Out of the Blue (A Regency Time Travel Romance) (12 page)

“She-demon! Blasphemer! Taking the good
Lord’s name in vain! Vile, vile creature!” he ejaculated, one hand
to his heart and the other pointing straight at Cassandra, damning
her. “Miss Pendelton, your lordship—you are harboring a snake in
your bosoms. Begone, Satan’s spawn. Begone!”

“She-demon?” Cassandra lifted a hand to wipe
some of the agitated preacher’s spittle from her cheek. The man was
a first-class mental case. “Now look here, Ichabod, or Ignatius, or
whatever the hell your name is, why don’t you go take a
flying—”

“Cassandra!” Marcus interrupted before she
could say anything more and compound their problems. “Ignatius,
you’ll have to forgive the girl. She has had a most traumatic
crossing, you understand, losing all her belongings and her abigail
as well during a storm just before landing at Dover. Perry’s uncle
sent along a letter informing us that Miss Kelley is rather
high-strung, with unusual views, but I feel sure that she will
learn to temper these feelings once she is made to understand that
she is in England now, and away from the radical thoughts rampant
in our former colonies.” He leveled a stare directly at Cassandra.
“Isn’t that right, Miss Kelley?” he questioned from between
clenched teeth.

She was tempted to contradict him.
Very
tempted. All her earlier enthusiasm at seeing London
and being outfitted with new clothing had fled as, with nearly each
word she spoke, Aunt Cornelia had brought home the daunting fact
that she, Cassandra Louise Kelley, was no more than a piece of meat
to these people. A piece of meat to be dressed up, toted about, and
then married off to the first eligible male. She had been reduced,
in the space of a day, from a young woman with a promising career
to a milk-and-water puss with no brain, no feelings of any account,
no ambitions of her own, and no say in her future.

“No, that’s not right. It’s no good. I hate
this, Marcus,” she told him, hoping he’d understand. “You want me
to live a lie. I can’t pull it off. Every time I stray from the
truth a house falls on my head. Trust me, I know what I’m talking
about. How do you think I ended up here in the first place?”

“Marcus? What is this chit talking about?”
Aunt Cornelia had repositioned herself at the far end of the
settee, as if trying to distance herself as far as she could from
possible contamination.

“And what’s a tell—a-vision?” Peregrine
asked, peeking his head out from around Marcus’s shoulder. “And a
bicycle? It sounds like something you’d ride. Is it anything like a
hobbyhorse? How would a fish ride on a hobbyhorse?”

“Perry,” the Marquess said firmly, “go have
some tea.
Now.
”

“Miss Haskins,” the vicar implored, having
recovered his breath after his emotional outburst, “move away, do,
before you are lost. I have been watching this female all evening.
She is possessed, I tell you. Possessed. Perhaps she is even a
witch. Did she bring a cat with her from America? They use cats as
familiars, you know. They have a third teat, from which their
familiars suckle. Move away, Miss Haskins, I beg you, if you have a
care for your immortal soul!”

Cassandra began to tremble at the Reverend
Mr. Austin’s reference to witches. Now she had really done it! Why
did she have to have such a big mouth? Aunt Cornelia wouldn’t have
been saying anything out of the ordinary if she had been talking to
a real Regency miss. It wasn’t the older woman’s fault that she was
really talking to a nineties female who would rather die than be
involved in an 1812 version of
The Dating Game.
Besides—who
said she was even going to be stuck in this time warp long enough
to be presented in April? It was only March, for crying out loud.
Fun was fun and all that, and she did like the gowns and the
novelty of the whole business, but to believe she would still be
sipping tea and wearing high-waisted gowns in April was enough to
make anyone blaspheme.

Cassandra rallied at last, glaring at the
Reverend Mr. Austin. “I am
not
a witch. I’m not any kind of
a witch. I’m—”

“—tired,” the marquess put in strongly,
sending her signals with his eyes that told her she had better let
him handle this. “Aren’t you, Cassandra? Very, very tired.”

“Yes—
um
—I guess I’m tired,” she
answered at last, hating herself for needing him to bail her out of
the trouble she’d gotten herself into. “Maybe even exhausted?” she
added, trying to be helpful.

