Out of the Blue (A Regency Time Travel Romance) (10 page)

Yes, it was true. Cassandra had landed
herself in Regency England. But she had obviously also landed
herself in one of the deepest “gravy boats” in all of Mayfair.

Now, dressed “from the skin out” in beautiful
silk undergarments, soft kid slippers, and a hastily altered
high-waisted gown of palest green batiste originally fashioned for
some poor lady who hadn’t yet paid her bill to Mme. Gerard,
Cassandra felt as if she had stepped into a fairy tale. A very
lovely fairy tale. And she was the beautiful princess. As a matter
of fact, she had been humming snatches of “I Enjoy Being a Girl”
for most of the afternoon.

Her hair had been combed over something Rose
had called a curling stick, so that her black locks curled toward
her face and caressed her nape, tickling her whenever she moved.
Over Rose’s objections, Cassandra had lightly brushed her cheeks
with the blusher from her purse and applied mascara to her lashes,
the marquess having granted her possession of her “satchel” once
more—holding back only her lighter, her cigarettes, and her wallet,
as he wished to study the snapshots of her family, which he, to her
amusement, had termed to be “modern art.”

The footman, whom she recognized as the one
who had helped her from the carriage the previous evening, now
inclined his head to her and pushed open one of the double doors,
bidding her to enter the impressively furnished and rather
dauntingly immense drawing room.

Immediately upon entering she searched the
room nervously for the marquess, suddenly aware that she was once
more out of her element. He was nowhere in sight.

But that didn’t mean that the large room was
unoccupied. There was a rustle of movement to her left and suddenly
Peregrine Walton was in front of her, his round face flushed with
excitement as he made a great business of bowing over her hand—the
hand she had unconsciously extended, thinking he would shake it.
When she realized that he was about to kiss her hand, she began to
snatch it back, then thought better of the notion and extended it
again, just as Peregrine had lifted his head to look at her
quizzically. The end result of this strange dance of manners being
that Cassandra’s index finger poked the mannerly Mr. Walton
squarely in the eye.

“Oh, damn,” Cassandra exploded in dismay,
immediately taking his head between her hands and peering into his
eyes, inspecting him for damage. “Sorry, Perry. I’ve always been
known for my social graces. Does it hurt?”

One eye squeezed tightly closed, Perry
attempted to shake his head. “No, no. I’ve had worse, I assure
you.” He then leaned closer to her and whispered, “But Marcus won’t
like it above half if you swear, Miss Kelley, I mean Cassandra.
Being you’re m’cousin now, I have to call you Cassandra. Wouldn’t
make much sense to call you Miss Kelley, would it, us being related
and all. Corny would smell a rat in a moment. But, anyway, please
don’t swear anymore because Aunt Cornelia is just over there,
beside the fire, and she wouldn’t understand that you new people
talk so plain. Oh, and by the by, you look fine as ninepence
tonight, Cassandra. Better by far than you did walking about
half-naked.”

Cassandra smiled her thanks for this
backhanded compliment, then looked past Peregrine and saw that Aunt
Cornelia was just where he said she would be, sitting beside the
fire, her head bent low over what looked to be a Bible. “Thank you,
Perry,” she said absently, taking his hand as if his presence could
lend her strength. “I’ll try to keep my swearing to a minimum, I
promise. And, Perry—could you bring yourself to call me Cassie?
Only my mother and a couple of my teachers from grade school ever
called me Cassandra. Now, come on. I think it’s time you introduced
me to what I hope will be the resident eccentric.”

The little the marquess had told Cassandra
about the woman he called Aunt Cornelia had served to make her
believe his “Corny” would be a lovable little old lady who wore
purple turbans and constantly misplaced her spectacles, but it was
obvious at first glance that she had been wrong in her
conclusion.

The woman seated on a green-and-white brocade
satin settee looked to be neither very old nor very cuddly. Even
seated, it was obvious the woman was tall, probably taller than
Perry, and her steel-gray hair and stubborn chin framed a tightly
drawn aristocratic face that, unless Cassandra missed her guess,
looked as if the woman had just finished sucking on a lemon.

Her gown was of dull lavender watered silk
and sported a starched white collar so high and tight that her
watery blue eyes seemed to be about to bulge right out of her head
from the pressure. In short, Aunt Cornelia looked like every
child’s nightmare vision of a wicked stepmother, and Cassandra’s
heart dropped to her toes.

“Um—Aunt Cornelia?” Peregrine questioned in a
tentative voice, his grin almost a grimace of anguish. “There’s
someone here to meet you.”

