Cupid's Mistake (Cupid Regency Romance) (4 page)

"However, I did think you could have added a little more forte in the middle phrases of the first movement."

Blytheland returned his gaze swiftly to Miss Hathaway
's face. Her expression was open and clear of guile or coquetry. Indeed, her brow creased in thought, and her eyes seemed to consider the subject seriously.

"
How so?" He wondered how much of music Miss Hathaway really knew.

"
Well, I have always believed that Herr Beethoven favored the pianoforte above any other instrument, and it is clear even in this sonata. However, it
is
a piano and
violin
sonata, and the composer gave the violin the opportunity to express itself in the middle phrases of the first movement by having the pianoforte play a less complex melody than the violin there. It was your opportunity to establish that this, indeed, was the violin's place. I felt you did not take complete advantage of the opportunity."

The marquess did not know whether to feel delighted or annoyed. He looked at her large green eyes, her soft pink lips, and delicate skin. She dressed in good taste and becomingly—not daringly—but well enough to enhance her charms and hint at more intriguing assets.

For now it could not hurt to be delighted, he decided. "You are quite right, Miss Hathaway. That passage has always been a difficult one for me, and I tend to take it with more caution and less spirit than I should."

Miss Hathaway looked at him in a considering manner.
"But you are clearly a most excellent musician. I would think you could easily overcome any difficulty and play it with ease."

He now saw she said this with no intention to flatter. She furrowed her brow as if she were working out a puzzle, and she stated her opinion simply, as if she expected her reasoning would be taken seriously.

Blytheland smiled. "I fear you vastly overrate my abilities."

She gazed at him, her eyes earnest.
"Oh, no, my lord. I fear
you
vastly
underrate
your abilities. I am excessively fond of music, and I have never heard anyone quite as proficient as you are." She reached over in an impulsive gesture and pressed his hand. "You really should have more confidence in yourself, Lord Blytheland," she said kindly. "How else can you continue to improve?"

The marquess opened his mouth and then shut it, suddenly bereft of words. He wondered if she was aware that she praised and insulted in the same breath. And yet, he felt he could not take offense, for clearly she spoke nothing but what she perceived to be the truth, and clearly she meant well. A mischievous part of his mind wondered how other people took her blunt statements. It would be very, very amusing to see.

"Improve?" he said, "and I thought you said I was of virtuoso status! I am sorely cast down, Miss Hathaway." He put on a look of extreme dejection.

He noticed she blushed wonderfully.
"I did not mean— That is to say—" She stopped, looked at him straightly, and lifted her chin. "You, my lord, are a terrible tease."

"
I?" He put on a wounded expression and spread his hand over his heart. "My dear Miss Hathaway, how can you say so?"

"
Very easily! Do you have sisters?"

"
Yes, I do."

"
Then I daresay you were a menace to them."

"
Not I! Rather the opposite. Never was a poor, helpless boy so besieged by his termagant sisters."

"
With reason, I am sure!" But her lips quivered upward.

"
Ah, there you are!"

Blytheland turned to find that Lady Hathaway had arrived with Sir John in tow. Sir John had an abstracted air about him, as if he were in profound thought. The lady smiled benevolently at her daughter and the marquess.

"I am terribly sorry we were delayed," she said. "I hope Cassandra has been keeping you entertained." Blytheland noted wryly that she did not look sorry in the least. No doubt she considered him a good "catch" for her daughter. He would put an end to that notion, and soon . . . although it could not hurt to linger in Miss Hathaway's presence for just a little longer.

"
Quite," he replied. "Miss Hathaway, I find, is a music connoisseur." He turned to Miss Hathaway. "Do you play your pianoforte often, ma'am?"

"
Oh, I try, but it is nothing—not with the skill you have at the violin, my lord." Miss Hathaway blushed, but the marquess felt perhaps this was not false modesty. There were very few ladies who played with much skill or talent, after all.

"
Perhaps I may ask that you play for me at some time, Miss Hathaway?" Blytheland surprised himself. He did not intend to say that at all. But as he looked into her beautiful eyes, he could not help but continue. "Tomorrow, if it is not inconvenient?"

* * * *

Lord Blytheland cursed himself roundly as he put away his violin and made ready to leave Mrs. Bostitch's house. If he had any sense at all, he'd quit society and become a monk. He'd only meant to seek out some flaw in Miss Hathaway when he had introduced himself to her and her family. Well, he'd found one, but had he concentrated upon it and politely detached himself from her and his attraction to her? No, he had not. Instead, he had asked to call upon the Hathaways and asked to listen to Miss Hathaway play the piano.

