Out of the Blue (A Regency Time Travel Romance) (28 page)

And Cassandra had not lied to the marquess.
The novelty of living in Regency England, if novelty was the proper
word for it, had more than worn off, thanks mostly to Reginald
Hawtrey. She couldn’t face going into public again, couldn’t chance
meeting up with either him or his meddling aunt, even if they
didn’t dare say too much to other members of the
ton.
Marcus
was too powerful, and Lady Blakewell was too conscious of that
power.

No, as long as she stayed within the four
walls of the Grosvenor Square mansion she was safe. Besides, she
wanted to spend every moment with Marcus, the man she loved, the
man who loved her. They had to plan to save Spencer Perceval, had
to prove that it was possible to change history. They had to or
else Marcus was doomed.

But she wouldn’t think of that at this
moment, not when Marcus had now stripped to the skin and joined her
under the covers. Cassandra lived for the night, for the moment
Marcus came to her and, with his sweet loving, transported her
beyond worries, beyond time.

“You’re looking pleased with yourself this
evening, my dearest,” Marcus said now, pressing a kiss on her bare
shoulder. “I should be concerned, if you had not been so well
behaved these past weeks. Confining yourself to strolls within the
Square, allowing Aunt Cornelia to teach you embroidery, spending
countless hours with me in my study, answering all my questions
without ever pouting. You haven’t even teased Goodfellow above
twice. Are you ill, darling? You are being so very good that
perhaps I should be worried. Are you planning some sort of
mischief?”

Cassandra snuggled close to him, running her
fingers through the mat of hair on his broad chest. “I could be,
Marcus,” she said teasingly. “What sort of mischief would you like?
I’m open to suggestions.”

“Minx.” His hands disappeared under the
covers to begin tickling the sensitive skin at her waist so that
she writhed on the bed, giggling, breathlessly begging him to stop.
“Stop, is it? Yes, I suppose so,” he said, collapsing against the
pillows. “After that
mischief
you showed me last night, I
think you should be too exhausted to plan anything except a good
night’s rest.” He sat up, throwing back the covers. “Shall I leave
you to it?”

She grabbed his shoulders and pulled him back
across her legs, then bent over him, her face close to his. “You
wouldn’t dare! Only think, Marcus, if you leave me, I may cry. I
may wail and sob so loudly that Corny will be forced to come in
here to see for herself what is wrong with me. She’s crazy about me
these days, you know, and not just because I’m such a good pupil at
that stupid embroidery. I tell her about the future, about Byron’s
troubles with Lady Caroline Lamb, about poor Brummell’s fall from
grace, about the celebrations after Waterloo. She is ever so
grateful to her informative Regency miss. Why, if I were to be
unhappy she might blame you, Marcus. I don’t think you’d like that.
Corny is a woman who could make any man’s life a living hell if she
put her mind to it.”

He looked up at her, grinning, boyish in his
good humor. “Corny doesn’t hold a candle to you in that particular
endeavor, imp,” he said, slipping a hand behind her neck and slowly
pulling her down so that their lips met in a sweet, encouraging
kiss.

And then, as always, the passion that
simmered all day, carefully tamped down while they were in his
study and while they sat at table with Peregrine and Aunt Cornelia,
exploded between them. In these last weeks, Cassandra had
discovered that lovemaking
was
all she’d heard it had been
cracked up to be—if you were with the right man.

Marcus had taught her so much, and her
education continued tonight. Locked in his arms, she flowered
beneath his hands, taking and giving and climbing to the heights,
heights she hadn’t dreamed existed.

They had come together that first night in
white-hot passion, and that passion showed no signs of burning out,
although they had learned to draw out their pleasure, to take the
time to talk with each other, to tease each other, to indulge in
the leisure of lying side by side in the dark, watching the fire
slowly die in the hearth, sharing their dreams, their hopes, their
fears.

It was those fears that kept their lovemaking
new, exciting, and, at times, desperate. It was already May. Soon
they would go together to the House of Commons, to change
history—if it could be changed. Their plans had been made, with
Peregrine taken into their confidence. All that remained was to
execute those plans.

Time. It was their friend, until the last day
of the month; it allowed them to be together, to love.

Time. It was their enemy, each tick of the
clock bringing them closer to that same last day in May, drawing
them inexorably closer to the moment when Marcus would either cheat
the fates or be outwitted by them.