Nothing.

As Cassandra stood beside Peregrine, wishing
she could shake the feeling that she was back in third grade and
had just been called to the principal’s office for something Sheila
Cranston had talked her into doing, and while Peregrine stood
beside her, running a finger around his suddenly too-tight collar,
Aunt Cornelia remained as still as a statue. Only her eyes moved
back and forth rhythmically as she read down the page of what was
definitely a Bible.

“Aunt Cornelia? Did you hear me? It’s
m’cousin, Cassandra Kelley, arrived last night from America,
remember?”

Still nothing. Zilch. Zip.
Nada.
It
was uncanny. As far as the woman seemed to be concerned, Cassandra
and Peregrine did not exist.

“How do you do, Aunt Cornelia,” Cassandra
said, extending her hand and wishing she knew the woman’s last name
so that she didn’t have to call her Aunt Cornelia. As a matter of
fact, she wished she didn’t have to call her anything. She wished
she were a thousand miles away, or at least one hundred and eighty
years away, and safely behind the Wilmont Publishing booth at the
London Book Fair, smiling at freebie-grabbing wholesalers.

“Amen,” Aunt Cornelia said at last, sighing
deeply before closing the Bible with a firm
snap
and looking
up at Cassandra.

“Amen,” Cassandra echoed automatically,
longing to disappear into the deep Aubusson carpet at her feet.

“What? Yes. Yes, of course. Amen. You’re
quite right, Cassie. Amen it is. Amen,
Amen!
” Peregrine all
but shouted as Cassandra gave his hand a warning squeeze.

“Oh, stifle, Perry,” Aunt Cornelia said in a
low, mannish, and rapid-fire voice, shaking her head. “I swear,
you’re the most bird-witted creature God ever created. And what are
you doing standing here, holding this child’s hand as if you’re
frightened to death she might fly away? Introduce me—or don’t you
remember her name? Perhaps you should scribble it on your shirt
cuff, along with your address, not that you’ve been home in years,
since you prefer to slip your legs under m’nephew’s table as if you
live here.”

“But I do live here, Aunt Cornelia,
remember?” Peregrine shot Cassandra a look that told her that if a
great hole were to open in the carpet in front of them, she would
have to fight him off if she wanted to jump in first. “Marcus
invited me years ago. Got my own rooms and everything.”‘

“Of course I remember, you dolt. I just find
it amusing to watch you squirm from time to time. I’m old now, and
take my pleasures when I can. Now introduce me to this young lady
I’m to present this Season, as if I have nothing better to do with
my time than play ape-leader to another simpering miss. That’s
what’s wrong with today’s girls. No gumption. Not like in my day,
when we took in balls in our riding dress. Ah, those were the days.
We had spleen then. Look at her, standing there, staring at me as
if I were about to eat her.”

Aunt Cornelia leaned forward and tapped
Cassandra’s hand with the Bible. “What’s the matter, gel—scared of
me? Good. Shows you’re not entirely without furnishings in your
brain box. Must be a distant relative of Perry’s, and escaped the
taint. This boy has more hair than wit and would starve in a gutter
if it weren’t for Marcus’s tender heart. Now, speak up, gel. What’s
your name?”

Cassandra smothered a giggle as she looked
down at the imposing Aunt Cornelia. And Marcus had told her he
didn’t believe England was crowded with eccentrics? What did he
call Perry—and now this lady, if he did not call them
eccentrics?

“How do you do, ma’am,” she said, extending
her hand once again. This time the woman took it, squeezing so
firmly that Cassandra was hard pressed not to wince. “My name is
Cassandra Kelley. Are you reading that Bible hoping you’ll discover
some way to be as nasty as you can be during this life and still
sneak into heaven when you die?”

Aunt Cornelia’s sharp bark of laughter nearly
smothered Peregrine Walton’s dismayed gasp. “Perry?” she exclaimed,
squeezing Cassandra’s hand yet again, nearly bringing tears to her
eyes. “You didn’t tell me the gel’s got a head on her shoulders.
Neither did Marcus, come to think of it. All he did was mumble
something about her being very different, having grown up around
wild Indians and the like, so that I’m not supposed to pay too much
attention to anything she says. This might not be so terrible after
all. Looks, a decent posture, and a brain. Yes, we might just
scrape by, even if she is American. Anything we can do about that
accent, gel? It’s atrocious, you know.”

“Take it, Perry,” Cassandra said, grinning,
figuratively tossing the question to him. “She’s not supposed to
listen to me.”