An image of Lady Hathaway
's smug smile and eager agreement that Miss Hathaway should play for him came before him. He grimaced. Not only had he allowed himself to be drawn into the Miss Hathaway's company, he had raised Lady Hathaway's matrimonial hopes for her daughter. He sincerely hoped Miss Cassandra Hathaway was a wretched pianist and he could depress any pretensions in that quarter, and in her mother. He closed and latched his violin case with a decided snap.

"
Hit a sour note, old man?" said a familiar voice.

Blytheland looked up to see his friend Lord Eldon, and he grinned.
"No. Not that you'd notice if I did—which makes me wonder why you are here, El."

"
Oh, you know how it is with my sister and the mater. It isn't enough to have my younger brother caught in the parson's mousetrap—although I must say Susan is quite a pretty little thing—they must have me caught, too." Lord Eldon held up a hand. "And before you accuse me of being led around by the nose by the females in my family, I came only because St. Vire's here—damnably fond of music these days, it seems—he told me he'd reveal the trick to trying a perfect Mathematical."

Blytheland eyed the impeccably tied neckcloth around his friend
's collar. "Seems like you already know the trick, El."

Eldon looked pained.
"One may always improve. A man of fashion does not rest on his laurels."

"
Nor does he ignore the ladies when his mother tells him he needs to produce heirs."

Eldon gave a disappointed sigh.
"How you malign me—" But a grin broke out on his face. "Well, there it is. If I don't see what's available in the marriage market this year, I'll never hear the last of it from the mater, and will have to leave town just to get out of earshot. Damned awkward, that, especially when I need to replenish my supply of waistcoats." He shrugged. "I'll just cast a glance at the usual gaggle at Almack's, tell the mater they're not worthy of the Eldon name, then spend the rest of my time at White's." He lifted an eyebrow at Blytheland. "Although I must say, the lady to whom you were so attentive was above the usual run of misses one sees in London these days. Thinking of giving another try at a nursery, Blythe?"

The marquess turned a sardonic eye to his friend.
"Misery loves company, is that it? A nursery—hardly. Why you should think so is beyond me. Just because a man speaks with a young woman, it does not mean he's thinking of matrimony."

'
True, true. But it seems she was accompanied by her parents . . . and I've not seen you go near a marriageable young thing in a while."

Blytheland shrugged.
"Sir John Hathaway is a classical scholar, as is my father, and they are acquainted. Sir John wished to ask after an ancient manuscript, that is all."

"
Of course." Lord Eldon grinned widely.

"
Stubble it, El." The marquess picked up his violin case and gave his friend an irritated glance before stalking from the room.

"
Anything you say, Blythe," Eldon called after him and chuckled.

* * * *

Eros kept himself fairly insubstantial and hovered near the ceiling so that his glow would blend with that of the chandelier's candlelight. Well, he had done it, and he was quite satisfied. He had known for a long time that Miss Cassandra Hathaway would be the right mate for Lord Blytheland, although it had taken him three tries to do it. He had hit the marquess each time, but for some reason, the man had seemed unmoved, as if he had not seen Cassandra at all. Instead, he had had a brief affair with some other woman, over in less than a month.

The thought that something was quite wrong with the marquess had definitely occurred to Eros, and even now made him feel a little uneasy. He shook his head and grinned. Well, it was of no matter now; Lord Blytheland had seen Cassandra at last, and certainly must have fallen in love with her.

Chapter
2

"
Cassandra," said Psyche. "Do listen to me."

Cassandra turned slowly toward her younger sister as if pulled unwillingly from a delightful dream. She looked at the girl blankly.

"I am sorry, Psyche. Did you say something?"

"
Only that you have knotted your fringe in a terrible tangle"

"
Oh, have I?" Cassandra looked down in her lap at the fringe she was trying to make. Her face suddenly lost its dreamlike expression and she let out an exasperated sigh. "Oh, good heavens! So I have." She turned a rueful smile to her sister. "Dear Psyche, do be a good child and unknot this for me. You know how terrible I am at fringing, and you are so good at disentangling things."

"
I don't know why you even try fringing at all, Cassandra," Psyche said, taking the piecework from her sister and curling up in an armchair by the parlor fire. She carefully started picking it apart. "I thought you had given it up long ago."

"
Well, I thought it might be good for me. Mama says that fine work helps keep one even-tempered."

"
I do not see how she can say that," Psyche replied, cocking her head to one side in a considering manner. "I have always been good at needlework, but Mama always says I am too unruly for words." She gazed assessingly at Cassandra. "And why do you need to be even-tempered?"

Psyche had always thought that Cassandra must be the best-behaved young lady ever, for she never got into trouble like she herself did.

"Oh, goodness, I don't know! I truly do not know what came over me—I detest fringing." Cassandra rose from her chair and poked at the fire in the grate.

