Cupid's Mistake (Cupid Regency Romance) (3 page)

He failed. She seemed almost to float within her dress, like a fairy woman walking through a mist of rose silk and silver net. She glanced at him from across the room, and there was something at once innocent and frank in her gaze. He wondered who she was.

He smiled to himself. It was often thus just before and during a performance. He had often thought the anticipation and sizzling energy he always felt as he prepared to play and when he was in the midst of a performance was similar to that of seduction. Music was a sensual thing that made the heart beat faster and made the mind fly in wild imaginings. It was easy to be influenced by the sight of a lovely woman when in such a state.

His smile turned bitter. Still, after two years, after his experience with Chloe, he was susceptible. How contemptible and weak he was! But he had learned to be discriminating, at least. All he needed was to find some fault with the woman and concentrate on that, and he would grow bored or contemptuous. There was nothing better than boredom or contempt to obliterate the beginnings of any interest he might feel. If his attention was still tied to the young woman by the end of the piece, he would be sure to obliterate it quite thoroughly.

* * * *

I will be on my best behavior, Cassandra thought to herself, and will not worry Mama again. She sat down with her parents, fairly close to the musicians, feeling slightly embarrassed at her own behavior, but could not help glancing from time to time at the violinist who had stared at her so when she first came in. She gave herself a pinch. There! You will not stare, because you know it is rude, and heaven help you if Mama catches you doing it. She smiled, satisfied. She could be vigilant of her own behavior.

She rewarded herself with another glance at the violinist—it was just a glance, after all, not a stare. Of course, he was not one of the professional musicians, for his clothes were too fine for that. He affected a slightly more colorful raiment than most other gentlemen she
'd seen so far, but it suited him. His hair was swept back from his forehead and he wore a coat of Bath superfine. His waistcoat was blue-and-silver chased, and in the intricate folds of his neckcloth sparkled a sapphire pin. If his collar was not so high as some she had seen, perhaps it was because it would interfere with the playing of his violin. Was he a dandy, perhaps? She saw none of the padding to broaden the shoulders that so many dandies used, however, and his knee breeches outlined his legs—Cassandra looked away, blushing, and gave herself another admonishing pinch. She was not merely glancing, but staring again, and she must not do so, for she had promised her mother to pay strict attention to her manners.

A tapping of the baton brought Cassandra
's attention to the musicians again. She felt irritated at herself. She had been so intent on not looking at the man that she had missed hearing who he was, and what the musicians would play. Perhaps it was a piece she had heard before—she had a good memory for music, and she would know the title as soon as she heard the first few notes.

It was a Mozart divertimento. Cassandra sighed and lifted her eyes to the violinist again; surely it was proper to look at him while he was playing.

He was looking at her, and she could feel her face become warm. Once again she looked away, but not before she noticed that he had blue eyes.
The music!
That is why you came to the musicale, Cassandra told herself sternly. Do pay attention!

The music flowed around her, and the high, sweet notes pulsed an alluring andante beat. Once again she looked up, and to her relief she saw the violinist was not looking at her. Cassandra allowed herself to be pulled into the music, as she always had in the past. And yet she could not feel comfortable. The music seemed different somehow—that was why she was feeling so strange. The rhythm became slow, but at the end of the movement she felt breathless, as if she had been running, and that had never happened to her before. The violinist was a virtuoso, it was clear; it was the skill and intensity of his performance that made her feel so.

And yet, the divertimento finished before she was quite aware it had come near the end. Cassandra applauded politely, again annoyed at herself. She had not listened closely as she had always done, but had been partly caught up in watching the violinist. How stupid she was being! One came to a musicale to listen to music, not to stare at the company or the musicians.

The violinist bo
wed very elegantly to the crowd and then once again in her direction. Cassandra blushed and looked down at her lap. Did he mean to do that?

"
Quite excellent," Lady Hathaway commented. "It is almost a pity young Blytheland is a marquess. His talent outshines most professionals."

So, he is the Marquess of Blytheland, thought Cassandra. And it seems Mama knows him—or knows of him. She shook herself mentally. Really! Her thoughts were quite wayward this evening. She looked up again and saw that the marquess was no longer with the musicians. She firmly tamped down a spark of disappointment. She was here to listen to music, not think of possible beaux. Cassandra smiled wryly to herself. As if someone as talented and handsome as the marquess could be one of hers! She understood by now that she could not rate her attractions high at all; to think that Lord Blytheland would—Sheer foolishness!

"Ah, Sir John! I hope I find you well?" said a soft baritone voice next to her. Cassandra looked up. It was the marquess.

"
Eh? Oh, yes, Blytheland!" Sir John wiped his spectacles with the end of his neckcloth and put them on his nose again. "Quite well, quite well! And how does the duke, your father? I understand he has found a manuscript of great antiquity—an Arabic translation of De Res Medicos. I am not at all proficient in Arabic, however—Eh, what was that, my love?"

Lady Hathaway smiled sweetly at her husband.
"My dear, I am sure Lord Blytheland would like to discuss his father's discovery at length—later."

Sir John
's eyes focused at last upon his wife and daughter. "Ah, of course! Not enough time at a musicale."

"
But perhaps at supper?" said the marquess. His gaze went to Cassandra, and he smiled at her. Cassandra could feel her face grow warm, but she could not help responding with one of her own. His smile was truly charming—it lifted up on one side of his mouth more than the other and gave him a slightly boyish look.

At his wife
's nudge, Sir John looked at the marquess and his daughter. "Ah, yes! If you would permit me to introduce my wife and daughter. . ."

The marquess bowed most elegantly over Lady Hathaway
's hand and Cassandra's. Perhaps it was her imagination, but did he linger just a little more over her hand than her mother's? His lips hovered just a few inches above her fingers before he rose from his bow. She could feel the warmth of his hand through her gloves, and when he released her hand she felt, almost, as if the warmth remained.

