“Where does a two-thousand-pound canary sit?”
Marcus looked up from his notes and peered at her across the desk. “I haven’t the foggiest notion, Cassandra,” he answered in the same slightly exasperated tone he might use when dealing with a precocious but well-loved child. “Where does a two-thousand-pound canary sit?”
Grinning, for she had been trying without visible success to gain his attention for the past twenty minutes, Cassandra fell back in her chair, spread her arms wide, and announced gleefully, “Anywhere he wants to!”
Marcus directed a long, dispassionate stare at her. “And this passes for amusement in your time? Interesting.” With that, and still remarkably straight-faced, he returned his attention to the papers on the desk.
“Well, I for one don’t understand,” Aunt Cornelia said a moment later from her own perch on the window seat. “Why wouldn’t it sit in the trees? You make precious little sense at times, gel.”
Cassandra hopped out of the chair and looked at each of them in turn; then shrugged, taking her comedic failure in stride. “Tough room,” she remarked as if to herself as she approached the desk and picked up a small jar holding what appeared to be a long-dead frog. “I could trot out a little Eddie Murphy, I suppose, but I don’t think you guys are ready for that yet.”
“If this Murphy fellow is anything like that woman, Lucille Ball, whose Italian vineyard antics you reported to me yesterday, then no, Cassandra, I do not believe we English are as yet ‘ready’ for such humor.” Marcus stabbed one of the papers with his forefinger. “For now, I should like to get back to our discussion of twentieth-century architecture, if you please. We spoke of skyscrapers yesterday, but I am still having some trouble imagining the form. Perhaps if you’d draw one for me?”
“I hear and obey, O master,” she said as she bowed in his direction. Her smile fading, Cassandra dutifully picked up the sketchbook Marcus had given her and a stick of charcoal and retired to the opposite end of the window seat, which was still occupied by Aunt Cornelia, her self-appointed chaperon and near-constant companion these past three weeks.
And what a wild three weeks they had been, beginning with Marcus’s confession to his relative that they were harboring a bona fide time traveler beneath their roof. After that flabbergasted woman had recovered from her swoon, it had taken her no more than a few days to pass from disbelief to concern, then to out-and-out delight. She had pestered Cassandra nearly every waking moment with penetrating questions about people, fashions, and scandals that might be of interest to “an old woman who must take her delights where she can.”
Peregrine Walton, relieved of his position of “cousin,” at least within the confines of the Grosvenor Square mansion, had become a good friend. He was always there to save Cassandra from herself whenever, as she still did, she suffered a mental lapse and went groping for a light switch as she entered a darkened room, or forgot herself and asked one of the servants if she could have a Coke with her dinner. Although obviously still nervous around her, Peregrine had announced only the other day that he believed Cassandra to be “a ripping good sport about the thing,” for he, if landed in a similar situation, “should surely have slipped my wits by now.”
And there had been times when Cassandra might have agreed with Peregrine’s assessment of the effects of time travel. As March gave way to early April, she had wondered more than once whether this whole affair was nothing more than a bad dream, and she had been the victim of some freak accident—like walking in front of a bus—and she was actually lying in a coma somewhere.
But that wasn’t her only theory. After all, the characters who resided in Grosvenor Square with her could have been drawn from any of several dozen characters she had read about as she edited books for the Mayfair line. Perhaps her familiarity with the architecture, the furnishings, the food, the fashions—and, most especially, the eccentric characters of the time—had combined with her presence in London to make her believe she had actually traveled through time, when all she had really done was to take a nose dive down those curving stairs in the White Tower. She might really be confined to an asylum and was mistaking the nurses and doctors for real Regency people.
For some reason the idea of an asylum seemed preferable to being locked in a coma in a hospital. At least she was eating well.
It was only Marcus’s presence in her life that kept her from putting too much credence in either theory. Yes, she might have dreamed up a devastatingly handsome Regency hero along with all the others, but Marcus was unlike any Regency hero she had ever encountered in her authors’ books. Regency heroes, after all, were by and large arrogant sorts and spent their time going to balls, and sparring with Gentleman Jackson, and going to cockfights, and caring more for their wardrobes and their mistresses and their horseflesh than they did about the effect of sunlight on mushrooms or the reason Roman roads still survived while many newer, English-built roads were constantly in need of repair.