"
Harry says it's the marquess." Psyche nodded her head wisely.

"
Really, Psyche, how can you say so?" She turned around and faced her sister. Psyche smiled privately to herself. She'd be willing to wager that the heat of the fire alone did not cause the pink in Cassandra's cheeks.

"
Well, Cassandra, I don't. That's what Harry says."

"
You know very well that your Harry is purely imaginary. And you also know Mama does not like you to speak about him—it! You are all of twelve, Psyche, and should have outgrown your pretend playmate long ago."

"
He isn't pretend. Besides, Papa believes me."

"
Oh, I daresay Papa thinks you are speaking in metaphors." Cassandra walked to the pianoforte and absently toyed with a melody.

"
No he doesn't, and Papa does believe me—he told me so!" Psyche retorted. "Not only that, but Harry is here right this minute, turning the pages of—what is it? Oh, it's Aristophanes."

Cassandra turned to look at the open book Psyche pointed to across the room. It sat on a table close to the window. As she watched, a page flipped over. She started, but then recovered.

"Oh, nonsense, Psyche! It is only that this house is dreadfully drafty. It is merely a breeze—and yes, look here—someone's left the window open." Cassandra closed it with a snap.

"
Window or no, Cassandra, you must admit that some things have come about that you couldn't."

"
Such as—?"

"
Our butler and housekeeper. They used to have dreadful rows belowstairs, and now the maids say the Thrimbles act like a new-wed pair. Harry told me he detested their noise and so he shot his arrows at them."

Cassandra smiled kindly.
"I think it was more the books on marriage Vicar Thomason asked me to give them, Psyche, than any of Harry's arrows." She let out an exasperated breath. "Oh, now you have me talking of him—it!—as if Harry were real!" Her eyes settled on the clock upon the mantelpiece. "Oh, heavens! I must change my dress! I think the mar—That is, we will be having callers soon." Gathering up her skirts, Cassandra rushed out the door.

"
I told you."

Psyche put down the fringe and looked at the boy sitting on the table near the window. She made a face at him.
"So you did. But I really wish you would let another one of my family see you, too!"

Harry leaned back, clasping one knee in his hands, and his wings waved lazily. He grinned.
"You needn't talk about me, you know. Then there would be nothing for them to disbelieve."

"
How can I stop when you pinch housemaids, for instance? And Kenneth was unjustly accused of it, too!"

"
I do not pinch housemaids," Harry replied loftily. "It was only
one
housemaid. Besides, it is not as if your brother hasn't pinched housemaids himself—and got away with it."

"
Well, I think it's beastly of you—whatever did that poor maid do to you?"

"
Oh, nothing—more's the pity," Harry said. He looked up at the ceiling, folded his wings, and looked quite angelic.

Psyche put her hands on her waist.
"Don't come the innocent with me, Harry! I know you must have been up to mischief!"

"
Not I! I was only seeing that justice was done."

"
What, by pinching the maid?"

"
No, by seeing that your brother was accused of it. I find it unfair that any number of housemaids have fallen head- over-tails in love with Kenneth, and all he does is steal a kiss and pinch them."

"
I should hope that is all he does with them! Mama and Papa would be quite angry if he fell in love and ran off with one of them!"

Harry smiled in a superior manner.
"You are such an innocent, Psyche. But never fear. I will make sure he will do nothing scandalous."

She looked at him suspiciously,
and then sighed. "Well, at least Papa likes to hear of you."

"
He likes to hear
stories
of me, you mean."

"
Do you think, then, that he does not believe me, either?" Psyche felt a little bereft at that. It was a lonesome sort of thing to have a dear friend and not be able to introduce him to anyone else.

"
Oh, he would like to, but he believes you have a fine imagination and would make a good writer of improving tales for children someday." Harry grinned mischievously. Psyche looked reprovingly at him. He had been eavesdropping again, she was certain, and she never did feel quite right about it—although she had to admit it did have its uses.

"
Well, I cannot see why he should think that," Psyche replied, wrinkling her nose. "I detest improving tales." She sighed. "But Papa does like to believe the best of us, and so perhaps he has forgotten that I do not like such stories." Psyche gazed at Harry questioningly, hoping that he might enlighten her as to her father's state of mind.

Harry shrugged his shoulders and looked bored. He opened the window that Cassandra had just closed and looked out at the street. A small breeze lifted one lock of his golden hair and a ray of sun suddenly broke through the clouds to shine upon his face. He glanced at her and smiled.

