Out of the Blue (A Regency Time Travel Romance) (16 page)

“I’ve committed them all to memory, my lord,”
she answered, deliberately swinging her leg, her toes pointed
inside her soft kid shoes. “What you haven’t asked me is if I give
a flying flip about them. Because I don’t. In spades, I don’t.” And
then, knowing she was making an ass of herself, she uncrossed her
legs and folded her hands in her lap.

“I am, of course, shattered to hear this
confession,” Marcus returned coldly, picking up his papers and
laying them in a drawer. “However, we have been at this all
morning, haven’t we? Aunt, it would appear that the child has had
enough of questions for the moment. Perhaps she should have a
lie-down before dinner?”

Aunt Cornelia rose, approaching the desk.
“But, Marcus,” she said, frowning, “I thought the gel was to have
her first dancing lesson this afternoon? I’ve already told that
chuckleheaded Peregrine Walton to wait upon you in the music
room.”

Cassandra, who had begun to think going to
her room for a while might be a good idea, immediately sprang to
attention. “Dancing lessons? All right, Marcus, now we’re getting
somewhere! Have you hired a French dancing master, or is Perry to
be my partner?”

Marcus moved out from behind the desk, his
tall, impeccably clad body having the same impact on her senses as
it did whenever he came within three feet of her. “Perry? If you
prefer him, of course Perry shall partner you. Aunt, we will see
you at dinner?”

Aunt Cornelia, who had earlier announced her
intention to have the carriage brought round at precisely five
o’clock, in time for a judicious jaunt through the park to see who
else of the top two thousand had come toddling back to town,
repeated that information. Then, with an uncharacteristic wink to
Cassandra, she sailed out of the room, leaving the pair
unchaperoned and causing Cassandra to wonder if she might have
gained an ally in her notion to talk Marcus into a mock
engagement.

“Marcus?” Cassandra said as the two of them
also headed for the door.

“Yes, my dear?”

“Am I wrong, or were you surprised when I
asked if Perry was to be my partner? I mean,
you
weren’t
planning to teach me yourself were you?”

“Is the prospect so impossible to conceive,
Cassandra? I do have a nodding acquaintance with the steps, you
know.”

Cassandra could have kicked herself for
jumping to conclusions, but it was too late to do anything about
it. Marcus, by the simple act of never being alone with her after
that first night, had made it perfectly clear that he wished their
association to remain that of teacher and student or, even worse,
professor and scientific oddity. She’d had to bite her tongue more
than once so that she wouldn’t call him “Professor Henry Higgins”
and then offer to recite “The rain in Spain stays mainly on the
plain” in an exaggerated cockney voice.

“Even the waltz, Marcus?” she countered at
last, taking refuge in sarcasm. “Or is that one too scandalous for
a fine, upstanding gentleman like yourself?” she asked as they
crossed the threshold into the music room, to see Peregrine sitting
at the piano, looking as if he’d rather be somewhere else. Anywhere
else.

“While it is not generally accepted
throughout society in its purest form, I have danced it minus the
allemande a time or two at private parties. However, today we will
begin with a simple Scottish reel. Ah, here, as promised, is the so
estimable Mr. Walton, come to assist us. Perry?” he asked. His
friend rose, backing away from the piano as if it might bite him.
“Are you ready for our first lesson? There has been a slight change
of plan. I will play and you will partner your ‘cousin.’ Is that
agreeable?”

Perry nodded, cleared his throat, and nodded
again. “I suppose I’m ready, although I have to own it, I ain’t
exactly brimming over with joy at the prospect,” he said at last,
wincing. “Not really my strongest suit, you know, Marcus. Dancing,
that is. Couldn’t be, or else why would my partners keep telling me
they’d much rather I fetched them a cup of lemonade when I show up
to claim my dance?”

“Oh, poor Perry,” Cassandra said
sympathetically, slipping her arm through his. “Two left feet, huh?
Well, don’t worry. I can teach you a dance where you won’t step on
anyone’s toes. There’s no bowing, or circling each other, or
touching of any kind. Would you like to try it?”

Peregrine brightened. “No touching? None? Not
that I’ve ever hazarded the waltz, you understand, but those
Scottish reels can be the very devil, with all that hopping about
and toing and froing. Marcus? What do you think? Could we give it a
go? You’re always wanting to know about Cassie’s time.”

