The Kiss of a Stranger (8 page)

“Is it common for a gentleman to escort in to supper a lady to whom he is not married?” Catherine asked in a distressed whisper.

“That depends very much on the gentleman.” Crispin’s eyes burned a hole in Finley’s retreating back. “And on the lady.” He could think of a few who would undoubtedly enjoy Finley’s company regardless of their marital status.

“And on the husband?” Catherine asked, her words laced with a hint of teasing he’d recognized from earlier that night.

“
Your
husband would never agree to such a thing.” Crispin tried to match her tone but found himself entirely too serious. He would never have allowed another man to escort his wife anywhere. Catherine, of course, only fell into that category technically.

“Were the roles reversed,” Catherine said, “would you allow a lady, other than your wife, to hang on your arm?”

Catherine sounded very nearly jealous.

Crispin distinctly liked the possibility.

Chapter Eight

Catherine sent countless silent prayers of gratitude heavenward during their meal. Crispin was seated beside her, which relieved her mind enormously. Lizzie had spent most of the previous day explaining the expectations of a dinner party among the ton and even ventured to practice with her over a private tea in Catherine’s sitting area. Without their combined efforts, Catherine would have made fools of them all.

“How long have you known your lovely wife, Lord Cavratt?” Lord Hardford asked, though his eyes were on Catherine.

A shiver of panic slid down Catherine’s spine. How would Crispin explain this?
Three, four days. I kissed her quite scandalously in a garden and was forced to bring her home with me.
Surely he could think of something less humiliating to say.

“It feels as though a lifetime has passed since I first saw her, Lord Hardford,” Crispin answered rather convincingly. “And yet the time has passed so quickly it seems only days.”

Catherine bit back a smile. He’d managed to produce the perfect explanation.

“A lovely sentiment, to be sure.” An ebony-haired lady across the table gazed at Crispin through her lowered lashes. Catherine couldn’t say why, but she instantly disliked the lady.

“Where did you two first meet?” the viscount asked.

“In a garden, beside a late-season bloom of hyacinths.”

Catherine was surprised to hear Crispin had noted the flowers. They were, of course, the reason she’d stopped—they’d been so immensely fragrant. She hadn’t expected Crispin to notice them.

“I certainly hope you plucked one for her,” their host said. “Women are forever wishing for flowers.”

“I confess I had not the foresight,” Crispin replied.

“Too overwhelmed by the beauty of the lady to note the beauty of the flowers.” This compliment had come from Mr. Finley, she believed his name to be. Catherine avoided his gaze—something about the gentleman made her uneasy.

Crispin grew sullenly quiet beside her.

Had she done something wrong? She’d kept her facial expression neutral while doing her utmost to appear contentedly disposed. She’d eaten with delicate manners and had offered her attention to those speaking around her. She knew she hadn’t said anything to discredit herself or Crispin. In fact, she hadn’t said a word since the meal began.

Perhaps that was where she’d erred. Lizzie hadn’t thought her reticence would give offense, so long as she didn’t refuse to speak when spoken to. Not a soul had spoken to her, though, and she hadn’t felt obligated to join in the conversations around her.

“What part of the kingdom do you hail from, Lady Cavratt?” the ebony-haired woman asked.

“From Herefordshire.” Catherine spoke with as much self-possession as she could feign.

“Indeed?” The lady raised an eyebrow. Apparently Catherine hailed from the wrong part of the kingdom.

The lady turned to Crispin with the same eyebrow arched in a strangely amused display. “And you met her in Herefordshire, my lord?”

“As a matter of fact, I did not, Miss Glafford.”

“Have you been to Town often, Lady Cavratt?” A heavy dose of condescension accompanied the question.

“Not very often, Miss Glafford,” Catherine answered, managing to sound unaffected. “Herefordshire is a considerable distance from London, as I’m sure you are aware.”

“It borders Wales, I believe.” Miss Glafford sounded quite repulsed.

She apparently disapproved of Wales—the feeling was, no doubt, mutual. “Bordering Wales is a rather demanding job, I suppose, but someone must undertake it,” Catherine said with forced indifference. “Herefordshire manages it quite well, I daresay.”

