The Kiss of a Stranger (15 page)

“You seem to have everything figured out.” Her detached tone widened the chasm he felt growing between them.

“I am trying to help,” he said. Why did her simple statement make him feel so blasted guilty? He’d gone above and beyond his duty in looking after her future. He’d delayed and debated against the most convenient course of action for himself out of concern for her. “Did you think I would throw you out on the street?” Her unspoken accusation stung.

“My own uncle did.”

Now she was comparing him with Thorndale? Crispin leaned against the mantel, clenching his teeth in frustration. Thorndale! Did she truly think him as horrible as that man? Weeks of debate and worry and she thought him no better than her skinflint, heartless uncle. “Yes, except I am throwing you out with a small fortune to live on, gentleman that I am.” The sarcasm was beneath him, but he’d never been particularly good at enduring misjudgment.

Silence hung heavy between them. She offered no smashing rejoinder or set-down, as Lizzie or Edward or Philip would have done. They did not put up with his cynicism.

“If you would please let me know when you have more details about this inheritance, I would appreciate it,” she said with surprising authority. “I will endeavor to set my affairs in order as quickly as possible.”

She thought he was pushing her out the door? Crispin turned back toward Catherine. She’d allowed her blanket to remain on the sofa. Deep blue bruises shaped suspiciously like thick fingers marred her arms. The bruise on her face had darkened just in the few minutes since Crispin had discovered her injuries. And yet she wasn’t falling apart. Catherine seemed suddenly collected and dignified. She held her chin up and looked directly at him.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she maintained her almost-confident demeanor, though a tear slid down her cheek, “I am not feeling well.”

Catherine walked quickly to the door leading to her bedchamber and slipped inside, closing the door behind her. Crispin heard it lock.

He crossed the room. “Catherine,” he said through the door. “I . . . uh . . .” What was he supposed to say?
I am not a complete cad
? Or,
I’m not actually throwing you out
? Perhaps
I’m sorry
. Though he wasn’t entirely sure what he’d be apologizing for, except that she seemed upset and he’d been a little too cynical.

He ran his fingers through his usually tidy hair and let out a long breath. If Catherine really was in favor of an annulment, he ought to be grateful. Shouldn’t he be? That solved his dilemma. But he still felt unsure. She didn’t seem precisely overjoyed at her future. Was she uncertain as well?

Crispin stepped away from the silent door, his mind spinning. His indecision wasn’t fair to either of them. Mr. Brown would have details on Catherine’s inheritance soon, and Crispin vowed he would come to a decision immediately thereafter. No more debate, no more delays. One way or another, they would know what their future held.

Chapter Eighteen

Forty-eight hours had passed since Thorndale’s visit, and Crispin had yet to see a glimpse of Catherine. She hadn’t come down for dinner the night of Thorndale’s forced departure and had bowed out of the evening’s entertainment—a trip to the opera—claiming she did not feel well enough to attend. Crispin hadn’t been alarmed, not really. She’d been upset and understandably so. Thorndale’s visit could not have been an easy one to endure nor forget.

When she didn’t appear at any meals over the next two days and firmly, through her abigail, declared herself not at home to visitors, Crispin began to wonder if Catherine might really be unwell and not simply overwrought.

“She has been a touch feverish,” Jane confirmed a couple hours before Lizzie, Edward, and Philip Jonquil, the Earl of Lampton, were due to join them for a dinner en famile. Crispin had sent for Jane, wanting to know what he couldn’t seem to find out for himself. Catherine didn’t reply when he spoke to her through the door, and he didn’t feel at liberty to simply enter, despite her being his wife and Permount being
his
house.

“Should I send for a doctor?”

“It will pass,” Jane said. “It always does.”

“Is she sick often?” Crispin hadn’t guessed Catherine had a weak constitution. She seemed fit enough.

“After a harsh”—Jane seemed to search for the right word—“punishment, she sometimes isn’t well. Fevers ’n’ such. The doctor from Bath what checked on her now and again said it was nerves. Bein’ frightened and all.”

“She really has been ill?” Crispin moved toward the door of the library, intending to go directly to Catherine to check her condition himself. “Why wasn’t I told?”

“She said to not say nothin’, my lord. Said you wouldn’t appreciate the bother.”

Crispin turned back toward Jane.
The bother?
Catherine’s well-being had never been a bother. It was an absolute essential! “Will you please inform me in the future whenever Lady Cavratt is unwell? Whether or not she thinks I would care to know?”

“O’ course, my lord.” Jane curtsied. Crispin thought he saw the momentary flash of a pleased smile.

“Will she be joining us for dinner this evening?” Crispin asked before Jane could slip from the room.

“She hasn’t decided yet, my lord.”