Cassandra turned her head, smothering a grin
by biting on the inside of her cheek, waiting for the marquess to
answer. Peregrine had hit on just the proper argument, she
knew—reminding Marcus of his unending thirst for knowledge.

“All right,” Marcus said at last. “In the
interests of science. If Cassandra agrees.”

“Oh, Cassandra most definitely agrees,
Marcus,” she said, quickly seating herself at the piano before he
could change his mind. “Luckily, my mother insisted on piano
lessons, although this isn’t technically a piano, is it? Well,
close enough, I suppose, though I’m used to eighty-eight keys.
Marcus, if I play a few chords and a simple melody, do you think
you can pick it up? You played so beautifully last night after
dinner.”

“I doubt it will be too taxing,” he answered
from behind her. He leaned forward to peer over her shoulder, and
her fingers trembled slightly as she touched them to the keys.

She ran a few scales, just to limber up, then
hesitated, deciding on a tune. She didn’t want to try anything too
complicated, although the urge to rip off a quick rendition of the
introduction to one of Billy Joel’s raucous piano solos was almost
unbearable. She settled at last for a simple set of chords and a
toned-down version of a recent “top ten hit,” her senses leaping at
the sound of the familiar upbeat melody. She played it through
three times, adding more passion each time, closing her eyes as she
gave herself up to the music, the beat, the memories the song
evoked of the free, unfettered life she had left behind not a month
ago.

When she had finished (not without a suitable
flourish) she opened her eyes and saw that Perry had covered his
ears, his expression one of absolute horror. As he slowly realized
that the music had stopped, he tentatively removed his hands,
saying, “Are you done? Did you break it? Marcus, I think she broke
it. It never sounded like that before.”

“The piano isn’t broken, Perry,” Cassandra
said, laughing. “Oh, I admit it didn’t sound as good as it would
have on a real piano, but it wasn’t half bad. Was it, Marcus?”

“That depends, my dear,” the marquess
replied, helping her to rise so that he could take her place in
front of the keyboard. “If it was supposed to put a person in mind
of a riot in progress, I would have to say you’ve succeeded
admirably.” He extended his left hand and flawlessly executed the
succession of chords she had just played. “Amazing.” A moment later
he added his right hand, struggling for a few bars, his right hand
dragging along slightly behind his left. Then he smiled as he
finally got it right.

Cassandra found herself longing to throw her
arms around him and kiss him. He was so interested in everything,
so open to new ideas.

“Absolutely amazing, Perry—isn’t it amazing?”
Marcus said. “So alive, so vibrant.”

Peregrine puffed out his cheeks and exhaled
in a rush. “Sounds like an army on the move, Marcus, if you ask me.
Dear God! Cassie—what are you doing?”

Marcus had continued to play, and Cassandra
found herself tapping one foot along with the rhythm, her eyes once
more shut in ecstasy. It took only a moment for her tapping foot to
send impulses to the rest of her body, and she began to dance, her
head and shoulders moving to the beat, her hips swaying, her feet
shuffling against the polished wooden floor, her arms raised, her
fingers snapping in time with the music.

It was good. It wasn’t great, but it was
good. She could imagine the song as it was played on her
compact-disc player, almost hear Paul McCartney’s voice as he
belted out the lyrics. With her eyes closed, she was back in her
Manhattan apartment, her compact-disc player turned up loud as she
sang and danced her way through her weekly house-cleaning.

Cassandra’s daydream splintered as Marcus
brought down both hands in a discordant crash of sound. Blinking
her way back to reality, she turned to look at him, her arms still
raised above her head, and saw that a tic had begun to work in his
cheek. “Hey! Marcus? What’s your problem?”

“Well, that’s easy enough to answer,”
Peregrine supplied when Marcus didn’t say anything. “He’s worried
about you, Cassie, that’s all. So was I, for that matter. You
looked about to take a fit. You all right now?”

“That will do, Perry,” Marcus said softly,
rising from the velvet-topped bench. “Cassandra was not about to
‘take a fit.’ I believe, as a matter of fact, that she was dancing.
An—an interesting set of maneuvers, wasn’t it?”

“Interesting?” Clearly Peregrine was aghast.
“
Interesting?
She was shaking all over like a
blancmange!”

