The Kiss of a Stranger (13 page)

“How long were you locked in?” Crispin’s jaw tensed, his hands balled up in fists.

“Thirteen months.”

“Over a year!” Crispin abruptly stood. “The bloody—” Crispin stopped himself midsentence. “And the imprisonment is what damaged your eyesight?”

“The doctor was unsure if the culprit was the prolonged lack of light or . . .” She truly hated talking about those experiences. “. . . or an injury I sustained very soon after I was permitted to leave my chamber.”

“An ‘injury’?” Crispin gave her a look far too searching for comfort. “Did your uncle have anything to do with this injury?”

Catherine did not answer—she could see she didn’t need to.

“I am surprised he had the decency to allow you to be seen by a doctor.”

“The servants paid for the doctor.” Catherine shifted, feeling herself redden—she never had been able to repay them for that kindness. “For a year they put aside what they could and when a doctor happened through the town, they arranged for him to see me in the kitchen. The local doctor would have told Uncle, and he would have been furious.”

“Bloody—” Crispin grumbled the same half statement. “Doing that to anyone, let alone a child who had just lost her father! His own niece, even!”

“I tried not to be a bother when he first came.” She wished Crispin would drop the subject.

“You were a child,” Crispin interjected. “What could he possibly have been punishing you for?”

“He never told me.” She’d spent a great deal of those thirteen months pondering what her grievous crime had been.

Crispin again sat on the ottoman. He took one of her hands in his. How different the grueling eight years she’d spent with her uncle would have been if Crispin had been with her. She’d needed the comfort his gentle touch offered.

“I didn’t mean to imply that you could have done
anything
to deserve being treated that way,” he said.

She understood that on an intellectual level, but deep inside the scars remained. A fleeting and uncharacteristically pleasant memory of those long months brought a hint of a smile to her face. “I used to imagine creeping around the house at night making otherworldly noises and frightening Uncle out of his wits, perhaps even enough to make him flee the house for good. I became very adept at moving around in the dark and could have easily managed it if the door had been unlocked. I drew a great deal of satisfaction from imagining his terror-filled face.”

Crispin squeezed her fingers. “Either you are the most forgiving person on the planet, or your imagination was sorely lacking in your younger years. I am afraid I would have thought of more dire forms of retaliation than merely frightening the cad.”

“I
did
devise the tea adulteration scheme,” Catherine reminded him. “Uncle certainly found that ordeal dire.”

“And I called that scheme of yours malicious.” Crispin shook his head. “Under the circumstances, you could have put arsenic in his tea, and it would not have been in the least uncalled for.”

She sighed, weary from the weight of unwelcome memories. “Life has not been easy with him.”

“Obviously, you don’t particularly want to talk about any of this. I shouldn’t have forced the topic on you.”

“Actually, it is something of a relief to finally talk about it,” Catherine admitted. “I’ve never felt there was anyone I could trust enough to . . .”

“I am honored to . . . be a friend,” Crispin finished awkwardly.

A friend. She valued his friendship likely more than he realized, but somehow the word felt bittersweet. She wanted more than that from this man who was anxious to be rid of her.

Crispin’s smile looked rather forced. He patted her hand before releasing it and taking a chair some distance from her own and spoke not another word the entire evening. Catherine spent the night jotting down names of individuals who might be interested in a companion or governess and trying to devise a means of covertly inquiring about employment. Which would be best, she wondered: a position near enough to afford the occasional glimpse of Crispin or one far enough removed to keep him but a distant memory?

Chapter Fifteen

Lizzie dragged her poor husband to Crispin’s sitting room the next morning in an attempt to further her plot regarding Catherine’s future with Crispin’s best friend. In response to his sister’s continued attachment to such an ill-conceived idea, Crispin quickly and conveniently related a very detailed accounting of every reason in existence that the two would not suit. Truth be known, he’d spent most of the previous night accumulating the list. He’d thought back on every childhood misdeed he and Philip had undertaken during their Eton years, conveniently leaving out his own involvement. He knew enough of his friend’s past to convince Philip’s mother to denounce him. Perhaps not quite that much, but certainly a sufficient amount to dissuade Lizzie.

“And Philip is a dandy of the worst sort.”

“I think you’re doing it a bit brown,” Edward said.

“I am not. He would make her a terrible husband.”

“He can’t possibly be worse than the husband she has now.” If Lizzie hadn’t been grinning just like an obnoxious younger sister would when ribbing her brother, Crispin might have given her a piece of his mind.