Peregrine sputtered helplessly for a few
moments, then spread his hands as if unable to find the proper
words to answer the woman. “Marcus says he’s going to be her tutor,
ma’am, so I imagine he’ll do something about her speech.” And then,
as if finally realizing that Aunt Cornelia had accepted Cassandra,
he smiled broadly and asked rhetorically, “So you like her, Aunt
Cornelia?”

This inquiry brought another frown to the
hatchet face of the older woman. “And how should I know that, you
ignoramus? I’ve barely met her. One fine-feathered swallow doesn’t
make a summer, you know. Besides, it hardly matters if I
like
her. I ain’t going to buy her, you know, only present
her. Now go away, Perry, and let the two of us get acquainted.
Here, you—gel. Sit down beside me. Marcus and the Reverend Mr.
Austin will be here shortly, so we won’t have much time to talk.
Mr. Austin is the most obnoxious buffoon in fifty miles, but
Christian duty requires that we entertain him at least once a
month. If it weren’t for eating other people’s food, the man would
probably starve, his sermons are so paltry. Bother the man. I’ve
been boning up on the Apostles all the afternoon. Tripped me up
last month, he did. Mark, Matthew—what difference does it make, I
ask you? They’re all in the same book. Well, speak up, gel—what do
you think of my nephew? Don’t set your sights on him, I warn you.
He’ll never marry. I should know. I’ve been parading eligible young
ladies past him for years.”

“Years and years and years,” Marcus Pendelton
said from just inside the doorway, so that Cassandra, who had been
listening to Aunt Cornelia in growing fascination and apprehension,
gratefully turned to smile at him. “Good evening, Aunt, Miss
Kelley—Perry. You’ll have to excuse my tardiness, but I was reading
in my study and lost track of the time.”

“Marcus!” Cassandra didn’t know if she cried
out his name because he was the one sane, seemingly reliable person
she had met since being zapped back in time or because, dressed in
his evening clothes, he was the most handsome, desirable man she
had
ever
seen, but she knew she had never been so happy to
see anyone in her life. She left Aunt Cornelia to sit alone on the
settee silently mouthing “Marcus” as if attempting to reconcile
Cassandra’s familiar use of her nephew’s Christian name with her
notion of respectability and all but raced to the marquess’s side.
Stopping a few feet in front of him, she inquired quietly, “Do I
look more like a Regency miss now, my lord?”

“That depends,” Marcus answered, lifting one
expressive eyebrow. “At first sight you seem tolerably presentable,
but is it necessary for you to
gallop
across the room, my
dear? I’ve seen shorter strides on a racehorse.”

Cassandra felt as if he had slapped her.
“Gee, and I’m crazy about you, too, Marcus,” she said, looking him
up and down, searching in vain for some flaw in his appearance.
There wasn’t even one. She longed to hate him.

“You’ve met Aunt Cornelia,” Marcus said,
slipping her arm through his and leisurely strolling in the
direction of the fireplace and the woman sitting so stiffly on the
settee, the woman looking as if she had the fireplace poker stuck
up her back, “She was quite the belle in her day, although she
never married. What was it, Aunt, true love gone sadly wrong?”

“Impudent puppy,” Aunt Cornelia countered,
her tone severe, although Cassandra felt sure she saw a gleam of
affection in the woman’s eyes. “You know very well that I was—I
am—too independent ever to allow myself or my destiny to be placed
totally in the hands of any man. I came to live with you only
because you need someone sane about the place to ride herd on your
nonsense. Found any great chests of jewels and gold plate at the
Tower yet, Marcus, or are you going to have to dig into your own
coffers to placate Prinny now that you’ve got him all heated up
about buried treasure? You’ve done some harebrained things in the
past, Marcus, but this latest business is dangerous. It isn’t wise
to wave the prospect of fortune under the nose of that great
revenue-devouring ape we call our Regent.”

Cassandra’s eyes slid sideways, to gauge
Marcus’s reaction to Aunt Cornelia’s scolding. He smiled
indulgently, inclining his head in the older woman’s direction. “I
cannot tell you how much easier my rest is, knowing that I have
succeeded in keeping you up nights, worrying about me. But, to
answer your question—yes, I believe I am making considerable
progress in my search. Only yesterday I discovered a diamond in the
White Tower.” The marquess looked down at Cassandra, who felt
herself blushing. “A rare blue diamond. It is rather rough, and
needs a bit of polish, but it shows great promise.”