Out of the Blue (A Regency Time Travel Romance) (20 page)

While the marquess handled the introductions,
Cassandra dutifully kept her mouth shut and peeked down at the
vicar from beneath her lashes, unable to ignore his sly,
insinuating smile. Been talking about her to Lady Blakewell, had
he? Oh, and Cassandra could just bet she knew what he had been
saying.
Call me a witch, will you?
she thought, her eyes
narrowing.
I’ll bet you’re standing there now, longing for me to
say something stupid, just to prove your theory. Well, fat chance,
Ichabod. I am not about to make your day.

“Kelley, you say? Kelley,” Lady Blakewell
ruminated, tilting her head as she looked up at Cassandra, her long
nose quivering like a bloodhound trying to pick up a scent. “I
don’t believe I recognize the name. And you say she is a cousin of
Walton’s? Well, I imagine that explains it, doesn’t it, my lord?
Peregrine is a lovely man, truly, but he certainly is not in the
least distinguished. And rather nervous, too, into the bargain. Ah,
well, I suppose you must bring him along, considering that it is
only a small party. Miss Collingswood is to play her harp, Lady
Miranda will delight us with a song or two, and Mr. Throckmorton
has agreed to regale us with his latest poetic tribute to His
Majesty. And then, to top off the evening, the Reverend Mr. Austin
is going to save our souls by way of some preliminary readings from
his planned Easter sermon. Aren’t you, Ignatius?”

Cassandra, who moments earlier had been
overjoyed to hear that she had been invited to an actual
ton
party, gave Marcus a discreet nudge in the ribs, hoping he’d figure
some way to get them out of the evening. A harp? Singing? A poetry
reading? What was this—amateur night in Mayfair? Besides, she’d
rather have a root canal than listen to another of Ignatius
Austin’s sermons.

But the marquess, it seemed, was impervious
to hints. “What a charming evening, Lady Blakewell,” he said
deliberately moving his arm so that she couldn’t poke him again
with her elbow. “My aunt has other plans, but Miss Kelley,
Peregrine, and I will be sure to be there. Isn’t that correct, Miss
Kelley?”

Cassandra pasted a painfully false smile on
her face. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she said brightly. “And
if we’re really lucky, Cousin Perry might treat you to a viewing of
his clever shadow puppets. He does a wonderful rabbit, doesn’t he,
my lord?”

She was rewarded by the slight twitch of
humor that tickled the corners of Marcus’s mouth before he
added,

“You are looking chilled, Miss Kelley. I have
been remiss keeping you out and about for so long. Lady Blakewell,
Mr. Austin,” he said, inclining his head in their general
direction, “you will forgive us if we toddle off now, won’t
you?”

The Reverend Mr. Austin, who hadn’t said more
than three words since the marquess completed the introductions,
quickly removed his black hat and executed a rusty bow, taking hold
of Lady Blakewell’s arm as they both drew clear of the phaeton.
Cassandra relaxed completely, knowing she had done fairly well, all
things considered, and turned to wave good-bye as Marcus flicked
the reins, giving the horses the office to start.

“Oh, Miss Kelley,” the vicar called after
them just as Cassandra turned back to Marcus to demand that he
compliment her on her good behavior, “you never said. How did you
come to England?”

While Rose helped her dress for dinner, long
after the short, pithy lecture the marquess read to her concerning
the absolute lunacy—not to mention inherent danger—of speaking
before thinking, Cassandra still shivered whenever she remembered
how she had smiled over her shoulder at the vicar and replied in
painfully honest stupidity, “How? Why, I flew straight in to
Heathrow.”

M
arcus stabbed his
fork into another french fry before holding it in front of him,
eyeing the length of crisp, browned potato as if it might bite him.
He really liked french fries; almost as much as he favored the
finely chopped fried beef cakes Cassandra called hamburgers—even
though there wasn’t a bit of ham in them.

