The Kiss of a Stranger (21 page)

Chapter Twenty-three

“There must be a thousand people here,” Catherine whispered, staring in awe at the mass of humanity that stretched out beyond Crispin’s private box at the Theatre Royal.

“The Theatre holds just over three thousand,” Crispin said. “And I’d guess nearly every seat is taken tonight.”

“Good heavens.”

Three thousand people in one place. Until coming to London, a crowd of three hundred would have been all but impossible for her to imagine. The sight was so overwhelming she might not have trusted her legs to remain steady beneath her had she been standing.

She had yet to account for Crispin’s offer to bring her. He had quite obviously been avoiding her. Now that there was no question of their not seeking an annulment, she never saw him. Perhaps his affectionate behavior had been a futile attempt to force himself to care for her should they be required to remain wed.

“Now.” Crispin leaned closer. Catherine commanded her heart to remain calm. He had made his relief at their pending separation quite clear, and she must not misinterpret a moment of kindness as anything more than that. “Time for a tutorial on theater-going. Of the three thousand or so people here tonight, five or six might actually watch the production. The rest will watch the audience.”

“The audience?”

“The point of the theater is to see and be seen. Everyone will be on the lookout for fresh gossip.”

Catherine shuddered at the word. “I am heartily sick of gossip,” she muttered under her breath.

Crispin’s fingers wrapped around hers. Catherine kept very still. He pulled their entwined hands to his lips and softly kissed her gloved fingers. Why would he do such a thing?

“Yet another thing for which I must apologize.” Crispin spoke in a low whisper. Despite the dull roar of the enormous crowd, his every word reached her ears with amazing clarity. “I have been inexcusably inattentive.”

Catherine couldn’t pull her gaze from Crispin’s eyes. Their color never seemed the same from one moment to the next. Brown with varying flecks of gold and green. Sometimes dark as night. Other times the color of creamed coffee. Regardless of their hue, his eyes could be positively hypnotizing—ofttimes the only window into Crispin’s often shuttered feelings.

He smiled at her, lightly rubbing with his thumb the hand he held. She could almost believe, in that moment, that he cared for her beyond a desire to be civil. It was the gesture of an affectionate husband, not a man anxious to end his marriage. Yet he had jumped at her offer to walk away.

Crispin continued tracing a slow, lazy circle along the back of her hand. Catherine nearly snatched her hand away, too confused and overwhelmed to endure his touch. Why must he torture her like this?

The curtain rose, though the crowd did not quiet down at all. Catherine forced her gaze to the stage, attempting to ignore the tingle his touch sent up her arm. She’d longed for his reassuring presence the past two weeks. The temptation to lay her head on his shoulder was nearly too great to withstand. How perfectly natural it would feel at that moment to lean against him for the remainder of the night, to pretend he would always be with her.

“I understand from Mr. Brown that Mr. Jonquil has successfully stalled your uncle’s suit,” Crispin whispered in her ear, sending a shiver down her spine.

“It seems we chose the right course of action.” Only a Herculean effort kept her voice calm and steady.

“And it was your suggestion, if I recall. When Brown retires, I’ll have to hire you as his replacement.” Crispin’s breath tickled her ear. “You apparently have a remarkable legal mind.”

Catherine forced herself to take a breath despite the tension in her lungs. “Are you certain you can afford the outrageous fee I would require?” Catherine whispered. Somehow she managed a teasing tone.

“It is to be highway robbery, then?” Crispin leaned a little closer. Heaven help her, she would burst if he didn’t put a little distance between them.

“You, sir, are a hardened criminal.” The joking banter relieved a little of the tension building in her. “You know what they say about honor among thieves.”

“Could I, perhaps, pay you in fairy cakes?” Crispin slipped his arm around the back of her chair.

She pulled herself excruciatingly upright, desperate to keep his arm from brushing against her. She could not endure much more.

“That would require an awful lot of fairy cakes.” Did he hear the catch in her voice?

“Perhaps I could pay over time.”

“I rarely extend credit. You would have to be extremely trustworthy. Or my most important client.”

“And how does one become your most important client?” Crispin leaned closer, his breath rustling the strands of hair framing her face. She closed her eyes. “I could take you for a ride in Hyde Park. Ices at Gunter’s.” He kissed her cheek. “Dinner at Vauxhall Gardens.” Kissed her temple.

