The Kiss of a Stranger (4 page)

Catherine sat perfectly still, her hands folded in her lap. Her eyes darted in his direction but returned almost immediately to her clasped hands. After several minutes, Crispin’s stomach wouldn’t allow him another moment of patience.

“If this were consommé, it would be jelled by now,” he said, hoping the hint would be sufficient. The soup would be little more than lukewarm after the delay. “Perhaps we should eat before it solidifies further.”

Catherine nodded without looking up. She didn’t reach for her spoon.

“It is customary for a gentleman to wait until after a lady has begun to eat,” Crispin said.

She looked at him as though he’d just suggested she eat with her toes. She mouthed a silent apology and hastily stabbed a spoonful of soup into her mouth.

Crispin stared for a moment. No wonder she’d never had a Season. She hardly functioned at a simple meal.

The rest of dinner passed in almost complete silence. With the arrival of each course, Catherine shoved a spoonful of food into her mouth the moment the plate reached the table, all the while eyeing him nervously. Crispin shook his head in bewilderment. She was trying, he would give her that.

As the trifle was finished and cleared, Crispin found himself feeling rather obliged to say something to his silent dinner partner. He passed on the port he’d jokingly requested earlier, as Hancock no doubt had known he would do, and joined Catherine in the sitting room. Standing near enough for her to hear him, but far enough from the prying ears of any passing servants, he opted for the only topic in which he knew they both had an interest.

“I will speak with my solicitor in the morning. The whole matter should be resolved before most of Town is even awake.”

Catherine looked directly into his eyes, her own pleading with him. She had strikingly beautiful eyes. Catherine’s face slid into a look of resignation, and she nodded before hanging her head and stepping a little further from him.

Crispin abruptly turned away. Her distraught resignation made him decidedly uncomfortable. A more neutral topic, he told himself. “You said you’ve been in London before,” he said, walking to the fireplace. “Do you come often?”

“I have been to Town three times, my lord.” He barely heard her answer. She hadn’t returned her gaze to his face, still studying the floor.

“Please call me Crispin.”

“Of course. I’m sorry.”

Blast, why was she apologizing as though she’d committed some enormous infraction? If he wasn’t careful, he’d inadvertently convince Catherine she was a criminal. “You were in Town for your presentation and . . .”

“Twice as a child,” she said.

“You consider the country your home, then?”

“I do.”

“And do you have family there?”

“Only my uncle,” Catherine replied as quietly as always. “My parents have passed on, and I was their only child.”

Crispin tapped his fingers on the mantelpiece. She had no family. “Were you educated at home?”

She nodded.

“Were there any families in the neighborhood with whom you were close?”

“No.”

“Were there many other young ladies your age there?”

“No.”

“Was there
anyone
in the neighborhood?”

“Of course,” she replied.

“Forgive me,” Crispin said. “That was—”

“Uncalled for?” she finished for him. An instant later her eyes widened in apparent surprise. She clamped her mouth closed.

“Touché, madam,” Crispin acknowledged. Throwing back the exact insipid phrase he’d used after their disastrous kiss certainly put him in his place. Though why she seemed upset by her own wit, he couldn’t say. He found the show of backbone refreshing. “You seem to have had a lonely upbringing.”

“Sometimes not lonely enough. Uncle was not always very good company.”

“Really? I found him quite pleasant.” Crispin rolled his eyes. “A jolly good chap.”

He turned a little away from her and tapped his fingers on the mantel. Catherine had no family. No friends. No home. He ought to be able to annul their marriage—the license could not possibly be legal, after all, his name having been added long after it was obtained. That, however, would leave Catherine out on the streets, her reputation sullied beyond repair. But, he told himself, he could hardly be blamed for that.

He stopped tapping his fingers. She was looking at him. He could feel it. Cautiously, he turned. Her eyes were, indeed, fixed on him. How did she do that? And how could he get her to stop? The phenomenon was positively unnerving.

“I must apologize for all of the difficulty our situation must be causing you.” She spoke with a quiet determination Crispin wouldn’t have expected from one so reticent. “My uncle is a stern man, and often unfair. He should not have pushed you into this.”