Somewhere along the table someone snickered. Catherine held back a pleased smile. She could see by the annoyed expression on Miss Glafford’s face that the remark had not been appreciated in that quarter. She probably thought Catherine would crumble under her scrutiny.

“I understand you have taken a new French chef,” Crispin abruptly said to the viscount, a hint of anxiety in his otherwise calm voice.

Catherine glanced at him. Had her pointed response to Miss Glafford been a misstep? Lizzie had told her to be gracious and civil. She hadn’t gone beyond those bounds, had she?

“Is this not the finest crème brûlée you have ever tasted, Lady Cavratt?”

Catherine recognized Miss Glafford’s voice and she willed herself to reply evenly. “It is delightful.” She offered the compliment to Lord Hardford, the viscountess being at the far end of the table, hoping that was the appropriate course despite the inquiry having come from Miss Glafford.

“You are a connoisseur of fine food, then?” Miss Glafford’s look of pretended innocence marked her comment as a backhanded insult.

“I do not profess to be.”

“Does she do herself an injustice, Lord Cavratt?” Miss Glafford turned to Crispin. “Or is her palate more discerning than she will admit?”

Catherine hated that Miss Glafford had discovered exactly how to disconcert her. Crispin had no idea what Catherine’s tastes were, her likes or dislikes. Such a revelation would ruin the façade Crispin had been so dependent on her to help keep up. Miss Glafford’s intention, no doubt.

“You must realize, Miss Glafford, I would never contradict a lady,” Crispin answered quite civilly. “Most especially my new bride.”

“But in doing so, you must contradict me.” Miss Glafford once again gazed almost longingly at Crispin through her lowered lashes. “Is that not also inexcusable?”

“There are times, I fear, when offense cannot be avoided. One simply must choose which offense one is willing to give, however much one wishes to avoid doing so.”

Miss Glafford smiled with marked satisfaction. Catherine tried to steady her hands. Which of them would Crispin “choose to offend”? She was certainly accustomed to having her feelings battered indifferently, but she hadn’t yet endured such ill treatment from him.

Mr. Finley offered his own observation. “I am quite certain, Cavratt, you would suffer far longer for offending your lovely wife than you would any other lady in the room.”

Catherine’s eyes widened despite herself. Had Mr. Finley just labeled her as unforgiving?

“I fear I have offered the offense this time.” Mr. Finley smiled a touch too broadly. “That was not my intention, Lady Cavratt. I only meant to refer to the unavoidable fact that, as husband and wife, ample opportunity would exist between you and Lord Cavratt to relive an offense long after this dinner has ended.”

Perhaps not so long afterward. If she were failing as miserably as Catherine suspected she was, Crispin would likely push through the annulment proceedings with tremendous speed. Could such things be sped up? She had no idea, and yet her entire future hung on the answer to that and so many other questions. Eventually she would have to summon the courage to ask Crispin for more information.

Catherine forced her thoughts back to the moment only to find Mr. Finley’s gaze still on her. His devilish smile grew. He went so far as to wink at her again. She shuddered at the unwelcome attention.

“I believe my wife has planned a musical evening for us,” their host announced as the entire assembly made their way from the very formal dining room a few moments later. “Miss Glafford, I understand, is quite accomplished on the pianoforte.”

Miss Glafford, escorted by Mr. Finley, blushed in a way that seemed more practiced than genuine. Only steps behind them, Mr. and Mrs. Glafford added their voices to the compliments Lord Hardford had already begun to offer their daughter.

Edward pulled Crispin aside and Catherine found herself unavoidably left for a tête-à-tête with Miss Glafford.

“Do not worry yourself, Lady Cavratt,” Miss Glafford offered. Catherine didn’t believe her tone of compassionate concern. “While Lord Cavratt could certainly have had his pick of any young lady in the ton, I’m certain he won’t regret his choice.” She then offered a painfully obvious look of unsatisfied analysis and shook her head as though discounting her previous assertion. “At least I hope not, for his sake.”

