Cupid's Mistake (Cupid Regency Romance)

by Harbaugh, Karen

  Then it was gone.

  Chapter 12

  The sun struck Cassandra's eyes and woke her. She kept her eyes closed, for she did not really feel like getting up just yet. Today is just another day, like any other day, she told herself. You will have breakfast, and then you will find Psyche and give her Italian lessons and lessons in geography and mathematics. Then you will do all the other things you have always done since you came to London, only you will not see Lord Blytheland, and it will not matter to you one whit, for you are fully capable of going on as you have before, without him.

  Hard words, and they struck her heart like stone. She turned and pressed her face into her pillow. She would not cry. She had done enough of that, enough for a lifetime. Pushing herself from her bed, she rose and pulled the bell rope. Today she would dress and everything would be as it was the day before, and the day before that.

  Though she admittedly picked at her breakfast, she ate it, and when Psyche appeared for her lessons, she went through them as she always did. Her sister seemed unusually silent—but though she had received quite a scold from Mama a month ago, and Psyche was very sensitive to scolds and was clearly still affected by it. Cassandra hugged her sister after they finished the lessons.

  "Psyche, please do cheer up. I know you did not mean to mislead Lord Blytheland. You see, I do not mind it, for it showed me his true nature, and I cannot wish to wed a man of such violent temper."

  Psyche gazed at her wide-eyed and shook her head. "I think you do mind it."

  Cassandra looked away and began fiddling with a fold in her dress. "Oh, at first I did, but not now. It was for the best, truly." She glanced up to find her sister still staring at her, her head cocked to one side.

  "Well, you may say what you like, Cassandra. But it will turn out well. Lord Blytheland does love you, I know it. Perhaps I could help—"

  "Heavens, no!" Cassandra hunched a shoulder. "Please, let us not talk of him. I would prefer not to think of him— or of his feelings." Especially not his feelings. His admission he loved her struck hard every time she thought of it. He said it, but what did it mean? He could have very easily—

  No. She would not think of him. There were better things to do today. Cassandra waved her hand at Psyche. "I will need to run a few errands soon. Do you wish to accompany me?"

  Psyche hesitated. "Where are you going?"

  "To the milliner's to see if my hat is finished, and then the draper's to find some ribbons to match the hat."

  "No, thank you." Psyche shook her head. "I don't wish to go anywhere right now. Perhaps tomorrow."

  Cassandra gazed at her sister for a long moment. "Is there something the matter?" Psyche loved to go to the shops on New Bond Street, and her refusal was unusual.

  The girl looked down at her hands clutched tightly together. "I. . . I know you do not like me to speak of him, but I have not seen Harry for a long time. And I wish he were back."

  She looked so forlorn Cassandra did not have the heart to remind her that Harry was imaginary. She gave her another hug. "Perhaps he will return . . . or perhaps this means you are growing up, and do not need imag—such friends anymore."

  Psyche shook her head. "If growing up means I shall not have Harry for a friend anymore, I do not wish to grow up."

  Cassandra gave her a comforting pat on her back. "Well, perhaps he shall come back, soon."

  "I don't know . . ." Psyche said, dully. She shrugged and rose from her seat. "I am going to read for a while. Do tell me if you see anything amusing when you return."

  "Of course," Cassandra replied. She would buy something for Psyche while she was out, a book, or perhaps find some music for her to sing, for her sister loved to sing. She would play the piece upon her piano, and she and Psyche could do a duet—

  A book would be better, Cassandra decided, for she did not want to think of music or duets quite yet. She sighed and went upstairs to put on her walking dress. She wished her father would come back to London, for perhaps he could give her advice. He had gone to Cambridge because Kenneth had got himself into trouble again, for her brother detested the place and had often wished—loudly—to join the army. In this one thing, Cassandra thought her father erred. Kenneth was not stupid by any means and if he applied himself he could be quite brilliant. But he hungered for a pair of colors and wished more than anything to fight in Wellington's army against Bonaparte. She could understand her father's wish to keep his son and heir safe in England. But he could speak with someone in government—he had quite a few friends there—and purchase Kenneth a relatively safe position in the army.