“I should not have kissed you.”

Missing her cue, Catherine didn’t offer platitudes of forgiveness. He felt more like a cad by the moment; a moderately executed lie might have appeased his conscience a little. It seemed like a wifely thing to do.

“I assure you this will all be remedied tomorrow,” Crispin promised her. He hoped.

The reassurance left Catherine looking even less reassured. He obviously needed to work on the consoling husband bit. She twisted her hands around each other as she stood in uneasy silence and didn’t look at him, didn’t step away. Crispin watched her, his discomfort rising.

“I didn’t rest well last night, my lor—Crispin.” She reddened at her near oversight. “If you don’t mind, I would like to retire early.”

Mind? It would be a tremendous relief. Crispin had no idea what to do with a wife. “Of course.”

Catherine turned and practically ran from the room.

He watched her go, intrigued by the conflicting aspects of her personality. She dressed like a servant and often carried herself like one. But she spoke like an educated lady of the ton, occasionally displaying an intriguingly quick intellect. She never smiled, but what little conversation she indulged in was not focused negatively. He had yet to hear her laugh, but he’d bet a monkey she possessed a keen sense of humor.

Alone, he had ample opportunity to examine the choices before him. He had grounds to absolve their forced marriage, but doing so would send her unprotected into what he knew all too well was an uncaring and unforgiving world. He didn’t deserve to be tied to a complete stranger and couldn’t imagine she did either. Which left him with a problem: what was he going to do?

Chapter Four

Catherine sat rigidly in a high-backed chair, listening to the sound of footsteps in the corridor. Her small traveling trunk lay packed on the floor beside her. She looked again around the rooms that had been hers for less than twenty-four hours. The walls were papered in shades of deep green and blue. The window dressings were lusciously thick and of the softest velvet. An ornate fireplace sat empty, though it had provided warmth during the long night she’d passed anticipating her fate. Never in her most imaginative moments had she dreamt of being surrounded by such luxury and beauty. Yet she’d found no joy in it.

She’d wandered from her bedchamber long after the house had settled into silent slumber and paced the cold wooden floors of the sitting area. Her future spread out before her in an unending tapestry of uncertainty. She had nowhere to go and no one to turn to. A night’s worth of pacing and pondering had offered no answers.

According to Jane, Crispin had left at eight o’clock that morning and had informed his butler he would return within the hour. So Catherine had placed the trunk she’d never bothered to unpack beside the chair nearest her chamber door and sat to await her dismissal.

Four hours had passed. She, apparently, had not married a terribly punctual gentleman.

The footfall grew closer. A shadow crossed the threshold. Catherine steadied her nerves. He had come to throw her out.

She allowed her eyes to shift upward. Crispin strode through the door, apparently deep in thought. The air of assurance he generally exuded seemed to have significantly dissipated. His gaze fell on her.

“Good morning,” he said.

His smile went a long way to soothing her badly rattled nerves.

“How are you?” he asked.

How was she?
She had no idea where she was going, where she would be living the next day, the next hour. “Fine,” she managed to whisper.

“Agreeable weather we are having, are we not?”

Catherine nodded. Was the gentleman a bit thick in the head? What had inspired a discussion of the weather, of all things?

“The sun appears to have cut through the fog and the breeze is . . . I’m stalling. Can you tell?” Crispin raised his brow in self-derision.

She nodded again.

“Should I keep stalling?” he asked with feigned hopefulness. “I believe I could manage it with very little effort.”

“I would rather you didn’t.” Far better to know where she stood than to delay the inevitable.

“I was afraid you would say that.” Crispin closed his eyes and rubbed them with his thumb and forefinger. He let out a long breath before opening his eyes again. He pulled a chair from the writing desk over beside Catherine and sat facing her. He seemed to debate over his words for a moment. “I have a confession, Catherine. Now brace yourself . . . I am more of an idiot than I originally suspected.”

She hadn’t been expecting him to say that.

“I see you do not disagree. A telling blow, to be sure.”

“Are you stalling again?” She had the oddest urge to smile.

“Guilty.” He let out a strained breath. “Obtaining an annulment is more complicated than I thought, and my two-day timetable is proving a bit optimistic.”