Catherine had no response and didn’t attempt to offer one. She didn’t want Crispin to regret his choice either. Yet an annulment seemed rather pointed proof of regret.

“Catherine.” Crispin abruptly stepped to them. “Lady Henley is suffering from a sudden headache.”

Lizzie was ill? “Is there anything I can do for her?”

“Do you happen to have an apothecary chest in that reticule of yours?” That dry humor again. Catherine had quickly discovered she enjoyed it. “No? Well, then, she believes she must return home. However, since they arrived here in our equipage, they will need to use it again to return.”

“Of course,” Catherine answered.

“You would not be disappointed to leave earlier than expected?” Crispin asked, eyeing her uncertainly.

“I could hardly enjoy myself knowing your sister was suffering.”

“I will offer our excuses to the viscount and viscountess.” Crispin quickly disappeared into the crowd without another word.

“I’ve never known Lady Henley to suffer megrims before,” Miss Glafford said as though deeply contemplating the development. “Something distressing must have entered her life recently.”

Miss Glafford looked pointedly at Catherine then flitted away. The truth of her words stung. She had certainly unsettled the lives of Crispin, his sister, and her husband. Why was it she managed to annoy every person she’d ever lived with? At least Crispin hadn’t locked her in her room yet—Uncle had taken that road rather quickly.

Crispin returned and offered her his arm. She took it but couldn’t bear to meet his eyes, afraid his disappointment would be evident. She’d known him less than a week, and already his opinion of her mattered.

The carriage ride began in absolute silence. Catherine’s gaze fell on Lizzie leaning unapologetically against her husband’s shoulder, her gloved fingers raised to her brow. Edward had an arm around his wife’s shoulder, whispering something into her ear.

Catherine watched the touching scene with a longing she’d felt countless times before. She’d certainly dreamed of a caring and gentle husband—someone who loved her.

Edward noticed her gaze. “She will be fine,” he whispered.

The reassurance brought her some relief. Lizzie had become a fast and unexpected friend. Catherine hadn’t enjoyed a single friendship in the years since her uncle had assumed ownership of Yandell Hall. She did not like the thought of her friend suffering.

“Is there anything I can do?” Catherine whispered as well.

Edward shook his head and turned his attention back to his wife.

Her eyes settled momentarily on Crispin. He kept his gaze on the window, his posture stiff and unyielding.

Catherine lowered her gaze to her own trembling hands before closing her eyelids altogether. Miss Glafford’s cutting comments rang anew in her weary mind. Crispin must have sorely regretted ever stepping foot in that garden. She felt even worse realizing she, to a degree, was grateful he had crossed her path. For a few blessed days she had lived free of her uncle’s tyranny.

She nearly jumped from her seat when a warm, gentle hand took hold of hers. The streetlamps outside offered just enough light to illuminate Crispin’s face, his eyes watching her closely.

“Were you disappointed to leave?” he asked.

Catherine shook her head. She’d seldom been so happy to leave a place before.

“Jealous of Hancock’s gowns?” Crispin managed to look entirely serious.

“You did give him the prettiest ones.” The humor helped lighten her load a little.

“He is so very demanding.” Crispin leaned toward her, his next words not reaching across the coach. “Are you concerned for Lizzie?”

“I am.”

“But that is not the only reason for your tears?”

Catherine turned away, embarrassed by her lack of self-control. She wiped with her free hand at a tear hovering on her lashes.

“What has upset you?”

She felt Crispin slide closer to her. His leg barely brushed against her own, and the warmth of him so near made her shiver. Yet she wanted him to stay as close as he was, to continue holding her hand.

“Catherine?”

All at once, the sleepless nights, the tension, the upheaval she’d endured over the past week came crashing down on her. She promised herself she wouldn’t cry. She refused to, even as several tears escaped just to spite her.

“I am sorry,” she whispered.

Crispin didn’t reply but kept her hand in his throughout the remainder of their journey. Her worries didn’t disappear. Her uncertainty over the future remained. But for those few moments, she felt secure.