Ever since Cassandra’s visit to the kitchens
the week before, the eating habits of the residents of the
Grosvenor Square mansion had undergone a radical change. For one
thing, his chef had thrown a monumental French fit and refused to
leave his rooms for three days, until cajoled from his sulk by a
plate of these same french fries. Cassandra now spent several hours
each day in the kitchens, and the resultant dishes that appeared
nightly on his dinner table had run the gamut from mildly
interesting, such as “lasagna,” to downright ridiculous, such as
“chicken fingers.” Fingers? What was the world coming to when grown
men, supposedly civilized human beings, were expected to eat
poultry with their hands?

But the french fries had become his favorite,
no matter how often Cassandra told him he hadn’t
really
tasted french fries until he had eaten at a “fast food” restaurant.
“They’re nothing without the chemicals, preservatives, and
additives, I guess,” she had told him, licking her fingers after
downing an entire plateful of the greasy potatoes as she sat in the
window seat in his study, her legs tucked beneath her skirts.

Marcus ate the last french fry, then pushed
his plate to the far side of his desk, remembering that the kitchen
was not the only place Cassandra was leaving her mark. Only
yesterday he had walked into the music room to see Cassandra, Rose,
and a half dozen other housemaids jumping and twisting in something
Cassandra called “aerobics, Marcus. Got to keep the old heart
pumping, you know. Try it!”

The marquess had politely declined, then
retreated rapidly to his study, where Peregrine Walton was happily
involved in practicing the steps to a dance Cassandra had called
“the moonwalk.”

“Jolly fine, ain’t it?” Perry commented,
beaming as he seemed to slide backward effortlessly across the
highly polished floor. “Showed Henry Jamieson down at Boodle’s, and
he said I looked absolutely splendid. What’s the trouble, Marcus?
You look as if your ship just came in while you were waiting at the
airport.”

“Perry!” Marcus remembered shouting (yes,
unfortunately, he had been reduced to shouting in his own
household). “How many times must I remind you not to use
Cassandra’s ridiculous cant? You could land us all in the
basket.”

“Oh, cool it, Marcus,” Perry had replied,
grinning. “You’ll get yourself all strummed out.”

“That’s
stressed
out, you nincompoop,”
Marcus had corrected wearily, deliberately sitting at his desk and
opening a book, burying his head, and his anxieties, in the pages
of Milton’s
Paradise Lost
—and some
good
English.

Now, looking at his empty plate, Marcus came
to a decision. He had to find something for Cassandra to do,
something that would keep her out of trouble, yet something that
would preserve his household from any more of her
“improvements.”

The evening at Lady Blakewell’s had not been
an actual disaster, for Cassandra’s behavior—as a result of her
horror over her nearly fatal faux pas in the park—had become
considerably subdued. But it had not been a success, either, thanks
to Lady Blakewell’s overbearing presence. The woman had pumped
Cassandra for most of the evening, asking her probing questions
about America, the war, and her knowledge of
ton
personalities—all done with the Reverend Mr. Austin hovering just
behind her, smiling thinly as he rocked back and forth on his
heels. It was an interrogation, nothing more, nothing less, and by
the end of the evening Cassandra had been near to weeping with
anxiety and fatigue.

Their argument in the park had not been
touched upon again these past two weeks, presumably (he hoped)
because Lady Blakewell’s probing questions had shown Cassandra the
inherent danger in going about London trying to act the savior. But
it seemed as if their romantic interlude in the music room had been
similarly banished to the realm of forgetfulness.

And that, Marcus believed, was a damnable
pity.

Where once he had done his best never to be
alone with Cassandra, it was now she who shunned his company. She
involved herself with Aunt Cornelia, Perry, and the staff of the
mansion; regaling them with her amusing parlor tricks and sopping
up knowledge from each of them like a thirsty sponge. She made
fewer and fewer mistakes these days, leaving that sort of thing to
Perry. He had become enamored of her ludicrous sayings and most
vigorously with the concept of flight, which, considering how ill
he had become merely watching a balloon’s ascension, seemed totally
out of character.

But then Cassandra Kelley had a way of
creating immensely attractive word pictures. Her stories of New
York, of America, of the inventions and strides of the twentieth
century, were like a siren song not only to Perry but to Marcus as
well. He would gladly give anything he had to be able to see for
himself these wonderful inventions Cassandra had told him about: to
pilot a jet, to program a computer, to watch television, to drive
an automobile. All, if only he were able to walk the corridors of
the Metropolitan Museum, to stand at the top floor of the Empire
State Building and look out on the city, to ride on the subways,
buried deep under the streets, and visit the library at Columbia
University where he could immerse himself in the knowledge of the
ages.