In short, the man was a bottomless pit of curiosity on every subject from war to morals to literature to politics to imagining the possibility of traveling through time. In the past three weeks she had more than once felt as if she had been turned inside out and upside down by his questions, his constant probing, his insatiable appetite for learning all he could about her world. And he had absorbed the information she had given him like a thirsty sponge; he had assimilated knowledge with an ease that fascinated her. Patiently, and while taking copious notes on all she said, he had led her through the subjects of electricity, transportation, television, the two world wars, the latest antibiotics, organ transplantation, the diminishing rain forests, and even nuclear energy and space travel.
He did, however, become upset when she could not go into detail on some subject that interested him—resorting to taunts as to the quality of the college education she had received in “the colonies.” When he had laid her solar calculator in front of her and demanded she explain how it worked, she had apologized through clenched teeth that she had not had the foresight to bring a set of encyclopedias with her when she entered the blue mist, a remark that had only led him to pick up his pen once more and inquire into what advancements had been made in the area of publishing.
Between questions concerning her “time,” she received lessons from Aunt Cornelia and Marcus in the proper behavior of a young lady in Regency times—schooling her in matters of deportment, the importance of titles, and explaining the intricacies of morning visits and calling cards. Cassandra had fallen into bed each night exhausted, too tired to cry, too worn out to worry as to whether or not her stay in Regency England was indeed to be permanent.
Her gorgeous new wardrobe had arrived, but that didn’t mean that Marcus had allowed her any more fresh air than she could breathe while pacing like a prisoner inside his walled garden. Her only contacts with the outside world had been the half dozen or so merchants summoned to the house to supplement her wardrobe with various pelisses, reticules, scarves, gloves, boots, and bits of intimate apparel, and a French hairdresser who had wrung his hands at the sad state of her hair for nearly an hour before taking ten or twelve infinitesimal snips at it, standing back, and announcing that she was now ravissante.
She had become accustomed to the formality of their everyday meals, the pomp and ceremony that accompanied the serving of each lush course, and she now believed being served hot chocolate in bed every morning and stepping straight from her prepared tub—to be wrapped in a fluffy, warmed towel before being led to a dressing table where Rose lovingly dried and brushed her hair—beat the hell out of grabbing a quick shower and wolfing down a strawberry Pop Tart before racing for the subway.
But, as Cassandra well knew, she was not a happy camper, no matter how luxurious her life had become from the moment she stepped out of the marquess’s carriage in front of the stone steps that led up to the mansion in Grosvenor Square.
For she was a prisoner, not only in time, but in this same mansion. Her outburst that first day—she knew her behavior at the time had been shocking—had led her to make Marcus a startling proposition, and now, three weeks later, she was still waiting for an answer. Yes, their possible betrothal had been a spur-of-the-moment inspiration and, yes, she had known how forward she was, lying on the bed with him, deliberately toying with his cravat and his emotions, but she had been desperate.
She was still desperate, and Marcus had avoided being alone with her ever since that night, as if she might attack him if neither Aunt Cornelia nor Peregrine were present.
The whole situation was beginning to prey on her nerves.
“There,” she announced mere moments later, rising from the window seat to take the sketchbook to Marcus. “That’s a skyscraper. It’s called a skyscraper because it’s so high it looks as if it touches the sky.”
Marcus took the sketchbook and studied the drawing carefully before looking up at her severely. “I believe I recall telling you that I don’t appreciate being fobbed off with fanciful fibs whenever you become bored with my questions. It was bad enough when you tried to tell me that you can send printed pages from one country to another through wires—”
“It’s called a fax machine, Marcus, and it does work,” Cassandra protested, interrupting him “I’m sorry if I can’t tell you how, but it does.”
“Don’t attempt to distract me,” he warned, turning the sketchbook upside down, as if looking at it from another angle might improve matters. “This is not a building, Cassandra. This is nothing but a rectangle with squares inside it.”
“Those aren’t squares, Marcus, they’re windows. The whole building is almost nothing but windows. And nearly all skyscrapers look like rectangles.”
He eyed her quizzically. “Where are the columns, the pediments, the buttresses, the domes? This is all so unremittingly plain, so ugly. And you call this progress?” He shook his head, throwing down the book.
Cassandra agreed with him, but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of admitting it. “Hey, you asked” was all she said as she took her seat in front of the desk.
“She’s right, you know, Marcus,” Aunt Cornelia said from the window seat. “I don’t know why you go on and on, day in, day out, about such unimportant matters. I haven’t given up my lifelong habit of staying abed until noon to hear about obese canaries. Now, if you ask me, Sally Jersey’s fate is much more to the point. My dear gel, can’t you recall what happened to her?”