“You do all this with Mr. Brown?” Catherine tried to steady her breathing. Crispin’s nose still brushed the side of her face. “No wonder he’s so loyal.”

Crispin’s quiet, warm laughter reached her ears. She’d come to adore that laugh, rare as it was. His arm slipped across her back and she felt him gently squeeze her shoulders. He pulled her closer, so she had little choice but to lay her head against his obliging shoulder.

Catherine barely held back a sigh. She would allow herself this moment, though she knew it would make leaving that much harder. Years down the road, when she was little more than a vaguely familiar name amongst Crispin’s many acquaintances, Catherine would pull this moment to the forefront of her own thoughts and perhaps find some comfort in the recollection.

“You aren’t asleep already, are you?”

Catherine managed to shake her head slightly but didn’t open her eyes.

“The Prince Regent has arrived in his box,” Crispin whispered.

Catherine glanced across the theater, along with three thousand others. “Who is that with him?” She did not recognize a single soul who had arrived in the Prince’s company.

“Lord Alvanley is seated beside the prince,” Crispin said. “Beside him is Beau Brummell.”

The list continued and expanded beyond the Prince’s box. Crispin seemingly knew the entire Upper Ten-thousand. Such information would, undoubtedly, have transfixed the attention of any lady of the ton, but Catherine found she could hardly concentrate. Crispin kept his arm snuggly wrapped around her shoulders and caressed her hand as he spoke. Her heart would ache when he let her go, but she hadn’t the strength to pull away.

Heaven help her, she was in love with him. What she wouldn’t give to hear him say he loved her in return.

The first intermission arrived, and Catherine hadn’t watched a single minute of the play. She’d spent the first act memorizing everything about being held in his arms. When he broke that contact, her heart plummeted.

“Champagne, I believe.” Crispin rose to his feet.

“Champagne?”

“Tradition, my dear. One must have champagne at the theater.”

“I have never known you to drink champagne.”

“Special occasion,” Crispin explained with another trademark lopsided grin. “I shall return shortly,” he said with a brief bow and a wink.

Catherine pressed her hand to her thudding heart after he left. That organ would certainly never be the same again.

Footsteps sounded from the back of the box and Catherine spun around, expecting to see Crispin. Had he decided her company was preferable to obtaining refreshment? Instead, she came face-to-face with Miss Cynthia Bower.

“Lady Cavratt.” Why did Miss Bower always sound on the verge of laughter when she greeted Catherine?

“Miss Bower,” Catherine returned as civilly as possible. “To what do I owe this honor?”

Miss Bower gave her a very condescending look. “I am looking for Crispin.” She gave Catherine a look of utter contempt, as though her mere presence was an inconvenience.

“Lord Cavratt will return shortly. If you would rather not wait, I can tell him you were here.”

“I’ll wait.” Catherine did not at all trust the gleam in the lady’s eye.

Then came a voice she not only didn’t trust but couldn’t bear: Mr. Finley’s.

“Dear, dear Catherine,” he intoned, stepping to where she stood and reaching for her hand. Catherine slipped around and out of reach.

“Mr. Finley,” she replied, hoping her voice was as icy as she felt.

“I have brought you a restorative,” Finley said, a seductive glint in his eye.

“I am not in need of one.” She had been in need of a respite and was rather in need of a rescue at the moment.

“You most certainly are, having endured Cavratt’s company when you could have been enjoying mine.” Finley inched ever closer to her.

Miss Bower watched the entire scene, her expression indicative of equal parts disgust and triumph.

“A change of companions would do you good,” Finley said.

“Your leaving would do me far more good, Mr. Finley.”

“Afraid your husband will return?”

“Please leave.”

Finley opened his mouth to reply, but a third voice cut him off. “Ah, Finley. I thought I detected the faint smell of horse excrement.”

Philip! Thank heaven.
He entered the box, inspecting Finley through his quizzing glass.

“Lampton.” Finley spoke with no hint of warmth or congeniality. “Come to take advantage of an old friend?” Catherine didn’t like the way Finley emphasized “advantage.” Why did she get the feeling she’d just been insulted?