And then he and Cassandra would travel to the
Grand Canyon, to glory in its magnificence (and perhaps to spit in
it, as Cassandra had done as a child), then on to California, and
Disneyland, and to Hawaii, to see the volcanoes and the beaches of
white, pink, and even black sand.

He and Cassandra. Cassandra and he. All his
daydreams included her, all his hopes revolved around her, and all
his fears concerned her. He had to find some way to return her to
her own time, this laughing, loving, argumentative, maddeningly
adorable spirit who had come into his house and captured his heart,
all their hearts. She could not stay here, she must not. It was too
dangerous, and it would become even more so if he were to believe
what he had read in one of her guidebooks.

Pushing his troublesome thoughts aside for
the moment, Marcus reached for the London guidebook he had been
ignoring for the past weeks, let it fall open on the desktop, and
began reading.

Fifteen minutes later, when Cassandra entered
the room, he was so absorbed he did not notice her until the
enticing fragrance of her floral-based perfume reached his
nostrils. He raised his head and saw her standing just on the other
side of his desk, her slim body clad in the same gown she had worn
that momentous day in the music room, her violet eyes twinkling
with some hidden amusement.

“Hello there, Marcus,” she said, seating
herself on the edge of the desk just as if she hadn’t been warned a
dozen times—a thousand times—that such behavior was unfeminine.
“Busy solving the world’s problems again this afternoon, are you?
It’s time for my refresher lesson in titles, remember? I think
we’re up to barons. Perry promised to join us shortly—although at
the moment he’s pretty busy in the drawing room, making paper
airplanes. He’s really getting the hang of sailing them, although
Corny didn’t appreciate it too much when one of them landed in her
soup plate.”

Marcus waved his hand, dismissing Perry, his
relative, and the paper airplanes. “Cassandra,” he asked, closing
the guidebook, “you said you entered the room in the White Tower at
about three in the afternoon, didn’t you?”

Cassandra rolled her eyes. “Are we back to
that? I thought you didn’t want to talk about time travel anymore.
At least not with me. Perry says you talk about it all the time
with him. So why are you asking me about it again? What have you
discovered? You’ve already told me that you think I’ll travel back
to my own time eventually—not that you’ve explained why you think
so. Oh, no. Not the great Marcus. He doesn’t discuss. He
pronounces.
He
teases.
And then he
ignores.
”

Marcus rose from his seat and began pacing
behind the desk. “Is that what’s been bothering you, Cassandra?” he
asked, turning to face her. “Is that why you’ve been avoiding me?
Because I haven’t been entirely open with you?”

She tilted her head and smiled at him—evilly,
he thought. “And Perry said you were slow,” she said, stepping back
from the desk. “Hell, Marcus—haven’t you learned yet that I don’t
appreciate being treated like a child?”

“Don’t swear, Cassandra,” the marquess
corrected her mildly, remembering that she did very well in her
role of Regency miss—but only when she wanted to. There were still
times, regrettably, when she—

“The
hell
I won’t, Marcus,” Cassandra
said, her fists jammed on her hips. “And there’s nothing you can do
to stop me. Hell, I said, Marcus—hell, hell,
hell!
”

It would be so easy to fall into a slanging
match with her, Marcus knew, for he had come to enjoy her temper,
but now was not the time, no matter how sure he was that she was
deliberately baiting him. He had discovered something—rediscovered
it actually, for he had been through the guidebook several
times—and he wanted to discuss his findings with Cassandra before
Perry barged into the room.

“Feel better now?” he asked when it appeared
as if she had concluded her outburst. He looked at her, seeing her
flushed cheeks, the way her breasts rose and fell in anger, and he
had to fight down the impulse to take her in his arms and kiss her
into a better humor.
Later,
he silently promised himself.
This overwhelming attraction, this passion he believed to be
entirely mutual, would have to be dealt with—but not now—no matter
how she provoked him. He had waited these past two weeks; he could
wait another day. “I think I have discovered a way to test the
reason for your presence here.”