Chapter Nine

Crispin would have greatly preferred being almost anywhere else in London the next morning, but his anxiety for Catherine kept him pinned inside the sitting room. He worried about her more than he had about anyone before, even his own sister. But, then, Lizzie had never been as excruciatingly vulnerable as Catherine.

Which brought his mind back to their visitors: Mrs. Glafford and her daughter, who had managed to spout more barely veiled insults during the previous night’s dinner than there had been dishes. Catherine had handled the entire ordeal with unfathomable polish, something that astounded him still. She’d even managed a crackingly witty rejoinder. He had been hard pressed not to laugh out loud at the unexpected show of steel. But she’d been teary during the journey back to Permount House. Catherine had said she was fine, but the tears had been real.

His sudden marriage had caused quite a stir. According to the ever-reliable servants’ network of gossip, the possibility of an annulment was quite the hot topic. All of Town, it seemed, looked forward to being thoroughly scandalized.

And so Crispin had taken on the role of knight errant to a damsel in distress—a laughable mental image, to be sure. He would probably be one of those knights who managed to be thrown from his mount at the most critical moment of a battle, left sprawled on the side of the road, stuck in his rusty armor. Chivalry had never been a particular talent of his.

“I understand you hail from Herefordshire, Lady Cavratt,” Mrs. Glafford said, not quite masking her critical evaluation.

“Yes. Outside Peterchurch.”

“I don’t believe I’ve ever traveled to that rustic part of the kingdom.”

If her pointed remark had wounded Catherine, she didn’t let on. “We receive few visitors,” she replied demurely.

“With the exception of Lord Cavratt, I dare say.” Miss Glafford fluttered her lashes at him as though she were trying to rid her eye of a speck of dirt. She most likely meant it to be a tempting flirtation. What he wouldn’t give to be a rusted knight stuck far, far away from
her
.

“I understand your family resides in Surrey.” Catherine turned the conversation with finesse. She may have lacked some of the polish of the Glaffords, but Catherine was not feather-headed.

“Yes. At Farrlow Park.” Mrs. Glafford puffed up with obvious self-importance, jutting her chin out imperiously. Mrs. Glafford offered a description of their family estate that left out no detail, little or great. Catherine appeared to be listening, which was more than Crispin could say for himself. “And of course my Charlotte is quite the most beautiful young lady in the entire county, just as she is a favorite of all the gentlemen in Town. Dark hair is all the rage, as I’m sure you know.”

“How grateful you must be that Lord Cavratt was willing to overlook such an obvious shortcoming,” Miss Glafford said, leaning closer and lowering her voice almost enough to keep the remark private.

“I dare say he has overlooked other things and other people.” Catherine emphasized
overlooked
with a pointed glance at Miss Glafford.

Miss Glafford appeared rightly ruffled. Crispin managed to choke down a laugh. His Catherine had more spirit than he would have imagined.

The laugh disappeared instantly.
His
Catherine? Where had that come from?

“Would you care for tea, Mrs. Glafford?” Catherine asked calmly.

“I would be delighted.”

After seeing the tiresome lady satisfactorily provided with the refreshment she needed—hopefully enough to keep her quiet for a few minutes—Catherine offered the same to Miss Glafford, who accepted silently but not without a look of contempt shot in Catherine’s direction.

“No cream, if you please,” Miss Glafford said as Catherine turned her back to pour.

Catherine stopped in the midst of her preparations. “You do not care for cream, Miss Glafford?”

“Cream does not care for
her,
” Mrs. Glafford corrected. “Has a most decidedly unpleasant effect.”

“Mother,” Miss Glafford scolded, beginning to pink.

Catherine’s expression, though hidden from the others, was unreadable. She bit down on her lip a moment, brow furrowing. What was she thinking?

“No explanation is necessary,” Catherine told Mrs. Glafford. “An acquaintance of mine also chooses to omit cream from tea. I quite understand.”

Why did Crispin detect a sense of mischief in Catherine’s voice? Catherine, the quiet, demure young lady who’d tiptoed through his house for a week—he doubted she was capable of mischief. Although she had uttered a remark or two that made Crispin wonder if there wasn’t more to Catherine than met the eye.