“Your plan is ridiculous,” Crispin said. “Her husband, who the gossips are convinced couldn’t possibly care less about her, is bandying her about to his friends as a possible wife. She would be married, unmarried, and remarried all in the course of a short few months. No amount of rank could save her reputation after that.”

“You do not know that for sure. And even if she lost some standing, at least Catherine would have someplace to turn in her time of need.”

Turn to Philip
?
And why couldn’t she turn to
me
?

“Philip is a good sort of fellow,” Edward said. “He would be good for her.”

“Et tu, Edward?”

The man had the audacity to grin, an expression that clearly covered a desire to laugh at him. “Is there some reason you object to Philip’s courting our sweet Catherine?”

The only reason he would admit to he voiced. “Catherine has already been forced into one marriage. I can’t feel good about wrangling her into another.”

“I am not suggesting you literally shackle her to him.” Lizzie rolled her eyes heavenward. “Merely introduce them and let nature run its course.”

“Perhaps if we introduced them in a garden,” Edward suggested.

“Perfect.” Lizzie clapped her hands together in obvious glee. “Philip could kiss her quite soundly and they’d be married in no time.”

“Are you two done?” Crispin had seldom been less amused.

“Everything will work out splendidly,” Lizzie said. “You’ll see.”

The library door opened and Catherine stepped inside. Her gaze settled on his face. Lud, she was crying. Crispin’s stomach twisted at the sight. What had happened? And why was he suddenly convinced he was at fault?

Seemingly oblivious to the others’ presence, Catherine rushed to where he stood near the fireplace and held out an opened letter. He didn’t recognize the handwriting. Indeed, he could hardly make it out. After much effort he deciphered the chicken scratch.

Niece,

Will arrive in London shortly. You will come to Hill Street upon receiving my card.

Thomas Thorndale

“He is coming to London?” Crispin repeated aloud.

Catherine nodded. Tears trickled down her face at an alarming rate. Crispin had never seen her cry this way, not making any attempt to hide her distress. His heart lurched at the sight.

“I don’t really have to go to Hill Street, do I?”

“Of course not.” Crispin reached out and gently touched her cheek, brushing away tears only to have them immediately replaced by newly shed drops.

Catherine closed her eyes. “He sounds angry. He is horrible when he’s angry.”

He thought immediately of a helpless thirteen-year-old girl locked in her room for over a year because that bounder had been angry. Crispin pulled her to him and wrapped his arms around her. “I won’t let him hurt you. I would never let him hurt you.”

Catherine laid her head on his shoulder, and he felt her hands clasp his lapels. There in his arms, she shuddered through sobs and what he imagined were years’ worth of anxious tears. She didn’t deserve the hand fate had dealt her—being held prisoner in her own home, enduring the violent temper of an insufferable man.

Crispin wished he could make it all disappear somehow. He’d whisk her away on his daring steed and hide her from society and her uncle. Just beyond Catherine, Lizzie and Edward silently slipped from the room.

There you have it, Lizzie.
I am perfectly capable of taking care of her. Philip can find his own wife.

Crispin kept Catherine enfolded in the relative safety of his arms and let her cry until her breathing steadied. She seemed calmer but didn’t pull away.

“Uncle always told me I wasn’t to allow myself to be emotional,” Catherine said softly.

“Nonsense.” Crispin stroked her hair. “You cry whenever you need to.”

“But I’ve completely rumpled your cravat.”

“The sole purpose of a cravat is for crying into.” Crispin felt a tremendous amount of satisfaction serving as a shoulder to cry on.

“Your valet will be furious with me.” Catherine fiddled with the drooping cravat, her head still resting on Crispin’s obliging shoulder.

“My valet likes you better than he likes me,” Crispin said, sighing as though he were pained by the admission.

“Your entire staff likes me better than you.”

He chuckled and held her tighter. Crispin resisted the unexpected urge to kiss the top of her head. Catherine had the strangest effect on him, bringing out a side of him he didn’t even know existed. He smiled more and actually laughed. He had felt protective of Lizzie but not to the degree he did with Catherine. It was simply chivalry, he decided. After all, Catherine needed someone to stand up for her in the face of her uncle’s return.

“Maybe we should invite your uncle to join us here on an evening when Lizzie and Edward will be present. That would certainly dispense any obligation you might have to see him.”

“But I do have to see him?”

“I doubt you could completely avoid him.”

“But I wouldn’t be alone?” Catherine stepped back a bit and looked up into his face.