“Definitely exhausted,” Marcus offered,
taking her hand, so that she rose and stood beside him “And
lightheaded.”

God! Did he have to look at her that way—as
if he could mentally burrow straight through her, bending her to
his will? “Light-headed? All right,” she conceded, giving up the
fight. “I’ll play along. I’m light-headed. Must be something I
ate?”

“Possibly. As a matter of fact, Cassandra,”
he went on, squeezing her hand in warning, “you might just be about
to swoon dead away.”

“Oh, now really, Marcus—” Cassandra began in
sudden exasperation, at last understanding exactly what he had in
mind. But a quick look at the vicar, who was at that moment holding
his index fingers in front of her, crossing them to make the
age-old sign against the evil eye, kept her from saying more.
“Okay. It’s your drawing room.”

Peregrine Walton stood nearby, his fist
shoved firmly into his mouth. Aunt Cornelia, a very astute woman,
began chuckling into her handkerchief. And the Reverend Mr. Austin
pulled out a prayer book and began to read aloud from the
Twenty-third Psalm as Cassandra purposely rolled her eyes up into
her head and directed her gracefully “swooning” body straight into
Marcus’s waiting arms.

U
sing the heel of
one booted foot, Marcus kicked the door to his sister’s bedchamber
closed behind him with considerable force and walked to the bed
before rudely dumping Cassandra’s slim body onto the satin
coverlet. “Now, madam,” he said, keeping his temper under control
with what even he could only term superhuman effort, “would you
mind telling me exactly what purpose you had for that distasteful
display?”

Cassandra struggled onto her elbows, glaring
up at him in a way that told him that, incredibly,
she
believed herself to be the injured party. “Purpose? I have to give
you a
reason?
You mean beyond the fact that your domineering
aunt is already planning to marry me off, Perry is about as useless
as pockets on a giraffe, the
Reverend
Mr. Austin should be
under close guard somewhere, playing with finger paints, and
you—yes,
you
—barely lifted a finger to help me tonight, so
that of course I got into trouble? Is that what you mean, Marcus?
Because, if it is, I think you owe me an apology.”

“
I
owe
you
an apology?” The
cheek of the girl! Marcus couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Not
only was the girl an incorrigible nuisance, but she was ludicrous
into the bargain. He was gratified that his theory of time travel
had proved correct—but couldn’t a kind providence have sent him a
man?
A man would readily be reconciled with his precarious
position. A man would do all his possible to insure the secrecy so
necessary to a successful experiment. A man would
understand.
How was he supposed to deal with this headstrong
female? “I owe you an apology?” he repeated, unable to believe
Cassandra could be serious.

“Thank you, Marcus,” Cassandra said, slipping
from the high tester bed and beginning to pace in front of him. Her
grin told him that she knew full well that he hadn’t offered his
apologies. “I forgive you. Now—what are we going to do about Mr.
Austin? You’ll be able to handle Corny and Perry. But do you think
icky old Ignatius honestly believes I’m a witch, or was he just
milking his audience for all it was worth? How much influence does
he have? Do people really listen to him, or are they all like Aunt
Cornelia, paying him lip service and nothing more? He could be
dangerous, I suppose, but I doubt it.”

She stopped pacing and stood in front of him,
her hands on her hips, her eyes searching his face as if for
answers. “Well? What do you think?”

Would this maddening creature ever cease to
amaze him? “I think,” the marquess said, measuring his words, “that
you might have made a tolerable general, as you don’t waste your
time worrying about what is past, but concentrate on what is to
come next. Tolerable, I said—not great. The Reverend Mr. Austin
could pose some problem, but you’re correct—it’s nothing a generous
contribution to his personal bank account won’t take care of. Aunt
Cornelia, however, is another matter entirely. Don’t underestimate
the woman. We’ll have to let her in on our little secret now, or
she’ll have my liver for saddling her with an incorrigible minx
whose antics will most probably lead her, and all of us, to an
early grave.”

“Thanks for the compliment, Marcus.”