More time? Catherine’s heart throbbed in her throat. This was precisely what she needed. Catherine watched the muscles in his face tighten around his jaw, and she felt a twinge of guilt. His revelation had been a relief to her. A little unanticipated time would allow her to search out her options. Crispin, obviously, disliked the delay.

She wrung her hands together, fighting her conflicting feelings. “What are we to do until the annulment is granted?”

“Cards?” He looked almost serious. “Perhaps a parlor game or two?” He shook his head. “Forgive me. I would not want you to think I do not recognize the seriousness of the situation.”

What an odd sense of humor Crispin had. Not unpleasant. Just odd.

Crispin rose to his feet and began treading a tension-thick circle about the room. “I won’t sugarcoat the fact that all of Town will be speculating about the state of our marriage. For a gentleman who is well known in society to suddenly marry someone entirely unknown and without a single member of his family or any of his friends present . . .” He rubbed his forehead again. “People will wonder. For the sake of both our reputations, we need to attempt to convince them, for the time being, that we are a happily married couple.” The obvious doubt in his face was not reassuring. “An annulment causes an uproar regardless of the circumstances, but an amicable ending keeps the entire thing quieter.”

“You’re not sending me away?”

“I am thinking of sending
myself
away. By nightfall I could be in Bedlam where I belong.” Crispin paused at the fireplace, fingering the molding along the mantel. “I am certain you believed me completely mad within seconds of meeting me.”

Catherine pinked at his reference to their ill-fated encounter outside the otherwise insignificant inn a mere two days earlier. Her color only deepened as she realized how often she’d thought since then that, under different circumstances, she would very much like to be kissed that way again. Perhaps she was the one who had gone a bit mad.

Crispin stopped his pacing and faced her, looking quite serious. “For the immediate future, you will be Lady Cavratt, and that comes with certain obligations.”

Catherine felt her eyes widen. Obligations? What did he mean by “obligations”?

“Socially,” Crispin clarified, amusement sparkling in his eyes. “Did you think I planned to make you clean my linens or something?”

She just shook her head, unsure what she’d thought he meant.

“I only meant you will be expected to attend dinners and balls and other forms of socially condoned torture.”

Catherine bit down on her bottom lip. He wished her to appear in public as a titled lady of consequence? She’d never play that role convincingly.

“Were you educated in social proprieties?” Crispin watched her, obviously doubtful.

“I was.” Catherine tried to hold herself confidently.

Crispin didn’t appear convinced. “Last night—” he began awkwardly, “You didn’t seem—”

“I never accompanied my uncle in to dinner. He insisted on preceding me, and I was instructed to wait for
him
to eat.” She had realized quickly during her meal with Crispin that her uncle’s rules were not observed in Crispin’s house—probably in
any
house.

The explanation seemed to satisfy him. “Do you know how to dance?”

“I had a dance instructor before my presentation.” Her training felt very inadequate in that moment. “That was a couple years ago, however.”

“Do you play an instrument?”

“Several.”

Crispin stared at her as though those musical instruments were protruding from her face. He opened his mouth to speak but closed it again and resumed his pacing.

Perhaps society preferred a lady to resign herself to only one instrument. “Is that a bad thing?” she asked.

“Not at all. It makes me feel a touch fat-headed, is all. I probably could not
name
several instruments, let alone play them.”

She knew he was teasing her, exaggerating his ignorance. “Perhaps if you copied the names out a few dozen times you could commit them to memory.”

He leaned against the mantel, looking far more at ease than he had since his arrival. “Did your governess require you to do lines as well, then?”

“She was merciless.” Catherine had actually rather adored her governess. Uncle had dismissed her the day of his arrival at Yandell Hall.

“But she managed to teach you to play ‘several instruments.’ The merciless tyrant was efficient, anyway.”

Her governess had laid the foundation for Catherine’s musical pursuits. Her tenacious determination to master those instruments came later. Uncle generally let her be while she practiced. So long as music could be heard echoing from the frigid music room of Yandell Hall, Uncle left her alone.