Crispin found the added distance a blessing, though he could not bring himself to completely release her. He was merely being compassionate, of course.

“Perhaps he doesn’t mean to stay in Town long,” Catherine said.

“I am certain he won’t be in London long.” He was certain of no such thing but would have said almost anything to put her at ease. His baseless reassurances seemed to work—she looked immediately relieved.

“And I won’t have to see him alone?”

Crispin shook his head.

“Thank you, Crispin.” She rose on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. A flattering tinge of pink touched her cheeks as she turned and slipped from the room.

Crispin let out a long, deep breath, shaking off the tingling he felt clear to his feet. She had managed to get under his skin. He worried about her. He wondered about her. And he had no idea what to do about her.

Chapter Sixteen

With complete and utter horror, Catherine watched the familiar figure of her uncle take the steps of Permount House five days after his letter had arrived. He took his time ascending. From the sitting room window Catherine watched him assess the Grosvenor Square residence she’d come to think of as her sanctuary. Her heart pounded desperately in her ribs. She felt instantly sick to her stomach.

Crispin had gone with Edward to Tattersall’s, and she would, in fact, be forced to face her uncle alone.

She held her breath as she listened: a knock, the opening of the front door, a muffled conversation, and the approach of footsteps. Catherine’s legs shook beneath her. The sitting room doors slowly opened and Hancock stepped inside. A fleeting look of concern crossed the well-trained butler’s face before he resumed the more appropriate look of impassivity.

“Mr. Thomas Thorndale,” Hancock announced then stepped aside to let the visitor in.

Uncle stomped into the room every bit the perpetually angered man Catherine remembered. Nothing about him had changed in the short weeks they’d been apart, though Catherine felt completely different. She’d found people she could trust, had experienced moments of pleasure and enjoyment. She’d stood up for herself and had received genuine compliments. But the moment her uncle’s eyes settled on her, Catherine felt every ounce of courage disappear.

“Put on airs, have you?” Uncle scowled at her.

Catherine kept silent. Her uncle far preferred her that way.

“If that husband of yours expects me to foot the bill for those fancy clothes you’ve dressed yourself in once he’s rid himself of you, he is sorely mistaken.”

Catherine turned to the doorway where Hancock was, uncharacteristically, still standing. “T-Tea, p-p-please,” she requested.

“Of course, my lady,” Hancock answered with a deep bow and stepped out to fulfill the request.

“You knew I was coming to London,” Uncle growled.

Catherine didn’t respond, verbally or otherwise. That, apparently, was enough confirmation for him.

“Yet you did not come to Hill Street as I told you to, ungrateful wench!” he spat. “How dare you ignore your betters!”

“I am sorry,” Catherine whispered.

“When I want you to speak, I will tell you so.”

Catherine nodded. Uncle circled the room, stopping to thoroughly evaluate the more exquisite furnishings and decorations. Catherine stood stock-still, not daring to move without express permission.

Uncle’s eyes settled on her once more, his dissatisfaction quite obvious. “Keeping you around for a bit, is he?” He raked her with his eyes. “Obviously you’ve married a man with very low standards.”

Catherine waited for him to continue his diatribe. Weeks away from her uncle had done nothing to erase her vivid memory of how their encounters always played out.

A young maid set a well-appointed tea tray on a table before bowing herself out of the room. Catherine took up the task of pouring in order to steady herself. She knew precisely what Uncle’s preferences for tea were: sugar, no cream. She noticed as she poured that Cook had provided her famous fairy cakes, and suddenly Catherine missed Crispin terribly.

They would have exchanged knowing looks over the pastry. Crispin would have pretended to inspect his teacup. He would have smiled and perhaps even laughed. She would likely miss him every minute of every day for the rest of her life after they parted ways.

She allowed her thoughts to wander to Crispin and the distraction had disastrous results. Catherine over-poured, scalding liquid spilling over the teacup. Suddenly realizing her mistake, Catherine panicked and allowed her hand to slip beneath the scalding liquid. The pain caused her to momentarily lose her grip on the teakettle. She caught it before a monumental disaster ensued but not in time to save the teacup from shattering beneath it.

“You are useless.” Uncle walked toward the window as if inconvenienced by her pain.

Catherine attempted to clean up the mess she had created, wincing as her burned fingers throbbed.

Hancock appeared at her side. “Allow me, my lady,” he said, quickly cleaning the mess. A moment later a maid came as well and carried the ruined tea from the room.

“Your fingers appear burned,” Hancock said in a low voice, his eyes darting between Catherine and her uncle.