Cassandra turned to look at the older woman, once more amazed by her erect posture and stern features, a façade of sophistication that, if she were to have been born in the twentieth century, would have hidden the heart of an avid reader of supermarket tabloids. “Sorry, Aunt Cornelia. All I can remember is that she once had an affair with your Regent, people called her ‘Silence’ because she talked all the time, and she was a patroness of Almack’s. Marcus,” she said, turning back to him in sudden anticipation, “will you be able to get me a voucher to Almack’s? I’d kill to see that place.”
“I doubt you will have to resort to bloodshed, my dear, as I do, for my sins, travel in the first circles,” Marcus answered, his tone so calm, so controlled, that Cassandra longed to jolt him into awareness of her by doing something totally outrageous. She settled for crossing her legs so that her ankle showed below her hem, a move she had already learned seemed to rob Marcus of some of his thirst for knowledge. It worked. Turning away, he said, “Cassandra, please,” as if this was sufficient to correct her wanton behavior. “I thought you had come to understand at least the rudiments of correct posture.”
“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.
Was the Regency Era a good time frame for romance novels? Yes. Yes! Oh, God, yes.
They made one more turn and came to a halt in front of Peregrine as the waltz ended. Noting the small, instructive inclination of his head, Cassandra took a step back and dropped into another curtsy as Marcus bowed over her hand. The quick, slight touch of his lips against her skin nearly sent her crashing inelegantly to the floor, almost unable to deal with such ecstasy and remain upright at the same time.
“Thank you, Perry.” She heard Marcus’s voice as if from a distance, then watched as Peregrine beat a hasty retreat from the room, looking for all the world as if he needed a good dose of fresh air. She could readily understand why. The atmosphere in the music room was full of tension, of electricity, perhaps even a hint of passion.
“Cassandra, that was—adequate. Quite good, actually. It’s a comfort to know that not all of our customs have fallen into disuse. Would you care to retire to your chamber for a rest before dinner?”
Retire? Leave? Go away? Allow this bubble of happiness to burst? Was he crazy? Was the man out of his mind?
“But—but, Marcus,” Cassandra said, stepping in front of him as he turned toward the door, “you said I could show you how we waltz in 1992, remember?”
“Vividly, Cassandra, vividly,” Marcus replied, the intensity of his tone doing wonders for her ego. “However, after viewing your earlier demonstration, I have concluded that anything you might show me would be a crushing disappointment. Therefore—”
Cassandra tipped her head to one side challengingly. She had him on the ropes now, and she wasn’t about to let him get away. He was attracted to her; she was sure of it. At least half as sure as she was that she was attracted to him. “Chickenhearted, Marcus?” she teased, employing his version of the age-old taunt. “Come on. What could it hurt?”
“We have no accompaniment,” he pointed out a moment later, and she knew she had won.
“We don’t need any,” she told him, taking his hand and leading him once more to the center of the room. “You can hum, can’t you? Now, let’s take up our positions.”
Marcus took a step back, prepared to bow, but she held out a hand, stopping him.
“No, you don’t have to do that. Let me explain. We are at a dance—I guess you’d call it a ball—and you have just seen me standing across the room. You don’t know who I am but you like the way I look, and when you catch my eye I smile at you—like this.” She tilted her head and smiled at him, exaggeratedly batting her eyelashes. “The music starts. You hotfoot it across the floor and ask me if I’d like to dance.”
“Without being properly introduced? Impossible!”
“Wrong. Very possible. Even probable, considering the fact that if people in New York waited for proper introductions the marriage and birth rate would both drop sixty percent. Now, you’ve asked me to dance and I’ve accepted. We walk onto the dance floor separately—after all, we don’t really know each other—and you turn to me. I walk into your arms.”
“I beg your pardon.” Marcus’s tone was frosty. Positively glacial. And his left eyebrow had nearly climbed to the top of his forehead “We enter the dance floor separately because you don’t know me and you walk into my arms?”
“Now you’ve got it,” Cassandra replied, enjoying herself more by the moment. “Here, I’ll show you. Start humming, Marcus.”
His frosty manner melted marginally and a twinkle entered his eyes, temporarily unnerving her. Maybe she wasn’t upsetting him as much as she had hoped. Maybe he was even beginning to enjoy himself. It was a daunting yet exhilarating thought.