“Lady Hardford extended an invitation to a dinner party Friday evening,” Crispin said from the far end of the room. “We will, of course, be expected to attend. If the viscountess is convinced our marriage is nothing out of the ordinary, half the ton will be convinced of the same within hours. Minutes, maybe. With her, gossip spreads faster than Prinny’s waistline, which is saying something. And though she rather looks like a vulture, she is far more like a hen. Clucks incessantly, but doesn’t bite.”

“Do you really think I can convince her?” Catherine knew well her shortcomings.

Crispin took up his pacing once more. She watched him take turn after turn around the small room. A man of obvious means, his clothes were precisely tailored and of the latest fashion, his home richly furnished and more than adequately staffed. She had gleaned from the efficiency of his home that Crispin appreciated his comforts and routine. Her presence must have upset both. He certainly couldn’t be lacking in admirers. He’d been walking with one—a particularly beautiful one—the day they’d met.

Perhaps he was in love with some refined lady of distinction. What an explanation he’d have to make should he encounter his
amór
with his inconvenient wife on his arm.

“You look troubled.” Crispin’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

Catherine shook her head, not wanting to burden Crispin with more of her difficulties.

“Planning my imminent demise?” Crispin raised his brow the way he did when being sardonic. She’d come to recognize that look in the short time she’d known him. In all honesty, she enjoyed it. The expression bordered on playful and went a long way toward relieving her sometimes overwhelming worries.

“I hope I don’t completely embarrass you,” Catherine said quietly. “I am not very experienced with social engagements. I’ve led a very different life, I assure you.”

A look bordering on sympathy crossed Crispin’s face. He studied her for a moment. “Did you say that was your only dress?”

Catherine glanced down at the lump of hideousness she’d donned the past year. Age and wear had only rendered it more awful. Feeling embarrassed to her very core, Catherine nodded.

“Do you own a coat?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Put it on,” Crispin instructed.

“Now? Am I leaving?”

“
We
are visiting Madam LaCroix.”

Catherine had never heard of the woman.

“A mantua maker,” Crispin explained. “And a miracle worker.”

“I have no money to have a gown made.” She had no money
at all
.

Crispin smiled and his entire face softened and brightened. “You, Lady Cavratt, are among the wealthiest ladies of the ton
.
An entire wardrobe will barely dent your pin money.”

“An entire—” Catherine choked on the words. “I cannot. The expense!”

“I had always planned to be a generous husband,” Crispin interrupted, his tone teasing. “You might as well take advantage of that.”

Catherine rose to continue her protest. “I would never take advantage of—”

“Our little charade will fall apart in an instant if you are seen socializing in a potato sack, Catherine.”

She felt her face catch fire. His assessment left little doubt of her unattractive appearance. “I did not choose the dress.”

“Don’t be angry with me.” Crispin crossed to her, speaking gently. “Soon you will have plenty of fine gowns, and I won’t chide you about this one again.”

“I don’t want to embarrass you, but I can’t possibly accept—”

“I am generous, Catherine. But also stubborn, and I am determined to take you to Madame LaCroix the moment you get your coat.”

Crispin smiled at her and, to her utter astonishment, Catherine felt better. She almost managed a smile in return.

“Much better,” he said. His eyes rested on her face and Catherine could feel her cheeks flush. Crispin’s expression grew more intense. He brushed his fingers against her face and her heart began to pound. “Try not to be too miserable. This will all work out one way or another.”

With his hand so gently touching her cheek, she could not begin to fashion a reply. Breathing became something of a struggle.

Abruptly, Crispin pulled his hand away and stepped toward the door. “We also have to do something about your hair,” he said, distant again. “Put on your coat. I’ll be waiting below.”

Catherine stood statue-still, her shock too great for movement. She could still feel his fingers on her cheek. She’d spent nearly a decade cringing from the slightest touch, so accustomed had she become to the violence of her uncle.

Crispin’s touch had been gentle and frightening at the same time. She could feel her entire world tipping on end. She’d come to expect anger from every man she encountered, disgust at her appearance and complete indifference from society at large. Instead, she was on her way to a dressmaker, being treated kindly by a Peer, of all things.

The entire ordeal terrified her.