  As Cassandra finished dressing and tied the ribbon of her bonnet under her chin, she wished life were not so difficult or so hard to understand. Her mother said these things were part of life, what one must bear and from which one must learn, as important as learning of Goethe's ideas or Aristotle's. She had not thought of it in that way before, but she saw practical application of one's theories was always useful. And so she would bear the pain that seemed a constant companion, and put up with the ache in her heart that seemed not ever to go away, and hopefully learn from them.

  * * * *

  Psyche waited a whole fifteen minutes after Cassandra left before she rang the bell pull for a maid. It was Gwennie who came to her, and Psyche was glad, because she knew the girl would do anything she asked. She had given her all of her pin money once when she had heard Gwennie's little brother was ill so he could have a proper doctor, and he had become well again. So she had no trouble at all convincing Gwennie to accompany her on her errand to Lord Blytheland's house.

  For she had determined, with or without Harry, that she must do something about her sister's and Lord Blytheland's broken hearts. It was, after all, partly her fault. And since Harry was at fault, too, and he was her friend—had been her friend—she was responsible for him, too. Making Lord Blytheland and Cassandra understand how wrong they were about each other and perhaps making them be friends again would go a long way to making up for the problems she and Harry had caused.

  A brisk wind blew at her and pulled at her bonnet, but she was glad for the breeze, for it was a warm day. It took longer than she thought it would to get to Lord Blytheland's house. Though she remembered where it was, she had only gone past it in a carriage, and it was hard to gauge how long it would take to walk there. At last she was in front of the house. Lord Blytheland's was one of the largest on the street, and the most elegant. Psyche frowned. But there was a traveling carriage near it. The coach had a crest on it, too, and though Psyche did not remember exactly what the marquess's family crest looked like, it looked very much like it could be his. Was Lord Blytheland going away?

  She stepped up to the house and knocked at the door, her maid close beside her. The door opened.

  The butler did not see her at first, because she was admittedly rather short and he was very tall. But then he glanced down and frowned at her.

  "Yes, miss?" he said, looking down his nose, his voice quite frigid.

  Psyche pressed her lips together firmly; she would not be put aside from her purpose. Besides, everyone knew the best houses had butlers who were always very high in the instep. She needed only convince him she was Quality, and that her mission was serious. "Please," she said, "I must see Lord Blytheland. It is very important. My name is Miss Psyche Hathaway, and as you see I am calling upon Lord Blytheland in a very proper manner, because I have my maid with me. He knows who I am, because he played his violin while my sister Cassandra played the pianoforte, and I was there to listen. He was very kind to me, too, and let me listen along with Mama."

  An odd look came over the butler's face, as if he were trying very hard to suppress some strong emotion. His lips quirked up for a moment before turning into a frown, and he cleared his throat a few times before saying, "I am afraid it is not proper for a lady to call upon a gentleman even when she is accompanied by a maid."

  "Oh!" Psyche said, and frowned. "Well, I thought a lady might go anywhere wit
h her maid, except Bond Street. Will you please tell him he must come call upon me soon? Today?"

  "I, er, I am afraid he is not in at the moment."

  Psyche gazed at him suspiciously. "Does that mean he is at home, but he doesn't want to see anyone?"

  "No, miss, he is not present in his house at this time." The butler's lips quirked again.

  She crossed her heart with her finger and looked at him sternly. "True blue and will never stain?"

  The man's stern expression cracked completely and he grinned. He crossed his heart as well. "True blue, miss."

  "Oh! Well . . . when will he return?"

  "I believe it will be within the half hour. But I doubt you will catch him even then. He will prepare to leave town as soon as he returns."

  "Heavens!" Psyche exclaimed. "What am I to do?"

  The butler looked at her kindly. "I believe he went to call upon your family one last time—he mentioned he was going to Sir John Hathaway's house. Perhaps if you hurried home, you will find him there."