Her arms wrapped tightly around Marcus’s
back, his body buried deeply within hers, his fevered breath
rasping against her cheek, Cassandra strained to hold him tighter,
closer—willing time to stop. And as she held him, as the fever
built, time did stop, hovering on the precipice, dancing just out
of reach, before, together, she and Marcus went tumbling down, down
into the pleasant valley below, and they slept, still locked in
each other’s arms.

And the clock ticked on.

~ ~ ~

“
No! Marcus, no! Oh, God, no!”

Marcus awoke in an instant and saw that
Cassandra was sitting upright in bed, her violet eyes wide as she
sightlessly stared into the predawn darkness. He put his arms
around her, but she was rigid—he couldn’t move her even though he
could feel her trembling beneath his hands.

“Cassandra! Darling! What is it?”

“The stairs,” she said, although he knew she
wasn’t speaking in answer to his question. “Oh, God, please, not
the stairs!” She began to rock in his embrace, back and forth, back
and forth, like an old woman he had seen mourning in the street,
kneeling over a child run down by a carriage. “Not yet. Oh, please,
not yet. Too soon. Too soon! Marcus, where are you?
Marcus!
”

“Hush, darling, I’m here,” Marcus crooned
over and over, desperately trying to break through Cassandra’s
nightmare. Her terror was palpable. “I’m here. I’ll always be
here.”

“Marcus?” Cassandra was suddenly still,
before she turned in one swift movement and threw her arms around
his shoulders, burying her head against his chest. “Oh, Marcus! It
was horrible! I was in the White Tower, standing at the entrance to
that small passageway—the passageway that leads to the stairs, to
that room. Oh, God, Marcus, I was walking toward the
top
of
the stairs!”

He kissed her hair, her temple, her cheek,
tasting the salt of the tears that streamed down her cheeks now
that she had come completely awake. “Hush, darling. It was a dream,
Cassandra. Only a dream. I’m here.”

She pushed herself out of his arms and
scrambled off the bed. Picking up her nightgown, she pulled it over
her head, then began pacing, hugging herself, her slim figure
outlined by the dying light of the fire. “Yes, Marcus, you’re here.
I’m here. But for how long? You seemed so sure that I’d be here
until the end of May, that I’d be here to help you change history.
But the dream—it was so
real,
Marcus!”

He slipped from the bed, shrugging into his
banyan. “Tell me about it, Cassandra. Tell me everything.”

She stopped pacing and put a hand to her
head. “There’s nothing to tell. I was there, the stairs were there.
It was just the way it was the first time.” Her bottom lip began to
quiver. “Oh, God, Marcus, I can’t go. I can’t leave you. What would
I do without you?”

He took hold of her shoulders, giving her a
small shake, daring to hope. “Just the way it was the
first
time, Cassandra? Tell me, what were you wearing?”

She shook her head, as if shaking away his
questions, then looked up at him, her eyes widening. “Marcus! I was
wearing my own clothes! You were right, it was a dream. I was
reliving the day I first met you. It was just a dream!”

Marcus sighed, pulling her against him,
cradling her shuddering body, thanking whatever gods there were for
this reprieve. For she hadn’t been the only one to be frightened.
He had been planning for the last day of May, hoping for the best,
but that did not mean his theory would be proved correct.
Cassandra’s nightmare had brought home the fact that he was
fallible, that things might not go as he had planned, as he was
still planning. Thank heaven he hadn’t told her all of his
theories. There was no point in encouraging her to hope.

“Come back to bed, darling,” he said now,
running his hand along her spine, feeling the warmth of her skin
beneath the thin nightgown. “It will be morning soon, but I want to
know that you are sleeping before I leave you.”

She sat on the edge of the bed, but would not
let go of his hands. “Don’t go, Marcus,” she pleaded, squeezing his
fingers. “I don’t think I could stand being alone right now.” She
smiled, running her thumbs across his palms. “Besides, this is
stupid. Why are we hiding like this? Perry already knows about us,
and so does Goodfellow. I can tell because he’s looking down his
nose at me even more these days. If Goodfellow knows, Rose
knows—all the servants know. Can’t we just tell Corny and get it
over with?”

