapter 11
"And would you know when Lord Blytheland will be returning to London, Miss Hathaway? It has been three, perhaps four weeks since he has been in town, has it not?" Lady Fairway asked.
Cassandra swallowed her anger and bit back an acid retort. She smiled at Lady Fairway. "I have no idea, my lady. I am not privy to Lord Blytheland's activities." She took a sip of tea, glad that her hand did not rattle the cup on the saucer when she put it down again. Perhaps she was not always discreet, but she had learned much control this month. It was important so that she would not scream the hurt and anger she still felt every time someone poked at her for answers to Lord Blytheland's absence from London.
"But I thought you and he . . ." Lady Fairway said, her voice rising at the end in a question.
Cassandra widened her eyes innocently and raised her brows. "Lord Blytheland and I? What have we to do with— Oh! You must mean our mutual interest in music. There was some talk of doing more duets, but I do not know if it will come about. I suppose we might, but I cannot say until he returns to London. It is always a difficult thing to agree upon a piece of music that is mutually satisfactory to both players." She shrugged a little and smiled.
She saw her mother nod in approval at her from across Lady Fairway's drawing room. Her mother had given her support for her spirits and much encouragement, and she was grateful for it. This time she would listen, and try harder to understand the rules of society, however nonsensical and contrary to the philosophies she had learned. There was such a thing as practical application, after all, and one must modify one's theories to real situations instead of to the hypothetical. Even her father had agreed this was true.
Lady Fairway raised her brows and her smile was sly. She tittered. "And to think that there were rumors about your betrothal to him!"
Cassandra could feel herself blush, but she made herself laugh. "As you see, you have made me blush at the notion—it is so ridiculous! How anyone could think such a silly thing, I do not know. Why, Lord Blytheland can look higher than myself for a wife, after all. Everyone must know that."
"A silly notion, of course," Lady Fairway agreed and her smile was odiously sweet.
Cassandra bit back a heated retort, almost losing her resolution to be silent upon the subject—she could easily have mentioned he had proposed to her. But she was not at all certain when he would return to London, if at all this Season, and she would much rather deny he had an interest in her beyond mere flirtation. Her mother had thought it might be best to discreetly let people know of the proposal, but though Cassandra agreed to every other one of her suggestions, she could not bear thinking of his proposal, or anyone questioning her about her refusal. Her mother had reluctantly agreed; the subject would be a thing to cause speculation whatever anyone said.
"Oh, hardly silly, Lady Fairway," said a voice behind Cassandra. She turned and swallowed nervously—it was Mrs. Drummond-Burrell, one of the strictest of the patronesses of Almack's. Her cool gaze warmed a little and she nodded approvingly at Cassandra. "Miss Hathaway is clearly a modest young lady of good birth, and that is always attractive in a prospective wife. She is very accomplished as well. Who is to say that a man of Lord Blytheland's breeding and lineage would not look to marry her? I see it as wholly possible that he might propose to her in the future, and be considered most fortunate in his choice."
Cassandra blushed furiously now. "Oh, heavens, Mrs. Drummond-Burrell. Truly, you are too kind. I pray you will not say more. Really, there is nothing between us except an interest in music."
The patroness of Almack's nodded kindly at her. "You are a good, modest girl, Miss Hathaway." She gazed sternly at Lady Fairway. "One does not often see such modesty in young ladies these days, I am afraid."
This time Lady Fairway blushed, and with a hasty curtsy and murmured excuse she left to talk with some acquaintance she had just noticed from across the room.
"Odious woman," Mrs. Drummond-Burrell remarked calmly. She turned to Cassandra and gave her a slight smile. "You did very well. I do hope Lord Blytheland proposes to you and that you accept. He needs someone as sensible as you, Miss Hathaway. His last wife was a horrible woman, immodest and wicked. However, you are wise not to set your sights upon him; gentlemen are not always as sensible as ladies where marriage is concerned. It is remarkable how many of them make the same mistakes again and again." With a nod, she turned to talk to an acquaintance.
Lady Hathaway beamed her approval at her from across the room, but Cassandra felt trapped. Oh, heavens! She had refused the marquess. If the ton—and Mrs. Drummond- Burrell—heard of her refusal and disapproved, would she be turned away from the doors of Almack's? She almost groaned in despair. It seemed it mattered not what she did or how hard she tried, she could still founder in the murky shoals of society's rules.
And what was she to do
when Lord Blytheland returned?
They were bound to see each other from time to time, and it was bound to be awkward. Her mother said that all she needed to do was be civil. . . but such coldness and distance between them would be marked by everyone in the ton. Lady Hathaway had shaken her head. There was no escaping it; it would be noticed, and they would have to bear whatever whispers and speculations they heard with aplomb.
A brief silence suddenly stilled the drawing room, and Cassandra knew without looking toward the door that Lord Blytheland had returned. She could see glances from Lady Fairway's guests go between the door and herself; who else would engender such speculative looks? Conversation began again, slightly louder than before, as if everyone were trying to cover an awkward moment.
Awkward indeed. She looked up to see Lord Blytheland before her. The bruise was gone from his eye, only a slight yellowing close to the side of his nose. His gaze was solemn as he bowed to her.
"I trust you are well, Miss Hathaway?" His voice was soft and deep, and she wished desperately she did not feel joy rising in her upon hearing it.
"Y-yes, I am well, thank you. And you?" She could not help glancing at the eye she had hit and her face grew warm with embarrassment.
"I am better, thank you."
Cassandra swallowed and looked away. "I am glad," she murmured.
"Are you?" Was there a slight eagerness in his voice? She was not certain.
"I would not want anyone feeling less than well, my lord." There, that was nothing more than a neutral sentiment.
"Of course." The marquess's voice was cool, and when she looked at him again he did not meet her eyes but seemed to look past her shoulder. She wished she could say something witty or light, but she could think of nothing, and only gave him a brief, weak smile and looked away.
"Perhaps I could call upon you tomorrow or the next day, Miss Hathaway?"
Oh, heavens, what should she say? Cassandra glanced at her mother across the room, but she was talking to the lady by her side. She looked at him; he gazed at her again, and though his face was smooth and cool, he had a questioning look in his eyes. She did not know he would return at this time, she was not prepared for it. At the very least, she needed a day—a few days—to compose herself, to think how she might speak with him from this time on. She wet her lips nervously.
Cupid's Mistake (Cupid Regency Romance) Page 17