  "Yes, yes thank you!" Psyche gave him a smile, and turned from the house as the butler bowed and closed the door. But her gaze caught the coach in front of her, and she frowned again. She could not be sure she would see Lord Blytheland at her home, for by the time she walked there, he might well be gone. And she could not depend on finding him on the way home. If she waited in Lord Blytheland's traveling coach, she definitely would not miss him, and she could explain everything to him when he stepped into it. She bit her lip and glanced at her maid. It would be awkward to have Gwennie in there, too, for she wished to discuss family matters with Lord Blytheland, and Mama always said it was important not to discuss such things in front of the servants. Well! She would just have to get rid of the maid.

  The breeze blew quite strongly, and with a quick tug she untied the bonnet ribbon beneath her chin. The wind obligingly picked up and threw her hat off her head—with only a little help from her hand.

  "Oh, no!" Psyche cried. "Gwennie, do fetch my hat! Mama will be so angry with me if I return without it!" She was very pleased when the maid ran off immediately after her bonnet. She would give the girl two whole shillings later for her trouble.

  Quickly, she climbed into the coach, her heart thumping hard. Did anyone see her? She peered out the coach window carefully. She did not think so. With a sigh, she relaxed against the squabs of the seat.

  It was very comfortable in the coach, though very warm. She hoped Lord Blytheland would come soon, for sitting in a coach always made her feel sleepy. However, it could not hurt to close her eyes just a little, and when he did arrive, he would no doubt wake her up. She smiled to herself. Yes, all she needed to do was tell Lord Blytheland how Cassandra really loved him, and how she wept after he left, and he would understand. He seemed to be a rather understanding gentleman, after all, at least to her. He probably would have understood Cassandra, too, if he had not been shot so full of Harry's arrows. Perhaps she would even tell Lord Blytheland about Harry . . . although Cassandra had warned her not to talk of Harry to anyone else. Psyche yawned. It would not be so bad if she closed her eyes, just a little . . . and Lord Blytheland would undoubtedly come soon.

  * * * *

  The glow was difficult to see in the daylight even if anyone knew to look for it, and of course no one did. It hovered around the coach in which Psyche sat, hesitated, and then settled upon the groom's seat. Harry allowed himself to take form, though he kept himself invisible. He did not want Psyche to see him just yet, in case she looked out of the carriage.

  He found in the month he was away, he could not help thinking of his little friend and he had wondered what she was doing, if she had done anything outrageous lately, or said anything to make anyone laugh. He had left in anger, feeling more hurt than he thought he would. She was just a human, after all, and only a child. But taking mortal form, and a young form at that, always had an effect on him, and he often reacted the way a young mortal would. It was the only way humans could understand his presence, whenever he showed himself. They often became confused when a boy acted like an old man, or vice versa. He grinned. There was no way a human could comprehend an ancient god who could take any form he wished, anyway.

  But he had to return and see how Psyche Hathaway fared. While he was away, he had searched a month for his own Psyche, with no success. There were few places these days he could look—he had searched everywhere for any sign of her. He had only twenty more years to find her, before most of the ancient gods faded forever, or so Hecate the Crone, the Secret One, said. They would disappear from the minds of humans, despite the efforts of such worthy men as Sir John Hathaway to preserve the ancient stories. Artemis had already fled to the Americas, where the cities had not yet encroached upon the vast wilderness, and though Apollo had found some contentment with the German and Austrian composers of music, now Ares was strongest, for humans believed in war quite fervently, as they always had.

  Many still believed in love as well, so Harry—Eros— had not lost much of his strength. But he was not as strong as he used to be, for he had lost his own love, and he was strongest when he loved as well as when he was loved. When the gods began to lose their power, he had quarreled with his Psyche, for she believed the gods lost their power because they had become too distant from mortals. She would think that, of course, because she had been mortal herself at one time. But then she had disappeared, and only the sound of her voice whispering "find me, find me" had echoed in their empty house at Olympus.