Cassandra’s smile, her straight white teeth,
and those glorious, laughing violet eyes did something strange to
his insides. Strange, but not entirely unfamiliar. Only he hadn’t
expected to have this reaction to Cassandra Kelley. His was a
scientific interest only. Or at least he had supposed so, up until
the moment she had stepped from the fitting room at Mme. Gerard’s,
dressed head to toe in the latest fashion, and figuratively
delivered a crushing blow to his senses.

He watched as she hopped back onto the bed,
allowing her legs to dangle over the side, her shapely ankles
visible for his inspection and delight. “In my time we call it
‘damage control.’ Politicians use it all the time, within minutes
of being discovered with their hand either in the till or under
some centerfold’s skirt. Whoops! Sorry about that. I’m shocking you
again, aren’t I? Well, never mind. The other reason my mind works
this way is because of my job. I have to read every manuscript for
plot flaws, for missed
what ifs.
Anyway, what will you tell
Corny?”

Reluctantly drawing his attention away from
Cassandra’s ankles, Marcus said, “First of all, I will tell her
that you are not insane. I am convinced that will keep her from
bolting her bedchamber door and stationing a footman outside it
with a blunderbuss in his hands.”

“Good point,” Cassandra admitted, wincing.
“For all her bluster, she looked about to faint herself when I
threw my tantrum. It was a tantrum, Marcus. I’m willing to admit
that. But you have no idea how frightening it was to listen to her
go on and on about how she’s going to present me to Society and
find me a suitable husband. I don’t want a suitable husband. I
don’t want to
be
here next month. I’ve got a job to go back
to—a career. And, yes, although I’d never tell the vicar, I have to
go back to Satchmo, my cat. Poor Satch. What will the kennel do to
him when I don’t pick him up? I only paid for six days of boarding.
And my parents? What about them, Marcus? Sam and Stella are still
visiting my uncle Joe in Florida and Mom got involved in some
canasta tournament—but she calls at least once a week, just to
remind me that I’m still single. What will they think when I don’t
show up in Manhattan next week? Marcus—I have to go back. I have
to!”

She looked so young, so small, so very
frightened. Marcus longed to go to her, gather her into his arms,
tell her everything would be just fine—but he couldn’t. He had
thought only as far as to decide the blue mist had something to do
with travel through time. He was still woefully ignorant as to the
true mechanics of the thing, the
why’s
and the
wherefore’s.
For instance, had it been no more than a fluke
that he had been in the White Tower when Cassandra made her
appearance, when she had slipped through some strange crack in time
and came to rest in what she called Regency England—or was there
some deeper reason for his presence there?

Yet from that point on, that sublime moment
when Cassandra had appeared in front of him as if by magic, he had
done nothing but think about how wonderful it was that his theories
had been proved correct. He hadn’t considered that she might serve
any purpose other than to enlarge his knowledge and feed his
curiosity. And one thing more—occasionally to bemoan the fact that
she wasn’t a male. He couldn’t help wishing that his life did not
have to be turned upside down with trying to fit her into Society’s
notion of an unexceptional female. He wasn’t by nature a bitter
man, but he did not really believe himself up to dealing with
Cassandra’s fits and starts for an indefinite time simply for the
interests of science.

But he also knew Cassandra wasn’t just a
subject for him to study. Her situation, her plight, was more than
a matter of intellectual interest. She was a human being, a very
delightful, delectable human being, and she was frightened. How
would he react, should he find himself in a similar circumstance?
What if he had stumbled into the blue mist and been whisked
forward, to her time? Would he now be coping better than she? He
doubted it.

“Marcus?”

“Yes, Cassandra? What is it?”

“You’re staring at me. No, let me rephrase
that. You’re staring straight through me. Look, I’m sorry if I’m
somewhat hysterical, but I don’t think I can help it. It’s like
something I read somewhere. The five stages of impending death, or
something like that. I think I’m a textbook case. Even if it isn’t
death I’m facing, you’ve got to admit, it’s close. Denial comes
first. I took care of that in the White Tower—all over your boots,
if you remember. Then comes anger. I think I’ve just done that one
in spades in the drawing room. Next is guilt, then fear—or
grief—and, finally, acceptance.”

She lifted her chin, her smile so tremulous,
her posture so immensely brave, that he was hard pressed not to go
to her, hold her tight in his arms, and offer to “die” in her
place.