Yes, Cassandra thought, feeling rather
pleased with herself, Perry was definitely aghast. What pleased her
more was that Marcus wasn’t aghast. He might be upset, but he
wasn’t aghast. He was
interested.
What a shame she had been
forced to dance in this silly, juvenile sprigged muslin gown.
Imagine how
interested
Marcus would have been if he could
have seen her dance in her black leather slacks and white lace
camisole! And wasn’t it nice to see that his
interest
in her
could be more than academic?

Hey, a girl might be lost in time, but that
didn’t mean she didn’t like to feel attractive, did it?

“Let me guess. We’ve concluded this
particular experiment, haven’t we?” she asked when Peregrine took
refuge on a nearby chair, fanning himself with a large white
handkerchief. “Unless you’d like to see our version of the waltz?”
she ended, thinking of no other way to explain “slow dancing.”

Peregrine hopped to his feet once more. “The
waltz? I don’t know about that, Cassie. I might step on your hem or
something. I do that a lot, you know. Clarissa Felton slapped me
with her fan last season when I tripped over her flounce—broke two
of its sticks on my forehead. Hurt like the very devil. Don’t know
why she hit me. Not my fault, after all. I told her I couldn’t do
it.”

Marcus, who had been quiet, almost too quiet,
stepped forward. “I agree, Perry. You are not at your best in the
waltz. But we must get on with Cassandra’s lessons, as the Season
is already embarked on its first, tentative flush of activity.
Perhaps you would like to play for us while I test Cassandra’s
proficiency?”

“You, Marcus?” Cassandra’s eyes were
twinkling. She just knew they were twinkling. “But what of my
demonstration of my sort of waltz? I really would like to show it
to you. It might go a long way toward explaining my culture to
you.”

“Later, Cassandra,” Marcus said, looking at
her levelly as he took her hand and led her to the center of the
room. “First your lesson, all right? Perry? If you would be so
kind?”

“Are you sure, Marcus? I mean, the waltz is
rather,
um,
intimate, and we are alone here, aren’t we?
Corny wouldn’t like it above half.”

Still looking at Cassandra, Marcus replied,
“You’ve become damned moral now that you have a female cousin,
haven’t you, Perry? Close your eyes as you play if you would seek
to spare your blushes. Now, if you please, Perry? We’re waiting.
Cassandra, if you would pretend that you are wearing one of your
best gowns and reach down—delicately, my dear—and hold out your
skirt with your right hand, just here, where your hand falls
naturally when you hold your arm at your side. Ah, that’s it. And
now, a curtsy, if you please, just as Corny has taught you—lift
your chin high and hold out your left hand to me as I bow.”

It was like something out of a dream, a scene
from an old movie, a romantic novel. Cassandra, delicately holding
out her skirt as she extended her left hand, put one foot back and
sank into a curtsy. Marcus’s right hand steadied her as she looked
up into his clear emerald eyes. A moment later Peregrine began to
play and Marcus drew her to her feet with the power of his gaze,
laid his hand lightly on her waist, and led her into the first
steps of the dance—at the same time sweeping her into a fantasy
land of long-ago elegance and manners and romance.

She followed him effortlessly, her mother’s
insistence that she attend ballroom dance classes at the local
women’s club at last bearing fruit. With her right hand barely
touching his left, all her attention, all her feeling, was centered
in that small, favored place on her back where his right hand
deftly instructed her as to the direction of the next steps in the
dance.

Her hand burned where it touched his sleeve
just below his shoulder, and although they were a good two feet
apart, she felt that they had never been closer, that no two people
on this earth had ever been closer. His back was so straight, his
shoulders so broad; he moved with the grace of a panther, a dancer,
a god, leading her with the caressing whip-touch of his hands, the
magnetic pull of his eyes, the heady power of his presence.

They dipped and swayed with the music,
twirling round and round the small circle of bare floor,
Cassandra’s heart beating in tune with Peregrine’s playing. She was
Cinderella at the ball, Miss America wearing her crown for the
first time as she drifted down the runway and into the throng of
applauding subjects. She was Princess Di, opening a ball with her
Prince, Grace Kelly in her role in
High Society,
Eliza
Doolittle dancing all night in
My Fair Lady.