Out of the Blue (A Regency Time Travel Romance) (7 page)

He looked into Cassandra’s eyes, eyes that
had intrigued him at first sight, for they were such an odd shade,
nearly violet in color, and were framed by absurdly long black
lashes that he was sure weren’t entirely natural. She was a pretty
girl, or rather, a pretty woman, for she was at least
two-and-twenty and certainly could not claim to be a debutante.
Marcus smiled, happy to see that once he got past her odd dress,
women had not changed much over the years, for he was an
acknowledged admirer of the feminine form. But then he shrugged,
realizing that it would be rather hard to improve on Mother
Nature’s perfection.

The unusual undergarment took his attention
once more and he noticed that it had been fashioned very
differently from the long, waist-hugging corsets worn by one of his
former mistresses—he disremembered her name at the moment. He
leaned forward, seeing that two semicircles of what seemed to be
cloth-covered wire cupped Cassandra’s breasts from below, raising
them so that they thrust forward intriguingly, provocatively. He
reached out to touch one of them, just to ascertain, he told
himself, if it really was wire.

“Hey—knock it off!” Cassandra slapped his
hand away and he looked up to see real fear in her eyes, fear such
as the sort she had shown as she realized the blue mist had
transported her to his time. “Just what the hell do you think
you’re doing, buster?” She looked down at herself, then back at
him, her hands flying up to cover herself. “Oh, Lord, I must be out
of my mind. What do you think
you’re
doing? What do I think
I’m
doing!”

Marcus enjoyed the blush that had risen from
Cassandra’s breasts all the way into her cheeks. “I think, love,
that you are showing me that no matter how things change, some
things stay very much the same. But, please, Miss Kelley, don’t
stop now.” He reached out to touch her waist. “Show me again how
this zipper invention works.”

Marcus didn’t know how their little
confrontation might have ended if there hadn’t been a knock on the
door and the sound of Rose’s voice asking permission to enter. He
flew into action, grabbing Cassandra by the elbow to propel her
behind the screen. “We cannot allow the servants to see your
clothing. Strip now, madam, or I’ll do it for you,” he commanded
tersely, going over to the bed to retrieve his sister’s dress.
“Everything—to the buff—and then give it all to me.”

He raced over to a burled cabinet and began
rummaging through the compartments, unearthing undergarments and a
chemise, which he tossed over the screen as he called to Rose to
wait outside.

Cassandra stuck her head out from behind the
screen, her violet eyes narrowed in temper as she threw Georgina’s
undergarments back at him. “You may have my clothes, you may have
my purse, you may even have my Hershey bar, but I’ll be damned if
I’m going to give you my underwear! That’s not science—that’s
sick!”

Rose knocked again, calling, “Is everythin’
all right in there, m’lord? Goodfellow says yer got a woman in
there. Should I be callin’ fer yer aunt Cornelia?”

“God’s teeth—Corny! I had forgotten all about
her. That’s all this farce needs.” Marcus stuffed his sister’s
undergarments back in the chest. “No! That is, no thank you, Rose.
There’s no need to bother my aunt,” he called loudly. “I’ll be just
a moment more.”

Cassandra’s head popped out from behind the
screen once more. “Aunt Cornelia? I love it! Is she an eccentric,
Marcus? The hero’s relatives are usually eccentric in Regency
romances. Does she constantly call for hartshorn and burnt
feathers, or does she guzzle gin when no one is looking?”

Marcus, seeing Cassandra at last dressed in
the gown, stepped behind the screen and began fumbling with the
long row of buttons that ran up the back of the dress. “Tuck in
those shoulder laces so that they don’t show at the neckline. Hurry
now. And you’ll have to tell me more about these books of yours
when we have time, Miss Kelley,” he said, concentrating on fitting
the small covered buttons into loops that appeared to have taken on
a life of their own. “They seem to have given you a very twisted
impression of my time in history. We have more serious pursuits
than swooning, and sipping spirits, you know. There, that’s done.
Now turn around while I look at you.”

Ignoring him, Cassandra walked out from
behind the screen and busied herself looking into the large mirror
that hung above the burled chest. She smiled at the vision of
herself in his sister’s gown. “I look nice, don’t I?” she asked,
turning about to curtsy in his direction. “Is there a comb anywhere
so I can fix this rat’s nest? Mine’s in my purse, so I won’t even
bother asking for it.”

“Rat’s nest? You have a rat’s nest in your
bag? Whatever for?”