Crispin nodded his acknowledgment and the abigail left. Catherine’s refusal to confide in him bothered Crispin more than he cared to admit. Their marriage really was little more than an overblown misunderstanding, and yet it troubled him enormously that his own wife didn’t trust him. Or perhaps she didn’t think he cared.

In fact, he’d spent the past two days debating what precisely he ought to do about the situation with Thorndale and Catherine. He’d been sorely tempted to hunt Thorndale down and plant him a facer or two . . . or ten. He’d very nearly done just that, but something nagged at him. While he wouldn’t let Thorndale inside Permount House again, he knew he couldn’t be everywhere with Catherine, and the possibility existed that Thorndale would take any revenge he sought for Crispin’s retaliation out on her. She’d been so adamant the night Thorndale had dined with them that Crispin not cause trouble. She’d insisted it would make Thorndale angry. The very next morning that anger had been directed at Catherine.

Rather than undertake a very cathartic rampage at Thorndale’s residence, Crispin had spent his time wondering if Catherine was angry with him or disappointed or simply ready to be rid of him. They hadn’t parted on the best of terms and it bothered him tremendously. Knowing she’d kept to her rooms because she wasn’t well, he worried ever more. Crispin wasn’t accustomed to worrying about people.

Blast it all, someone should have told him his wife was ill! He could have sent for a doctor or seen to her comfort. She at least would have realized he wasn’t entirely heartless. She might only be in his house a short while longer, but he did not want her to be miserable.

An idea struck a moment later that brought a smile to Crispin’s usually somber face.

* * *

The young maid curtsied and scurried from the room, leaving Catherine completely at a loss. The package that had apparently come for her didn’t appear to have been posted. In fact, the only direction written on it was simply “Catherine” in decidedly masculine writing. Catherine pulled at the strings, allowing them to fall loosely to the tabletop.

Mere minutes remained before she needed to be downstairs for their family dinner. She had already dressed. Her coiffure was complete. The maid from below stairs had entered with the mysterious bundle only moments before Catherine had intended to leave her rooms. She’d checked the looking glass one more time, hoping Jane’s now-perfected formula for minimizing and covering bruises had worked well enough to make her presentable.

Her face she deemed passable. Her arms were another story entirely. She simply hoped her long gloves would cover the bruises enough.

Curiosity overcoming her, Catherine peeled back the parcel paper. A folded piece of paper lay on top of something wrapped in silver tissue. What could it possibly be? Catherine pulled her reading glasses from the bedside table, took the folded paper in her hands, and read.

My dear Catherine,

Please accept this as penance for one of the many crimes of which I stand, sadly, guilty. This being the most heinous—a hanging offense, I am told—it is the one for which I wish to first begin making restitution.

I hope you will be a merciful magistrate and not sentence me to anything too severe. My valet would not begrudge me a tear-stained cravat, but he would most certainly resign should my neck wear accompany me on a long incarceration.

I sincerely hope you are feeling recovered enough to join us this evening, as I am convinced not one of our party is coming for my sake, criminal that I am.

Repentantly Yours, etc.

Crispin

Catherine reread the note twice.
Recompense for his criminal activities?

She pulled back the silver tissue paper. The package smelled of sugar. All the more curious, Catherine quickly pulled back the last layer of tissue. A single, perfectly round fairy cake sat centered on a porcelain tea saucer. Catherine stared for a fraction of a moment before understanding dawned.

He was, for the first time, referencing the lighthearted, wonderful morning they’d spent laughing over tea cakes and acts of treason.

Catherine refolded the note and held it for a moment pressed to her heart. A smile spread across her face. She read Crispin’s note one more time. “My dear Catherine,” he had written.
Dear
Catherine.

He didn’t seem upset with her. She’d worried about that. He’d certainly been short with her the day of Uncle’s visit. She hadn’t been particularly pleased with him, either. Her heart had sunk at his admission that he was getting closer to finalizing the annulment. Until that moment, she’d held some hope that he would change his mind. She liked him—more than liked him, though she wouldn’t allow herself to confess to more than that. She had wanted him to comfort her after the encounter with her uncle, to commend her for the show of backbone, despite its less than pleasing consequences. Instead he’d callously declared his intention to throw her out. The rejection had proven too much for her.

Perhaps, she thought, her mind replaying the tone of Crispin’s note, he regretted the argument as well. She looked back at the fairy cake, something which only they would have found humorous, a piece of lighthearted banter that was theirs alone. He couldn’t be so entirely indifferent to her, could he?

She needed to see him, to try to decide what he thought of her,
if
he thought of her. But she could not bring herself to do so with witnesses. Should he so thoroughly reject her again . . .