"
I am most pleased to meet you, my lord," said Cassandra.

"
And I, also. But I would be further pleased if you accompanied me to the supper later—if you would do me the honor?" He looked to Sir John and Lady Hathaway for permission. Lady Hathaway smiled and nodded.

"
Oh, yes!" Cassandra said, then blushed. "That is, I am flattered that you ask me, sir. I would be happy to accompany you."

The marquess smiled at her again, bowed to Sir John and Lady Hathaway, and left. Cassandra watched his passage through the crowd. Could it be that he found her attractive? It seemed that some men had found her so, since her arrival in London. However, they never did call again after the first couple of meetings. It was a surface, transitory thing then, this apparent attraction, and not to be taken seriously, she was sure.

She had never considered her looks before—it never seemed important, and Papa had always taught her that true beauty came from the mind and heart. But since they'd come to town, the notion that one's physical appearance had more than ordinary significance—aside from sheer aesthetic appreciation—to the world at large, kept intruding upon her attention. Indeed, she was nigh infected with the idea. Certainly, the marquess's appearance seemed to have affected her in more than a purely aesthetic way. She shook her head. How odd it was!

She felt a touch on her arm and found her mother gazing sternly at her.
"Now, Cassandra, when Lord Blytheland comes to take you into supper, you must be all that is amiable and pleasant. And please do not blurt out every thought that comes to your mind. Gentlemen do not find that way of speaking at all attractive."

"
Yes, Mama," Cassandra said.

A look of deep misgiving came over Lady Hathaway
's face.

"
I will try, Mama!" Cassandra exclaimed. "Truly! Have I not tried these past weeks?"

Lady Hathaway
's expression softened. "I know you have tried, my dear, and you have improved. But really, do be careful."

The sound of tuning instruments made Cassandra glance eagerly at the musicians again, and she gave her mother a hasty yes in reply. This time she heard the name of the piece—a violin sonata by Herr von Beethoven.

For the first time in her life, Cassandra could not keep her mind on the music playing before her. It was as if each sweet note conspired to make her think of Lord Blytheland and the way he looked, and smiled, and held her hand. It did not help at all when it was time for him to play the solo. His manner was cool and polite as he stood by the orchestra. But once he put the violin against his chest it seemed as if some otherworldly spirit seized him, for his bow and fingers attacked and caressed the strings and brought forth music that sang from heaven or cried up from hell—she knew not which.

Finally, after what seemed an age, the music stopped. Cassandra found she could breathe again in a normal fashion. She still looked at him, and it appeared as if his smile was just a little warmer in her direction when he bowed to the audience. She looked away, irritated at herself for blushing. How silly she was being! She was acting no differently than the shallow schoolgirls she
'd known at the Bath girl's school she had stayed in—until, thankfully, Papa had rescued her. There was no education to gain there, Papa had said, and he was in the right of it.

She would speak honestly when they went into supper, she thought, determined to rid herself of the silliness that threatened to overcome her. If the marquess did not like it, why then she was certain Papa would say the man was unworthy of a man
's—or woman's—esteem.

Cassandra felt a moment
's unease when she remembered her mother's dictum. It was true she tended to speak before she thought. But this time, she would be careful of that. She would think through her responses before she spoke and make certain she spoke as carefully—as truly—as she could. There could be no offense in that.

Perhaps it was a slight noise or a little breeze stirred by his movement toward her, but Cassandra was suddenly aware of the marquess
's presence. She looked up and found him smiling down at her.

"
Shall we go in to supper, Miss Hathaway?"

Cassandra looked uncertainly at her mother, for her father had left her side to talk with an acquaintance, but Lady Hathaway merely smiled and nodded.
"Of course, my dear, do go. Your father and I will follow you, as soon as I can tear him away from discussing his musical theories."

"
Thank you, my lord, I shall be pleased to accompany you." Cassandra glanced at him. The marquess was still smiling at her, and she could not help smiling back. He took her hand in his own—gently, caressingly, as if it were some rare treasure. She rose, and he led her to the supper room.

Mrs. Bostitch had set up an informal supper, with little tables in the middle of the room and sideboards filled with delicacies next to the walls. The marquess led Cassandra to a small table set behind some palm fronds. Though the table was otherwise not secluded in any way, Cassandra felt as if the plants lent the table a certain intimacy. She smiled at herself. How fanciful she was becoming! Her parents were clearly in sight—she could see her mother standing patiently next to her father as he talked with his friend. Yet when she looked up at Lord Blytheland, she felt almost as if she were alone in a small room with him. There was something about his deep blue eyes, whose penetrating look seemed to read her heart as well as he surely read music. He said nothing, but seemed content for the while to look at her. His gaze seemed almost assessing—then he glanced away briefly, and she was sure she fancied the whole of it.

"You play beautifully, my lord," Cassandra said. She felt she must say something, for his gaze and the silence had stretched out to an uncomfortable length. "I think the second movement of the sonata was especially well done."

"
You are musical, then, Miss Hathaway?"

"
Oh, I play the pianoforte, but I am in no way the virtuoso you are."

"
You flatter me, ma'am."

Cassandra raised her eyes to his.
"Oh, no, I never flatter. You must be quite an acclaimed musician, for I have heard many violinists, but you are far better than any I have heard so far."

Blytheland began to feel a touch of boredom. He had heard these words before, from other quite insipid misses. That was why he generally kept himself to older, much more sophisticated women—fast widows preferably. He wondered if Miss Hathaway was going to gush out further tedious little phrases. It was just as well if she did—that would be the flaw he would concentrate upon, and thus banish any incipient interest he might have. He let his gaze wander away from her.