Cassandra laughed aloud, a throaty, totally
unaffected laugh that Marcus liked very much. “My hair looks like a
rat’s nest—not that I’ve ever seen one, thank you. It’s just a
saying.” She took the silver-backed brush he handed her. “Thank
you, Marcus—my lord,” she said and turned back to the mirror,
running the brush through her hair.

“Rose could do that, since your maid didn’t
travel back in time with you.”

Cassandra laid down the brush, to push at her
hair with her fingers, making it, to Marcus’s mind, just as
disheveled as it had been before she combed it. “I don’t have a
maid, Marcus.”

His left eyebrow rose a fraction. “No maid.
No chaperon. I see,” he said gravely. “We’ll let that be our little
secret, if you don’t mind, Miss Kelley. I wouldn’t want my
household getting the wrong opinion of you.”

Cassandra’s reflection glared at him, her
fingers halting in midair, a move that could only be looked upon by
Marcus as a blessing, for her hair was beginning to look as if she
had been caught in a stiff breeze. “And what opinion would that be,
Marcus? Are you lumping me in with Harriette Wilson again?”

She turned around to face him. “Look, I know
this Rose person is standing outside, but I think we have to clear
something up between us before we go any further. Women in the
twentieth century do not have maids or chaperons, at least not in
America—or England either, for that matter, unless they’re very,
very
rich. We’re not considered loose, or
fallen.
We’re considered liberated. I’ve been to college, have my own
apartment, can do long division, support myself working at a job
that I love—and I can walk and chew gum at the same time, which is
more than can be said for at least one of our male presidents. I
live alone, I drive a car—a carriage, to you—and have my own bank
account. I even smoke, or at least I did until three weeks ago—God,
could I use a cigarette right now.”

She stood up very straight, so that the hem
of Georgina’s gown dragged only three inches on the floor. “I am
woman, Marcus—hear me roar!”

And then, seeing his confused frown, she
shook her head in exasperation. “Oh, forget it. Just go open the
door.”

Marcus walked across the room to stand close
in front of her, looking down into her flashing violet eyes. “I’ve
made you angry with my assumptions, haven’t I?”

“Go to the head of the class, Lord
Eastbourne. You got that in one,” she answered, pushing the lacy
straps of her bra beneath the fabric of the gown.

He reached out to tip up her chin with his
hand. “I didn’t mean to upset you, Cassandra Kelley,” he said
softly. “I’ve been searching for so long, forever it seems, for
answers to my questions about the room—the blue mist—and now that I
am finding them I’m rushing my fences and making impulsive leaps of
logic when I should be taking my time, content to learn as I go.
You will forgive me, won’t you?”

He watched as her gaze shifted rapidly from
side to side, searching each of his eyes individually, as if
attempting to look past those eyes and into his soul. She brought
out her tongue to wet her lips. “We have gotten off on the wrong
foot, haven’t we, Marcus?” she asked, her voice faintly husky as he
allowed his fingers to begin stroking her cheek. “I always act like
an idiot when I’m frightened. And I am frightened. More than I can
tell you.”

He smiled, remembering how her body looked
beneath his sister’s demure gown. “Don’t be frightened, love,” he
told her, moving a step closer. “Perhaps it will help if we two cry
friends. After all, we’re all we’ve got in this, aren’t we?”

She looked up at him and smiled. “There’s
always your companion—my
cousin
Perry,” she said, her violet
eyes laughing. Her moods seemed to change with each tick of the
mantel clock. “Although I have to tell you, Marcus, I don’t think
the man would be much of a brick in a crisis.”

Marcus chuckled softly beneath his breath,
then lowered his head to within an inch of Cassandra’s. She stared
up at him, seemingly holding her breath. Marcus sobered, knowing he
was going to kiss her; he was sure of it.

“Perry will be discreet,” he promised, his
voice low and intimate. All his attention centered on Cassandra’s
full red mouth. “Cassandra, I—”

“M’Iord!” Rose’s voice pierced the solid oak
of the door, shattering the moment into a thousand embarrassing
pieces. “Goodfellow has sent a tray fer the lady, and Mister Walton
says fer me to tell yer that his stomach’s wonderin’ if his
throat’s been cut, he’s that hungry, beggin’ yer pardon,
m’lord.”