He watched her with immense curiosity but outward casualness. She prepared Miss Glafford’s tea slowly. Crispin found himself mesmerized by the ritual. Was it the grace he saw in her slender fingers? Perhaps the way those often trembling hands were suddenly so steady. Or perhaps the fact that the look on Catherine’s face was frighteningly reminiscent of Lizzie’s expression during their many childhood acts of impishness.

Catherine quite smoothly took the cream pitcher and allowed three small drops of cream to drip into the cup. What was she up to? She stirred the cup silently before turning and presenting it to Miss Glafford.

Crispin had no idea what dreadful effect cream had on Miss Glafford. He hoped it was something drastic. Poetic justice, really.

“Crispin,” Catherine said.

He looked up and found her directly beside him, holding a cup of tea for him. “Thank you.” Before she could move away he caught her in his gaze and whispered, “What have you secreted into
my
tea?”

Catherine’s face paled. She bit her lips once more, a debate obvious in her eyes. She seemed ready to form some excuse or another but glanced momentarily at Miss Glafford before sitting beside him and lowering her head. “It was not enough to have much of an effect,” she answered, her whisper almost too low to be heard. “I—”

“Then you should have put in more,” he whispered conspiratorially.

Catherine slowly raised her face until it tipped up toward him, her brows knit in a look of assessment she’d only once before given him, one that made him want to stand straighter, to adjust his cravat, to stay on his mount despite his rusty armor.

Her lips twitched ever so slightly. Then the movement became more pronounced. In a wave of transformation, Catherine’s lips turned upward. That smile he’d long awaited proved utterly delightful. Her eyes danced under its influence.

“What was your maiden name, Lady Cavratt?” Mrs. Glafford asked.

Catherine’s smile disappeared. Blast Mrs. Glafford! Crispin had been enjoying the rare sight.

“Thorndale,” Catherine answered. Crispin could hear the uncertainty in her voice once more.

Mrs. Glafford watched him and Catherine over her cup. She seemed anxious to interrupt, though she couldn’t possibly have overheard the conversation. Mrs. Glafford appeared to be on the “Anticipating an Annulment” list, and furthermore on the “Will Still Accept Lord Cavratt as Good Ton Afterward” list
.
Two lists of which Crispin did not approve.

“Thorndale,” Mrs. Glafford repeated. “Not a name of significance, I fear.”

“No, it is not,” Catherine said. Why couldn’t everyone leave her be? She did not deserve to be harassed.

He opened his mouth to offer a sharp set-down, but Mrs. Glafford spoke before he managed a single word.

“The Littletons’ ball is quickly becoming the talk of Town,” she said. “Do you intend to grace the event, my lord?”

“Of course.” Crispin hid his scowl behind his teacup. “We”—He emphasized the
we—
“are quite looking forward to it.”

“I am so glad to hear as much,” Mrs. Glafford said sweetly. “Charlotte will, of course, be there. You must save a dance for her, Lord Cavratt. She has been given permission to waltz, you know.”

Crispin let his eyes wander to Catherine. The spirit seemed to have drained from her, though she sat with a quiet determination to endure the remainder of the visit.

“She is quite an elegant dancer, my lord, though I say it myself.” Mrs. Glafford smiled at her daughter. “I have no doubt the two of you would prove a very handsome couple dancing.”

“I fear the world will never know,” Crispin said. Before Mrs. Glafford could utter the question he saw behind her forced smile, Crispin continued. “I have every intention of spending the entire evening with my wife.”

Mrs. Glafford gave an unladylike snort. Crispin’s jaw clenched instantly. He’d had quite enough of these women and their insults. Even before his rumor-inspiring marriage, he’d endured every imaginable hint and insinuation from debutantes and mothers alike regarding hoped-for alliances and unions. They were the very reason he’d sworn off the Marriage Mart his first year in London.

“Mother.” Miss Glafford’s voice sounded pleading.

Perhaps she could keep her mother quiet. Crispin doubted it.