“I will see to it later.” If she left, Uncle would only grow angrier than he already appeared to be.

“It seems painful.”

Catherine tried to convey with a look the necessity of her remaining. Hancock bowed, looked one more time at Catherine’s uncle, then left the room.

“I won’t be paying for that cup, either.” Uncle still watched the street through the window.

Her fingers grew steadily more painful. She tried to cool them off.

“Stop that ridiculous blowing.”

“My fingers hurt.”

“No more than you deserve.” Uncle turned back toward her, his look one of pure disgust. “Come here, brat.”

Catherine took two faltering steps, knowing she would be punished if she disobeyed. Uncle glared down at her. She could not force herself to close the remaining distance. He stepped forward, his massive hands taking hold of her upper arms and yanking her closer.

“You listen to me,” Uncle snarled. “No matter the title you’ve gotten attached to your name, no matter the money and airs you think you’ve claim to, I know you’re no better than the feather-headed wench you always were. You see to it you remember your place.”

His painful grip dug into her arms.

“I won’t hesitate to knock you back where you belong. Am I understood?”

Catherine nodded anxiously, praying he would release her. Her hand throbbed, her arms ached, and she had to desperately fight the feeling she was about to cry. Uncle would beat her black and blue over a single tear—he certainly had before.

“Mr. Thorndale,” an angry voice said from the doorway.

Uncle gave Catherine one more intense look before releasing her arms and condescending to glance across the room at the most recent entrant. Catherine didn’t need to look. She’d have known Crispin’s voice anywhere.

Every fiber of her wanted to run to him, wanted to feel the increasingly familiar security she’d found in him, but she didn’t dare risk incurring Uncle’s wrath.

“Lord Cavratt.” Uncle didn’t even attempt to appear deferent.

“I see you’ve arrived in Town,” Crispin said. “I trust your journey was uneventful.”

“Quite.”

Crispin reached her side. Relief poured over her. He took hold of her hand, and she pulled back at the surge of pain. He immediately let go.

“What happened to your hand?” he whispered.

Catherine just shook her head.

“Did he—”

“No.”

“What brings you to Town, Mr. Thorndale?” Crispin asked, slipping his arm around her waist, holding her against his side.

“For one thing, I decided to learn what had become of my niece, since she doesn’t feel the need to write to the only family she has.”

Catherine leaned against Crispin. He wouldn’t allow her uncle to hurt her. The skin of her hand turned ever redder, pain pulsating through it. Still, she felt better.

“I hope you have found her well,” Crispin said.

“She is much changed.”

“And are you in Town for long?”

Catherine found the courage to look up at her uncle again. She hoped his time in London would be quite short.

“My plans are still unsettled,” Uncle answered.

“Perhaps you would like to join us for dinner while you are in London.”

Catherine held her breath. Uncle at Permount House again? She could endure it, she told herself.

“Fine. I’ll be here tonight.”

A heavy silence followed. Uncle’s high-handedness must have shocked Crispin. A person didn’t invite himself to dinner, it simply wasn’t done.

“Eight o’clock,” Crispin finally said. “My sister and her husband, Lord and Lady Henley, will be here as well.”

Uncle sniffed, obviously unimpressed. Without a proper take-leave, he stomped from the room and left.

Even before the sound of the front door closing echoed in the room, Crispin turned toward her. “What happened to your hand?” He tilted her chin up and looked in her eyes. Catherine flinched; there was something bordering on anger in his eyes. “Did he hurt you?”

She shook her head. “I dropped the teakettle and burned myself. He makes me nervous.”

“I should have been here.”

Catherine’s breath shuddered out of her. She always trembled after an encounter with her uncle, a delayed reaction to the tension his presence created. She wrapped her arms around herself in an attempt to ward off the chill that seeped into her.

Crispin gently brushed an escaped hair from her face. His look was infinitely gentle, and she simply melted against him.

“I am sorry, Catherine,” he said, holding her as he had the day Uncle’s letter arrived. “You should not have had to face him alone.”

She knew she must learn to survive on her own, but in that moment she needed the strength he lent her.

* * *

Mr. Thorndale arrived at precisely eight o’clock that night. With some effort Crispin kept his fists unclenched. Although Catherine hadn’t said anything, Crispin knew Thorndale had done something to her.

Crispin glanced across the room at her. She stood in the shadows, her head lowered. He hadn’t heard a word from her since that afternoon. He could
feel
the vibrant lady he’d come to know slipping away. Crispin could throttle Thorndale for the fear he brought into Catherine’s eyes.