Marcus watched as Cassandra’s eyelids
lowered, concealing the expression in her violet eyes, before she
stepped away from him to seat herself in a nearby chair, her hands
folded in her lap, her shoes covered by the overlong gown. “I’d
feel greatly relieved, Cassandra, if I didn’t already know that
demure pose to be just that—a pose. You may be
woman,
as you
call yourself, but, please, for all our sakes, try to
roar
as little as possible while Rose is in the room. It’s enough that
you’ve already shocked poor Goodfellow down to his toes.”

Gathering up her clothing from behind the
screen, he crossed to the door and opened it to admit Rose, a
small, thin girl who staggered into the room beneath the weight of
a heavy silver. tray.

“Lord love a duck, m’lord, but I thought ye’d
never answer,” said Rose as she hefted the tray onto a nearby table
before turning to peer inquisitively at Cassandra. “Hullo, miss,”
she said, curtsying. “Ain’t that Miss Georgina’s gown, m’lord? It’s
too small in all the wrong places, and more than a mite too long,
if I’m any judge.”

Marcus rubbed his eyes, suddenly very weary.
“Thank you, Rose, we already know. Just serve the food, please, get
fresh water for the pitcher, light some more candles, and turn back
the bed so that Miss Kelley can retire once you’ve found her a
proper nightgown. We’ll take steps to remedy her wardrobe in the
morning, when we’re all rested.”

“But, Marcus—I mean, my lord—it can’t be more
than six o’clock. I don’t want to go to bed.”

Marcus heard Rose’s sharp intake of breath
upon hearing Cassandra’s frank, strangely accented speech. Did the
girl have no brain at all, questioning him in his own house, in
front of his own servant? He bowed in her direction. “I am
otherwise committed this evening, Miss Kelley, or else I would bear
you company until today’s trying events bring you to your knees,
begging for the comfort of a warm bed. But if you promise to be
good, I shall see about escorting you to Bond Street in the
morning:”

“Bond Street?” Cassandra seemed to perk up.
“That’s where all the best shops are, isn’t it?” She leaned back in
the chair, smiling. “That could prove interesting. All right, my
lord, I’ll be a good little Regency miss and go to bed early. And
if I’m still here tomorrow morning, we’ll go shopping.”

“If she’s still here?” Rose turned to look at
her employer, clearly confused, and perhaps more than a little
frightened. “Where would she be goin ta, m’lord?”

Marcus shifted the small bundle of clothing
under his arm, looking meaningfully at Cassandra. “Miss Kelley
isn’t going anywhere, Rose, at least not if she knows what’s good
for her,” he said firmly, turning on his heel to join Perry
downstairs in the study.

Cassandra, he was amused to see as he passed
a large wall mirror on his way out of the room, stuck out her
tongue at his departing back.

F
ollowing Rose’s
directions, Cassandra found her way to the ground-floor study at
the rear of the Grosvenor Square mansion, knocked twice on the
paneled door, and entered.

“Good morning, Miss Kelley,” the Marquess of
Eastbourne said, rising from his chair behind a wide mahogany desk
situated in front of a triple bank of impressive windows draped in
floor-to-ceiling burgundy velvet. Her purse sat on the desktop, the
contents placed in neatly spaced piles beside it. Marcus appeared
to be as cool, as calmly collected, as he had been yesterday in the
White Tower before their interlude in his sister’s
bedchamber—before he had called her Cassandra and almost kissed
her. “I trust you slept well.”

Slept well?
Was he nuts? Cassandra was
frightened. Frightened, and alone, and totally out of her element.
Good God! Just a few minutes earlier she had cleaned her teeth with
a laughable contraption Rose had called a toothbrush and then spent
ten minutes explaining to that same servant that she could dress
herself, only to learn that, thanks to the oddness of some of the
garments, she couldn’t even put on her own underwear. She wanted
nothing more than to sit herself down someplace and quietly
unravel.

But she couldn’t do that. She wouldn’t do
that. There was only one avenue open to her, and that was anger.
Anger, and maybe a dash of bravado. Any other reaction could lead
only to madness, a complete meltdown of her mental faculties. She
sniffed contemptuously at Marcus’s fairly innocuous statement as
she deliberately swaggered across the room, ruining the effect by
tripping over the hem of her sprigged muslin morning gown and
nearly ending up lying flat on her face. “Did I sleep well? How can
you ask that, Marcus? Tell me—strictly as a conversation starter,
you understand—do you think I’m stupid? Lamebrained? As you Regency
fellows say—‘totally to let in the attic’?”