Catherine hurried to the door in her dressing room that connected with his and knocked. Would he be in his rooms still? He might not appreciate the intrusion into his private space. But, she told herself, she wouldn’t stay long.

She turned the handle, opened the door, and stepped across the threshold into uncharted territory. No one stood in the dressing room. She passed into the bedchamber beyond. Her rooms and these adjoined one another but had very little in common. Her own bedchamber was decorated in light, pale colors. Crispin’s was paneled in deep cherrywood, the floors covered in rich carpets of deepest blue. The room even smelled different: like sandalwood, like Crispin.

He stood framed by the doorway to his own sitting room, watching her approach with obvious curiosity and a look of confusion that bordered on alarm. “Hello, Catherine.”

“May I come in?” she asked, uncertain.

“Of course.”

“I received your parcel,” she said.

A hint of a smile touched his face. “And have you come to absolve me of my crimes?”

“You, sir, owe me an inordinate number of fairy cakes.” Relief surged through her. He was in a teasing mood. She loved that side of him. “One will hardly acquit you.”

A corner of Crispin’s mouth quirked a touch higher than the other, his eyes sparkling the way they had the first time she’d accused him of pastry thievery.

“I suppose I shall have to send you another tomorrow, then.” Crispin shrugged, looking every bit the unrepentant rake.

“Bribing a judge is criminal, you realize.”

“Hopeless, aren’t I? Of course, I will probably steal another cake at tea tomorrow, which should negate the bribe entirely.”

“Perhaps
I
should throw
you
in the fountain.”

“That is a harsh sentence, my dear.” Crispin chuckled.
My dear.
Catherine thoroughly enjoyed the way that sounded. “Can you not be lenient?”

Catherine waved him off in a display of mock disfavor. “’Tis no worse than you deserve.”

“My mother would have been disappointed to know she raised such a hardened criminal.” Crispin sighed dramatically. “But then she introduced me to fairy cakes in the first place.”

“Then perhaps she is to blame.” Catherine tapped her lip with her finger as if deeply considering the possibility.

Crispin stepped closer. He took her hand in his, pulling it away from her mouth. “Best not do that, dear.”

Tap her lips?
Why ever not?

Both of Crispin’s hands encircled her one. “A less scrupulous gentleman than me might be unable to resist the temptation.”

“What temptation?”

He didn’t answer, his gaze seemingly riveted to her mouth. Catherine’s heart flipped inside her. Suddenly her lungs refused to take in a full breath.

“We . . .” Crispin looked away, but his eyes wandered back to her lips once more. He cleared his throat. He released her hand but didn’t step back. “We should probably go down to dinner.” His gaze locked with hers, some unidentifiable emotion in his eyes.

She couldn’t fight the impulse that seized her in that moment. Catherine closed the distance between them, rose up on her toes and kissed his cheek. She paused only a moment to take in the scent of him before stepping back once more. She felt a blush creep up her cheeks but did not regret the gesture.

“Do you usually kiss gentlemen after threatening to toss them in a fountain?” Crispin seemed to be attempting a light tone, but the intensity in his gaze had increased.

“I’ve never kissed anyone but you.” She hadn’t intended to make such a personal confession. Catherine bit down on her lip, waiting for his reaction.

His eyes returned to her mouth, though he pulled his gaze away almost immediately. Crispin closed his eyes a moment.

Catherine’s heart pounded hard in her chest. She still couldn’t seem to pull in a full breath.

“Catherine.” He didn’t open his eyes.

“Crispin?”

He almost looked in pain. Crispin ran his hand across his face, a tense breath breaking the silence between them.

“Crispin?”

He finally looked at her again, something like worry creasing his brow. “What are you doing to me?” His words were muttered, barely discernible.

“I . . . don’t understand.”

Crispin laughed humorlessly and opened his eyes once more. “Neither do I.” He shook his head and looked evermore frustrated. “Perhaps we should go down to dinner.”

Had she upset him? Only a moment earlier he’d seemed pleased with her company. Why must he be so confusing?

Crispin slipped her arm through his and led her out of his rooms. His demeanor hadn’t become cold, precisely, but distant. “I wish you had told me you were ill,” Crispin said as they made their way down the corridor.

“I didn’t want to bother you.”And she’d been afraid he wouldn’t care. She could not have endured more rejection.

“For future reference”—He seemed to pull her arm more snugly inside his own—“I do not consider your well-being a bother.”

The comment surprised her enough to glance up at him. His expression was closed and unreadable, but she could have sworn he walked a little closer to her than he had a moment earlier.

How she wished she knew him well enough to understand how to interpret his contradictory actions. Even more, she wished he planned to keep her around long enough for her to figure him out.