He sat down beside her, inwardly admitting
that her arguments made sense. It was the height of ridiculousness,
sneaking about like a green youth, hiding what he was about. Yet to
tell Corny would be to open an avenue of discussion he wished to
remain blocked. “We can’t tell Corny, Cassandra. She’d start making
wedding plans, and neither of us will be here long enough to walk
down the aisle.” The moment the words were out he knew he had made
a mistake.

“Oh, Marcus!” Cassandra wailed, throwing
herself into his arms once more. “How can you be so rational about
this? You’re talking about your possible death the same way you’d
talk about one of your damned experiments. I love you, Marcus, but
there are times I really could hit you.”

He chuckled under his breath. Maybe he hadn’t
said the wrong thing. Cassandra was angry now, and an angry
Cassandra was much preferable to a weeping Cassandra. “I’m sorry,
darling,” he said. “Perhaps you’d rather I moaned and gnashed my
teeth? I can’t see where that would help either of us, but I would,
of course, do anything to oblige you.”

“Creep!” She sat up, giving him a playful
punch on his arm before using the hem of her nightgown to wipe her
eyes one last time. “You know I’d fall apart if you weren’t so
strong.” She pushed herself back against the pillows, throwing the
covers over her legs and folding her hands in her lap. “You
promised to stay here until I fell asleep again. Tell me a bedtime
story, okay?”

“Incorrigible imp.” Marcus chuckled in real
amusement, seeing the light of humor in Cassandra’s lovely violet
eyes. She would never cease to amaze him, not if they were to be
granted a lifetime together. He smoothed the covers over her legs,
then leaned back against one of the high bedposts. “What sort of
bedtime story, darling?”

She shrugged, snuggling beneath the covers,
for the morning was cool. “I don’t know. Tell me more about London.
God knows I haven’t seen much of it lately.”

“Very well,” Marcus answered, slanting a look
at the mantel clock, for it had grown light enough for him to see
it, even from this distance. He’d have to be quick about this, or
the whole household would see him scurrying back to his own rooms,
his bare legs sticking out under his banyan. And wouldn’t that be a
pretty picture! “Shall I tell you about a typical evening at
Almack’s? You refused to use the voucher I procured for you, not
that I can say I’m sorry, for never was there a duller place than
that.”

She shook her head, smiling, and Marcus
suddenly knew that she had a particular subject in mind. He also
had the niggling feeling that he wasn’t going to like hearing what
it was. “I heard Perry telling Goodfellow the other day that he had
been to the White House, and was sorry he hadn’t looked in at
Brooks’s instead. But when I asked Perry what the White House is,
he just turned red and stammered something about having to keep an
excruciatingly important appointment with his hatter. So you can
tell me. What’s the White House, Marcus? We have one you know, in
Washington. You guys burn it down sometime during the war you’re
going to start soon. You remember what I told you about that?”

“I remember. You also told me that nobody
will win this particular war, my dear,” Marcus said tightly, for he
still bristled when she reminded him that the United States, and
not England, was the mightiest military country in her world.
Imagine! To be known for pink-haired youths, eccentrics, and
musical plays! It was insulting, especially to a man who had cut
his wisdom teeth at Trafalgar. “But much as you must already know
that you shouldn’t be asking this particular question, I will
answer you. Perry did not want to say anything to you because our
White House—unlike your government building—is a discreet, very
discreet, brothel.”

Cassandra giggled. “A
brothel?
And our
White House is different? Oh, Marcus, I wouldn’t touch
that
line with a ten-foot pole!”

Marcus frowned, then smiled when he realized
that Cassandra no longer seemed frightened. Actually, if that was
her toe, just now pushing intimately against his thigh, she seemed
to have made a most miraculous recovery from her nightmare. But
though he was inclined to take up her invitation, he knew he must
leave.

He was leaning forward, to kiss Cassandra one
last time, when the door to her bedchamber opened. He all but
leaped from the bed, cursing as he stubbed his toe on the night
table and hoping against hope that it was only Rose coming to
relight the fire. Then he heard Aunt Cornelia say, “Cassandra, my
dear, I couldn’t sleep a wink last night thinking about our plans
for your latest project. I believe we should begin at once, which
entails an early excursion to my favorite shop for embroidery
thread...
Marcus!
Is that you? Whatever are you about? My
stars—are those your
feet?
”