“Lord Cavratt.” Thorndale offered a short bow.

“Mr. Thorndale.” Crispin tried to hide his anger. “Allow me to introduce Lord and Lady Henley. Edward, Elizabeth, this is Mr. Thomas Thorndale of Herefordshire.”

The expected bows and curtsies were exchanged.

“Dinner is served,” Hancock announced.

Crispin repressed a smile. He’d specifically instructed Hancock to announce the evening meal before Thorndale had any opportunity to create havoc. Hancock had obviously taken his instructions to heart.

“Catherine, dear.” Crispin turned toward her and held out his hand.

She looked up at him, the first time in hours she had looked directly into his eyes. He smiled encouragingly. Catherine’s gaze shifted to her uncle. She seemed to debate for a moment before walking to where Crispin still stood waiting for her. She didn’t slip her hand in his as he’d hoped, but her gaze had returned to his face, anxiety written in every inch of it.

“Uncle always precedes me into meals.”

Crispin matched her whisper, but with firmness. “Not in this house.”

He slipped her arm around his own and began the procession into the dining room. Crispin noticed with satisfaction that since Edward accompanied his wife, Thorndale walked alone in to dinner. It was socially unacceptable. Crispin could not have cared less. Thorndale, with any luck, would turn tail and run before the end of the night. Then—Crispin smiled at the thought—he’d have his Catherine back.

There it was again:
his
Catherine. This possessiveness wasn’t at all like him.

Propriety required that Catherine be seated at the foot of the table and Crispin at the head. He would have greatly preferred to keep Catherine at his side. However, the more formal seating arrangement clearly indicated Catherine’s position and importance in his home, something Thorndale needed to understand.

“How long were you guardian to our dear Catherine?” Crispin heard Lizzie ask Thorndale several minutes into the meal.

Crispin smiled at the endearment. Lizzie wasn’t backing down from this undeclared war.

“My brother died eight years ago.”

“Your brother was her father, then?” Lizzie somehow managed to look and sound pleasantly curious when Crispin knew she fully intended to draw blood. “And her mother had passed on then also, I assume.”

Thorndale grunted an affirmative as he swallowed a generous mouthful of fish. “Died seven or so years before her husband. Left the worthless girl on my hands.”

It was the outside of enough. To insult a lady in her own house! Crispin opened his mouth to firmly set Thorndale in his place, but a fleeting look from Lizzie told him not to.

“How fortunate for Catherine that you took her in.” An almost undetectable look of scrutiny entered Lizzie’s eyes.

“Didn’t have a choice,” Thorndale grumbled. “The will stipulated it.”

“That does happen sometimes,” Edward observed dryly.

“George was an imbecile.” Thorndale continued stabbing at his meal, oblivious to the censure that had settled around the room. “Most ridiculous will I’d ever seen. Challenged it, of course, but it couldn’t be broken. Wasted an entire year with worthless solicitors.”

The year Catherine spent locked in her room, no doubt.

Dinner conversation moved to remarkably neutral topics and remained so through the rest of the meal. Crispin continually glanced at Catherine. She didn’t participate in the conversation around her. Her gaze remained firmly locked on her plate, though she did little more than push her food around.

“What brings you to London, Thorndale?” Edward asked after the ladies had left for the music room, leaving the gentlemen to their port.

Thorndale took a generous swallow. “Business with my solicitor.”

“Bothersome profession,” Edward grumbled. Crispin watched him look away from Thorndale. Crispin knew Edward had no such dissatisfaction with solicitors. He too, it seemed, was fishing for information.

“I generally ignore the infuriating man,” Thorndale said.

“Must have seemed worth the effort this time.” Edward gave Crispin a conspiratorial glance.

“Seems the man only just learned of some complication with my late brother’s estate.” Thorndale looked thoroughly annoyed. “Had to come to Town to ensure he got it right. He’d have given away a blasted fortune if I hadn’t stepped in.”

“I hope you completed your business to your satisfaction,” Edward said.

“Not yet. Soon.”

Crispin digested this bit of information as well as the momentary look of triumph Edward shot in his direction. That, then, had been the purpose of Edward’s strangely friendly conversation with the man they’d all agreed they disliked. Thorndale didn’t intend to stay in London long. Of course, the length of his residency depended on the nature of the problem with his brother’s estate. Did the complication involve Catherine? Surely Brown would have come across any significant problems. Still, it might warrant looking into.