Cupid's Mistake (Cupid Regency Romance) (20 page)

She rose and tiptoed down the stairs. There was a slight space between the fern and the wall next to the drawing room door, enough for her to slip behind and curl up beneath the table. She made herself very still, and listened.

* * * *

Cassandra sat and folded her hands before her in her lap and was glad she could control their shaking. But her palms felt damp, and she took out her handkerchief and surreptitiously dried them. She did not look at Lord Blytheland, for she was afraid of what she would blurt at him if she did, especially since she had no idea what she would say to him. That was what had made her say indiscreet things, she found—not knowing what she'd say in any particular social situation. She had tried to think of potential events before she went anywhere so as to practice what she would say. It had worked well, too, for no one had walked off in an offended manner for a month now, and she had many gentlemen calling upon her the next day after dancing with her.

But for all that she had had three days in which to practice before Lord Blytheland would come calling, she could think of nothing except how she had felt in his arms, how she had kissed him as shamelessly as he had kissed her, his words to her in the maze and how she had hit him. How was one to practice proper responses to thoughts like those? And so here she was, wordless in front of him, twisting her handkerchief into knots, and feeling as if her stomach were twisting into a knot as well.

"Cassand—Miss Hathaway," Lord Blytheland said abruptly, making Cassandra start and stare at him. He had a tight look upon his face, his lips thin and frowning, his eyes tired and a little reddened, his face pale. Was he ill, perhaps? She hoped not. .. although why she should care when he had treated her so badly she did not know. She twisted her handkerchief tighter. She did care, and there was no deceiving herself about that, stupid as it was.

"
Miss Hathaway," Lord Blytheland began again. "I. . . I have come to apologize." He began to pace the floor in front of her. "I should have come to town earlier, but was . . . indisposed." He grimaced, then smiled ruefully. "Frankly, I was afraid to show myself with a black eye."

"
Oh!" Cassandra closed her mouth tightly to keep herself from saying more. She felt a pressure of words behind her lips, and heaven knew what she'd say if she opened them. Not now, she told herself. Not now. Listen and think first.

"
I was a brute, I treated you badly," he said, his words coming quickly now. "There was little excuse for it except. . . except I seemed to have gone a little mad. It is not something I have done before—well, I suppose anyone might say that." He raised his hand—a slight, beseeching gesture—then dropped it to his side. "But you may ask any of my friends—Lord Eldon, Mr. Rowland, Sir Ellery."

"
I suppose your friends would speak well for you," Cassandra said carefully, trying to keep her voice neutral.

Anger flickered in his eyes, then faded to resignation.
"I wish. . . I wish I knew what to say. I wish to be in your good graces again, so you will not think ill of me . . ."

Cassandra turned away, embarrassed, not really wishing to hear more, for it seemed to be more of the same thing he had been saying before. She had known people who disliked anyone to think ill of them, not because of any remorse, but out of pride, because they could not bear a tarnish on their public mask. It was beginning to seem Lord Blytheland was such a man. She had sensed the passion— no, anger—beneath the surface mask, and he had shown it, and now he wished to hide it, pretend that it would not happen again. But such anger often repeated its performance in one way or another. Did not Mrs. Wollstonecraft say it, also? And Cassandra did not want to see it again.
Or be tempted to display your own temper in response
, the nasty little voice said inside of her. She firmed her lips. Yes, or be tempted to display her own temper again.

"
Please, Cassand—Miss Hathaway—please look at me."

Cassandra turned to him again, gazed into his eyes, and a sharp pain went through her heart. He had stopped before her, his eyes were full of despair, his face pale with strain.

"What I said before was true. I love you. I wish you to be my wife, not because of any scandal, but because I love you. I swear I'll never accuse you falsely of anything, as long as I live." He ran a shaking hand through his hair, messing it terribly, then began pacing again.

Her hand trembled as she pressed it to her lips. There were so many things she wished to say, all fighting for a place on her tongue, all full of conflicting feelings and desires. Anger, weeping, fear. And love? She thought so, but her emotions were so mixed and fiery, they boiled inside like a pot on a stove, and if she put her hand down from her mouth, she knew the feelings would spill forth, confused and heated. She had never felt so much before in her life and did not know what to think, what was right and proper. Nothing her father had taught her of various philosophies helped her, for they were full of theories and hypotheses, and none of them seemed to fit her situation now.

Lord Blytheland stopped again in front of her, gazing at her earnestly. "Please—deuce take it, I know I'm a fool for asking it, and I would not blame you if you never wish to see me again, but I must know. You said—" He hesitated, then rushed on. "You said you loved me, there in the maze. Do you still?"

Cassandra rose, stepped toward the window, and stared blindly out of it. What could she say? Her heart was too full, and she was afraid of what was in it.

"Please, Cassandra..

She turned swiftly around and faced him.
"I don't know. I don't know!" She clasped her hands in front of her to still their shaking. "I did, before you—Before we—" Cassandra cleared her throat of the tears rising in it. "I have not been able to think clearly since then." She gave a hesitant laugh, a little bitter, a little sad. "I used to think I was very good at discerning what people were like after I observed them for a while. But you . . . well, I suppose I should not have been so sure of my abilities. And now I am afraid."

"
Not of me—I swear—"

"
I do not know how you will act in the future, Lord Blytheland," Cassandra said. "If I wed you, how do I know you will not act jealously again? It will be too late, after we are wed."