“On the contrary.” Philip smoothed the sleeve of his jacket. “This box seems to be the center of attention at the moment. I’ve come to be seen.”

Philip traipsed to the front of the box, leaned calculatingly casually against the high column, and fixed his eyes on Finley with a look of ennui.

“Useless fop,” Finley grumbled, eyeing Philip with utter contempt.

“This is quite a scene.” Crispin’s voice joined the jumble. He didn’t sound amused.

Catherine looked from Philip’s look of nonchalance to Finley’s glaring eyes to Crispin’s noticeably tensing jaw. Her eyes settled on Miss Bower’s look of triumph. She was enjoying this scene, wasn’t she? Catherine had stomached quite enough.

“You seem to have torn a flounce, Miss Bower.” Amazingly, she managed to infuse the lie with an aura of truthfulness. “Perhaps you should see to it lest someone suspect you’ve been misbehaving.”

Miss Bower flushed a blotchy red and offered a quickly muttered excuse before scurrying from the box. She would, of course, be quite put out when she realized her flounces were entirely intact. Catherine couldn’t care less.

“And you, Mr. Finley.” Catherine spun around to face the second intruder. “You may take your leave as well. I, as I have assured you, have no need for your offer nor any desire for your company.”

“Good show, Catherine.” Finley smiled at her.

“You will not use my Christian name, Mr. Finley.”

Much to her consternation, Mr. Finley stepped even closer, as though her words had actually been encouraging.

“Cavratt does not want you, love,” Finley whispered as he closed the distance between them. Catherine had no room to back away. “I do.”

Crispin appeared behind Finley. “You have quite overstayed your welcome, sir.” His hand clamped Finley’s shoulder. “You will be leaving now.”

“And the dandy?” Finley snapped his head in Philip’s direction. “You really think his intentions are honorable?”

Crispin shot Finley a look that should have leveled him.

“Keep your copy of tomorrow’s gossip sheet, Cavratt.” Finley made his way out of the box. “After this spectacle, it should prove an interesting read.”

Crispin’s gaze never left Finley as the man disappeared from view.

“Finley got his handful of fame,” Philip said, walking to where Crispin stood glaring at the back of the box.

“His intention, no doubt.” Crispin let out a tense breath. “Thank you for coming in after him. I couldn’t get through the crowd.”

“I would much rather make Finley uncomfortable than face the horde of rabid gossipers following you around hoping for a juicy tidbit.”

Crispin shook his head in obvious displeasure. “What a mess this all is.”

Catherine cringed at his words. She had tried to keep the situation under control. She’d sent Miss Bower packing, hadn’t she?

“I shall leave you to see to your lovely wife,” Philip said. He stopped a few steps short of leaving, turned back to the two of them, and offered one more bit of advice before leaving. “Give the tabbies something to claw each other over.”

Crispin picked up the two flutes of champagne he’d brought with him and held one out to Catherine.

“I don’t think I could,” Catherine protested. “My stomach is a bit unsettled as it is.”

“Finley has that effect on people.”

“I really did try to persuade him to leave,” Catherine said. “But he wouldn’t go.”

Crispin took a generous sip of bubbling wine. “He is rather like the plague, isn’t he?”

“Deadly. Painful. Putrid.” Catherine nodded. “An appropriate comparison.”

He smiled after another swallow. “
Putrid
? He would be mortified.”

“He ought to be mortified more often,” Catherine mumbled.

“Finley was right about one thing, though.” Crispin finished his glass—Catherine didn’t remember ever seeing him drink, let alone finish an entire glass so quickly. He must have truly been upset. “This will, I am afraid, further fuel the gossips.”

“Do you think anyone noticed?”

Crispin motioned with his head to the audience behind Catherine. She glanced covertly over her shoulder. An inordinate number of eyes were, indeed, focused on their box. She turned back to Crispin, closing her eyes to steady herself.

“What should we do?” she asked when she finally trusted herself to speak.

He didn’t answer for a moment. Catherine opened her eyes to find him watching her closely. “We have to convince them you weren’t inviting Finley’s attentions. Or Philip’s, for that matter.”

“I wasn’t.”

“I know,” Crispin stepped closer to her, setting his empty glass on an obliging table beside her still full one. “But
they
”—He eyed the theater beyond—“don’t know that.”