“All right, here we go,” she said, stepping forward until she was standing chin to chest with him, close enough to smell his cologne or whatever it was he wore, close enough to feel his warm breath on her cheek, close enough to want to be even closer. Taking hold of his hands, she moved them forward, placing them, palms down, on her waist, then lifted her own hands and rested them on his shoulders as she laid her head against his lapel.
They stood that way, pressed together intimately from chest to knee, motionless, for several seconds.
“Marcus, you aren’t humming.”
His spread fingers moved slightly lower, burning into the soft flesh covering her spine just below her waist. “That, my dear girl,” he growled from somewhere above her left ear, “is merely your opinion.”
This small triumph made Cassandra even bolder, goading her on to further heights, further advances. “Now we move our feet, Marcus. One foot at a time, and slowly, like an old man shuffling along the sidewalk—the flagway. Two steps forward, two steps back. And hum.”
He did as she had instructed. Their bodies moved in unison, their proximity causing her to be increasingly aware of his body against hers, her thigh becoming more familiar with the intoxicating bulge of his manhood with each slow step of the dance. Instinctively seeking to be closer, she slid her arms up, up and around his neck, then leaned back, to look into his eyes.
He stopped humming.
“Like it, my lord? We call this slow dancing.”
He peered down at her, his chin crinkling endearingly as it collided with his high shirt collar, “I can think of other names for it,” he said, drawing her even closer into his arms.
They weren’t dancing anymore. They were just standing; simply standing. So why did she feel as if she were spinning in circles?
“Marcus?” Cassandra could hear her own heart beating in her ears. This wasn’t a game anymore, a ploy to make him notice her, a lighthearted flirtation to keep her mind off the fact that she was one very displaced person. “Marcus? I don’t know if I should bring this up, but we aren’t dancing anymore.”
“No, we’re not, are we? But no matter. I believe I understand the moves. However, as long as we are here, I have just thought of another little experiment we might try. Another comparison we might make between your time and mine.”
“Such as?” Cassandra was uneasy. When had the power slipped from her hands into his? His hands, that were so intimately pressed against her waist, holding her tight against him.
“Such as, my dear Miss Kelley—has lovemaking shifted in its application as well as its constraints? In short, has this Sexual Revolution you spoke of not so long ago incorporated anything new into the world of lovemaking? Or are the rudiments basically unchanged?”
Cassandra’s tongue pushed forward and moistened her suddenly dry lips. “I—I think they’re pretty much the same,” she said, hating herself for having suddenly lost her nineties air of sophistication and becoming a nervous, fumbling adolescent in the presence of—she suddenly decided—a master of the art of seduction. She should have known the marquess had not spent all his time studying. He was too handsome, for one thing. Women had probably been throwing themselves at him since he was twelve, for crying out loud. Oh, Lord, what were his hands doing now? She could feel his fingers moving, kneading, splaying themselves lower, cupping her buttocks. She stiffened. “Marcus?”
“Hmm?” he questioned, his tone absentminded, as if he were distracted, his attention centered elsewhere. Slowly he lowered his head, his eyes never leaving her face. “Since that first day, that first hour, I have wondered what it would be like to hold you, to kiss you. You possess such energy, Cassandra, such life, such spirit. Even when you are angry—especially when you are angry. You delight me even as my mind tells me that you could be very dangerous to my peace of mind, to my purpose in life.”
“Well, if you feel that way, Marcus, perhaps we’d better call this off now, before I corrupt you entirely.” Cassandra braced her hands against his upper arms, preparing to push him away.
He shook his head. “Too late, my dear. My intellectual curiosity has been aroused.”
Pressing her forehead against his chest, Cassandra muttered softly, “And that’s not all that’s been aroused.” She lifted her head once more still wondering why she was fighting him when she had been wanting this for weeks. Then she decided that she understood. “Marcus? You’re trying to scare me into behaving myself, aren’t you?”
“Perhaps. Am I succeeding?”
She looked at him a long time, admiring the way an errant lock of his coal black hair fell forward over his brow, drinking in the sculpted planes and angles of his handsome, smiling face, delighting in the mischievous twinkle that she saw in his eyes. She felt a smile tickle at the corners of her own mouth. Oh, what the hell. It didn’t matter why he was doing what he was doing. Just as long as he didn’t stop. “I don’t think so. Maybe you should try harder?”
“Why, Miss Kelley—what a splendid idea,” she heard him say just before he captured her mouth with his own.