Cupid's Mistake (Cupid Regency Romance) (17 page)

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 dress 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 said, 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.

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.