He gazed at her, frustrated.
"How can I prove it to you, that I know I will not do it again?"

Cassandra shook her head.
"I do not know how you may prove it. I do not even know what I think or feel." She turned from him, and went to the fireplace. She leaned her head upon the mantelpiece and stared into the fire.

"
If I give you time, time to think about it—" Lord Blytheland said eagerly.

"
Perhaps," Cassandra said dully. She suddenly felt tired, and her mind refused to work and moved sluggishly. "I think perhaps that would be the best thing, to give me time."

"
I see." Lord Blytheland said only the two words, but they were heavy with despair and pain. Something inside Cassandra cracked and flowed hot inside her, and she pressed her hands to her eyes to push down the rising tears. "I am sorry. Perhaps it is best that I leave. You may assure your parents I will not annoy you again, if that is what you wish."

Cassandra could not respond; her whole body felt leaden with the weight of confusion and unshed tears. She almost told him, crazily, that her father had gone out of town, that she would be sure to tell her mother—irrelevant things, for the important ones would not come. She heard his steps, swift, away from her, and she turned at last. But it was too late—he had left, quietly, with no more words.

She stood, mute, staring at the door. Then it opened again, and her heart hammered in hope . . . but it was only her mother, who gazed long into her eyes. Lady Hathaway said nothing, but held out her arms.

With a low moan, Cassandra ran to her and when her mother held her and drew her to the sofa, she moaned again, deep, for the tears she had held back for so long would not come now.

"Hush, child, hush, hush," Lady Hathaway murmured, patting her back gently. "It will come about, you will see. Hush, love, you will see."

She said the words again and again, rhythmically, a soft lullaby like the ones she had sung when Cassandra was a little girl, and at last the tears came, hard and hot and more full of grief than she had ever had since a child. When she was a girl, she could hope. But being a grown woman was a different thing, and hope did not come so quickly, especially when her heart and mind had become that of a stranger
's, no longer familiar or sure.

* * * *

Psyche crouched behind the potted fern, her fist pressed tightly to her mouth. Silent sobs shook her, for she had heard it all, the hopelessness and love in Lord Blytheland's voice and now Cassandra's weeping. She could not bear that they were so unhappy, and it had been her fault and Harry's. What was to be done now? Their hearts were broken, and it seemed nothing could be done to make it better again. Lord Blytheland was right—he had suffered a sort of madness, for Harry had shot many arrows into him, enough to make him act in a way he would never have acted otherwise. The marquess would not act so again, now that Harry had cured him of the arrows.

It seemed Lord Blytheland might go away, and she wished he would not. He must stay in London, for Cassandra did love him—why else would she cry when he left? He must not give up, he must not leave. Psyche was certain they were meant for each other—did not Harry say so? And he was usually right about that, however they might disagree about his arrows.

Psyche squeezed her eyes shut tighter, thinking of Harry. She did not want to cry loudly, as she wished to, for she knew Mama would hear. But she missed Harry so! If only he were here! She was sure that between them they could think of a way to help her sister and Lord Blytheland.

She took in a deep breath, wiped away the tears with the back of her hands, and
hiccupped. She would not think of Harry. It would be best if she returned to her room before Mama came out of the drawing room again. Psyche was certain she had not seen her behind the fern, for it was a very large plant, with long leaves that trailed down to the floor.

The afternoon was turning into evening; Psyche could see the sky now dim through the open window of her bedroom. The tears welled up inside her again. She had left the window open, as she always did for Harry. But he was not here. She always hoped perhaps he would return, but he never did, and it was a whole month since he had left. Slowly, she went to the window and slowly closed it, dashing away a tear with her other hand. It was stupid to hope. She had sounded as though she didn
't like him anymore when she had shouted at him, and who would want to be friends with a girl who did that?

Psyche crept into her bed and sat against the pillows, hugging her knees. Her stomach grumbled, but she did not really feel hungry, and did not feel like going downstairs to have her dinner or her supper. Perhaps she would ask a maid to bring up something to drink, and then she would sleep. She was not feeling very well, at least not in her heart.

But she would not let herself despair. Cassandra and Lord Blytheland needed help, and even if Harry were not here, she would think of what to do herself. She sighed, feeling very tired, and closed her eyes and leaned against the pillows of her bed. She could do very well without Harry's help, she was certain. Perhaps she would go to Lord Blytheland and explain how Cassandra truly felt about him. Yes, she would go to him tomorrow—properly accompanied by a maid, for she knew Mama would not like it if she were unaccompanied—and tell him all about it. And if he was not convinced, she could find out where Lord Eldon lived, and make him talk to his friend. Psyche yawned and settled down into the pillows more deeply. Lord Eldon was a very nice man, and because he was Lord Blytheland's friend, he would want him to be happy, too. And then she would talk to Cassandra and tell her all about Harry's arrows, and how it was all a mistake . . . perhaps Harry would come back someday, and tell her . . . himself . . . .

The room was silent, and Psyche turned over to sleep on her side away from the window, as she always did. So she did not see the slight glow just outside, or hear the light tapping upon the window.

The glow hovered about the window, moving back and forth as if trying to see within the room. There was the light tapping upon the window again, but Psyche did not move. The glow stilled, then moved away slowly. For one moment, it seemed to hesitate.

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 with 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.