  She had been right, or so Hecate had confirmed. And once he found his Psyche, it would save the gods from fading into extinction, forgotten by mortals forever.

  So why did he return to Psyche Hathaway? He did not know. She had the same name, though other mortal females had worn the name, too. Perhaps . . . perhaps she held some clue to the whereabouts of his own Psyche. Who knew why she might! She was a stubborn and argumentative child, and he did not see how she might hold a clue to saving the gods at all.

  But if she did, he supposed he should stay to find it out. He had looked most everywhere, after all, and was weary of searching right now. He grinned. Besides, she was a funny child, and it amused him to tease her. It would be especially amusing to see how she went about healing the rift between Lord Blytheland and Cassandra Hathaway without his help.

  * * * *

  Something was wrong. Psyche woke up and bumped her head against the side of the coach. It was moving!

  "Well, well. The Sleeping Beauty has awakened," said a soft voice.

  Psyche gave a little shriek and shrank back into a comer of the coach. "You are not Lord Blytheland!" she said, and stared at the man. He was definitely not the marquess. This man had dark hair, where Lord Blytheland had blond hair, and he was older, too.

  "No, I am not. I am Lord Crawforth. And you are . . ?"

  She did not like this man. There was something . . . bad about him, about the way he looked at her. She was used to seeing what people were feeling when she looked into their eyes, but she saw no feeling in this man's eyes, and it made her afraid. But it never did any good to show one's fear, her father always said, so she would not. "I have got into the wrong coach," she said firmly. "I am very sorry, but will you stop it so I may go to the right one?"

  "But you have not told me your name, little one." Psyche did not like his voice, either. He made slight hissing sounds when he talked, like a snake—or should have, for he looked at her as if he were thinking whether she should be a side dish or a main course.

  "Psyche Hathaway. There! I have told you, so you must stop the coach. Now, please."

  Lord Crawforth looked thoughtful. "No, I think I like company on my travels. You shall do very well. How old are you?"

  She began to feel very afraid now. "I do not see why I should tell you that, especially since I do not want to go with you. You shall stop this coach and I shall leave!" She stamped her foot—it was better to be angry than afraid. "If you do not, I shall scream—loudly."

 
His hand came up and seized her chin, forcing her to look at him. His eyes were cold, cold as ice. "You shall do as I say. You shall indeed come with me, because I wish it. Who are you but a nobody, an insignificant thing? If you scream, I shall simply tell everyone that you are mine, that you are misbehaving. Why should they believe you, and not me?"

  Psyche turned and grabbed the carriage handle, almost opening it, but Lord Crawforth pulled her roughly away. She bit him and scratched him, but he was stronger than she, and tore the ribbon from her hair and tied her hands with it.

  "There now," he said, breathing heavily from his efforts. "Do be a good girl and stay still."

  Psyche glared at him, refusing to cry. She wished she had left a message at home about where she had gone. At least her mother or Cassandra would have known where to start looking for her. Or Harry. She shut her eyes tightly to keep the tears from falling. She wished she hadn't argued with Harry and told him to go away. He would have been here with her, if she had not. That would have comforted her and perhaps they would have thought of a way for her to escape.

  But perhaps . . . perhaps he had not really gone. Perhaps he was punishing her a little by not showing himself. Oh, she hoped it was so. For he was, really, her only chance to escape from Lord Crawforth. She took a deep breath.

  "Harry! Harry!" she screamed.

  Immediately, Lord Crawforth's hand clamped over her mouth. "None of that, my dear. A stupid thing to do. We have traveled quite a way from where we started, and if your Harry was near then, he certainly is not now."

  She bit his hand.

  "Damn you!" His hand went to her throat instead. "If you do that again, I shall throttle you, depend upon it." His fingers squeezed upon her neck to prove it. "Do you understand?"

  Slowly, she nodded, and he released her. He smiled. "That's a good girl. I like good, obedient girls. You will be good, won't you?"

  Psyche did not want him to like her, for she felt somehow Lord Crawforth did not treat good girls well at all. In which case, she would try to be as bad as possible.