Psyche smiled back. She was glad he had decided to come with her to London, for otherwise she'd be bored to tears. Sometimes she would accompany Mama and Cassandra on a shopping expedition or drive to one of the parks. But aside from these activities and her discovery of many delightful Minerva Press novels, as well as attending to Cassandra giving her lessons in geography and the Italian language, there was little for Psyche to do. So she was thankful that Harry was here. There is nothing like a change in one's circumstances, she thought, to make one appreciate one's friends. And Harry was her very best friend, for she had known him ever since she was a very little girl.

She
'd been about seven years old at the time—really not much more than a baby. She'd been with her older brother Kenneth near the lake at their country home. Awaking from a doze in the sun, she had found that Kenneth had either hidden himself or had left her alone, and it was growing quite dark. Crying because she could not find her way back home, she stumbled into the woods that circled part of the lake and grew more frightened.

And then there he was. Psyche had thought he was one of those angels her nurse had told her about, for he had white wings and wore white clothing. But he had laughed at her and shook his head when she asked him this, and he told her his name. Well, it was hard to get her tongue around it then, so she had called him Harry instead, and never bothered to change it.

He grew up, as she did, although he seemed always to be a few years older than she was—he looked to be twelve or thirteen years of age now, although he would never tell her how old he actually was. She had learned more about him, however, not so much from Harry, for he found such things tedious to relate—but from her father's books. He looked a little like the pictures in those books, although his nose didn't come down straight from his forehead like the people depicted in them had, but it looked like her own quite normal one.

She wished the rest of her resembled Harry, for she was short rather than tall, and instead of blue eyes and blond hair, she had a mop of unruly red curls and large, undistinguished gray eyes. She
'd learned that his dress—for it looked like a very short dress, indeed—was called a chiton. Psyche thought that perhaps she should have been embarrassed that his bare legs showed, or when he'd unpin one shoulder of his chiton when he shot his arrows, but he was Harry, and she'd known him for so long that it did not matter. But his arrows! Those were another thing altogether.

In fact, Harry was pulling one from his ever-present quiver right now, his gaze intent on something in the street below. A wide, crooked grin was forming on his lips. Psyche knew that grin, and alarm flashed through her.

"What
are
you doing? Get away from that window!"

It was too late. He drew back his bow and loosed the arrow before she could rush to his side.

"A hit!" he crowed. "Two with one shot!"

"
Oh, Harry!" Psyche cried.

She leaned out the window to see whom he had struck. There! A tall young man held a fainting lady in his arms. The arrow had apparently hit the young man through the arm and scratched the lady as well. Psyche could see the arrow fading from sight as she watched.

"
Ma chère
Stephanie!"

"
Oh, Phillipe, Phillipe!"

They kissed passionately while onlookers made a wide berth around them. Some people cheered. Psyche blushed and covered her eyes.

"Oh, Harry, how could you? In broad daylight and in the middle of the street as well!" She looked at him reproachfully through her fingers.

"
They
don't seem to mind," Harry said carelessly. He twirled another arrow between his fingers in a negligent manner, a lazy smile on his face.

Psyche peeked between her fingers at the entwined couple again, this time with more interest. She had rarely seen Harry shoot people or the immediate after-effects of one of his arrows; it had been very embarrassing to watch usually well-behaved people kiss and act in a very silly manner. She
'd mostly only seen Harry's complacent reaction after he'd made a successful hit. She had become a little curious lately, however, for she had once caught her parents kissing—briefly—and she supposed it was something adults did from time to time. "Did it hurt them? Your arrows do look sharp, you know."

"
Mortals are too dense to feel much. They felt nothing— not the arrows, that is."

"
My, it did act quickly, didn't it?"

"
I've told you it does."

"
Well, you are wont to boast, Harry, you know you are!"

"
Not I! I am in general very truthful."

She made a face at him, then leaned against the windowsill next to him to get a better look at the pair outside.
"Do they breathe much when they do that, Harry?"

"
Very much. They usually gasp like fish."

"
Good heavens, Psyche! Stop acting like a hoyden and remove yourself from that window!"

Psyche jerked upright immediately at her mother
's voice and bumped her head on the casement handle. She rubbed her temple gingerly. "Yes, Mama," she said and stepped quickly away from the window. She could not help casting a glance at Harry, who was still watching the scene below.

"
What
were
you looking at?" Lady Hathaway said, going to where Psyche had stood. She leaned over and peered out the window, then straightened herself suddenly. "Scandalous! In broad daylight! I do believe it is—My word. Mademoiselle Lavoisin and the Comte de la Fer. I never would have thought it, although they do make a handsome couple. The last I heard, they were at daggers drawn with each other! One would think that well-born émigrés would comport themselves with more discretion! However, they are French." Lady Hathaway turned, a small smile of triumph on her lips. "And Hetty Chatwick is out of town today! Well, I shall have something to tell
her
for a change!"