“Always modest.” Her mother eyed her with overwhelming maternal regard. “Lord Cavratt, I’m sure—”

“Mother.” The pleading had grown almost desperate.

“Yes, of course.” Mrs. Glafford seemed to come to her senses. “We really must be going, I am afraid.”

How tragic.

Catherine showed the women out with nary a word.

“A few more calls to make,” Crispin heard Mrs. Glafford remind her daughter as they reached the front walk.

“I’m not quite feeling the thing, Mother,” Miss Glafford answered, sounding as though she meant it. “I think, perhaps, we should return home.”

What exactly had Catherine’s secreted cream done to their unwelcome visitor?

“Miss Glafford didn’t seem quite herself as they left,” Crispin said when Catherine returned to the sitting room. He moved a little closer to where Catherine stood. “It was the cream, was it not?”

Catherine nodded. She looked as though she felt a hint of guilt.

“You seemed to know a great deal about the effect it would have.” He managed a straight face despite his growing amusement. “Have you tainted tea before, then?”

Catherine turned her eyes on him, pleading with him again. Did she not realize he’d been teasing her? He’d wanted to see her smile again, but his jest seemed to have missed its mark.

“Who was it?” Crispin asked, a sudden curiosity sweeping over him. He understood so little about Catherine and found himself inexplicably wishing to find out more.

Catherine took a trembling breath, her face shifting to match the emotion. “My uncle,” she whispered.

“Your—” Crispin almost choked on the admission. He would never have expected Catherine to stand up to anyone, let alone Mr. Thorndale.

“Please don’t tell him! I shouldn’t have. I know I shouldn’t have. But I . . . I had to . . .” Her hand clasped his arm, her eyes never leaving his. “There were days when I simply couldn’t endure it, Crispin. But when he was ill he didn’t . . .” Tears threatened in those bewitching eyes. “Please don’t tell him. He’ll honestly throttle me. Please!”

Crispin took her face in his hands, forcing her to look directly at him. He could feel her trembling. “I won’t breathe a word of it,” he promised. In that moment he would have gladly taken on the role of rescuing knight in order to protect her.

Lud, where did
that
thought come from?

“Thank you.” She looked immensely relieved.

He could smell the hint of roses that seemed to follow her wherever she went. At what point had he come to like that scent? And why was he so reluctant to release her?

Shaking his head at his own ridiculous thoughts, Crispin stepped back and pulled his hands safely away from her.

She seemed struck by the abruptness of his departure, but what choice did he have really? He naturally felt compassion upon hearing of her uncle’s ill treatment. He’d simply reacted as any feeling human being would have. They were not truly husband and wife, but two people in an impossible situation. Holding her or remaining glued to her side made no sense considering their circumstances.

“I won’t put cream in Miss Glafford’s tea again,” Catherine said, not quite looking at him. “That was unkind of me.”

Apparently she thought he disapproved. Disapproved? It was a stroke of genius! “If you won’t, I will,” Crispin said. “I’ll pour in the entire pitcher.”

“She’d be done in for days.” A hint of amusement colored Catherine’s words, but still her smile had not returned.

“We would have the gratitude of every person who would avoid her company during her illness,” Crispin said.

“Is that not a little malicious?” One corner of her mouth twitched up.

Gads, he wanted to see an actual smile again. “It is not
my
malice that concerns me, Catherine,” he answered. “I am afraid I shall be on my guard from now on.”

“And why is that?” Catherine asked. Her tone had lightened considerably. The sparkle in her eyes lit her entire face. She really was quite pretty—she had been even before Lizzie’s ministrations.

Crispin leaned closer, the scent of roses greeting him as he did. “Because,” he used the mock-serious tone he’d all but perfected, “I will inevitably question every cup of tea I’m offered for as long as you are here.”

He watched for the sparkle to grow, for her smile to return, for her face to brighten. But, instead, she turned a touch more pale and seemed to retreat inside herself once more. The spark he’d seen in those brilliantly blue eyes extinguished in an instant. Her brows knit and her posture slipped.

There was no playfulness, nor was there the pleading he’d detected in her looks only moments earlier.

What had he done wrong this time?