Cupid's Mistake (Cupid Regency Romance) Read Free Page B

all, could fault a generous impulse?
    Lady Hathaway sighed and could not help the uneasiness that lodged itself in her heart. She knew London society far better than either her husband or her daughter, and well knew that diplomacy often took one farther than honesty and good-heartedness.
    The first faint sounds of the musicians tuning their instruments floated down the hall as the Bostitchs' butler led her, Sir John, and Cassandra to the conservatory. Cassandra looked up at her mother, anticipation clearly in her smile, and Lady Hathaway smiled in return. Perhaps it would not be so bad, she thought. Perhaps Cassandra would occupy her mind with the music and keep her comments to musical appreciation and away from any other subject.
    Lady Hathaway sighed again. One could always hope.
    * * * *
    Paul, Marquess of Blytheland, brushed the air in front of him with his hand, as if brushing away an annoying fly. He frowned. This had happened before. It was as if a warm draft of air briefly blew upon his face. Sometimes it was accompanied by a soft sound, like the fluttering of wings. He would not have thought much of it had it occurred out of doors, but it had lately happened indoors, at night, and now mostly just before a performance. Perhaps someone had opened a window. He shrugged and bent his attention upon his violin again.
    An odd, sharp ache suddenly struck his chest, a sudden weeping agony, and the image of Chloe flashed before him. He drew in a long, slow breath, and then it disappeared. This was another thing that had happened before. He knew what this was, however. Every once in a while, when he was preparing to play his violin, the anticipated emotion of the music opened the wounds of the past, and painful memories of his wife would try to surface once again. He had always been successful in suppressing them—better now, for she had died more than two years ago. But that was the danger of playing music, was it not? Music was an emotional thing, after all. In fact, he had lately been very successful at using that emotion and putting it into his performances. That was the secret of an artist, a great musician once told him: using one's own pain and making it sing in one's music. Lord Blytheland smiled and raised his eyes to the guests waiting in front of him.
    And his fingers failed on the strings of his violin. The instrument let out a small moan at being so mishandled, but the marquess ignored it.
    She was not the most beautiful lady he had ever seen, but she was, indeed, very lovely. The lady caught him staring, blushed, then looked away. Blytheland recovered himself. He concentrated on tuning his violin, and accidentally twisted a pin too far. He cursed under his breath and glanced toward the lady again. She walked into the room with a slightly familiar, graying gentleman and a middle- aged lady who bore a strong resemblance to the young woman—her parents, no doubt. He would recall the name of the gentleman if he gave himself time to think of it. He twisted the pin again, and now it was too loose.
    " May I be of assistance, my lord?" asked one of the musicians politely.
    " What? Oh, no, my good man, just a little nervous."
    The musician smiled as he bowed in assent. Blytheland at last tuned his violin correctly and tried not to look at the young woman in the audience.
    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