The Kiss of a Stranger (9 page)

Chapter Ten

Catherine had been married an entire week. She sat at a writing desk of deepest cherrywood beneath a tall window splattered by rain. From her position she could look out over the gardens, too wet and muddy for exploring that afternoon. A disappointment, to be sure. She had found she liked Crispin’s gardens: well appointed, well maintained, and surprisingly peaceful in a world she found more and more in turmoil.

Rain pelted the glass as her thoughts wandered. They hadn’t been out in society at all since the night of the Hardfords’ dinner. Several bouquets of flowers had arrived for her in the days that had followed that remarkably uneasy night, offering congratulations on their marriage and flattering assessments of her character and beauty. Lizzie had assured her such gestures were customary and expected. Perhaps, Catherine thought hopefully, she hadn’t proven too monumental a failure.

She’d narrowly escaped a hornet’s nest with Miss Glafford. Her prank had been childish, she admitted to herself in retrospect—not at all like the times she had done the same to her uncle. She’d barely put in enough cream to give Miss Glafford a nagging stomachache. She’d often given Uncle enough to leave him indisposed for hours. Heaven help her, she didn’t regret a single time she’d resorted to such desperate measures.

So much of the last eight years had been little more than perseverance. In the seven days she’d been at Permount House, survival hadn’t been her foremost thought. With Crispin she felt safe, which seemed illogical. Without a moment’s warning he could walk in and announce that their marriage was over.

She hardly knew Crispin. He fluctuated between personable and grumpy, between kind and distant. How could she find security in the company of a man whom she did not really understand? One who saw her as a temporary inconvenience? For just a moment after the Glaffords’ visit, she had forgotten how uncertain her situation truly was.

She repeated his words. “For as long as you are here.”

Catherine pushed out an uneasy breath. She needed a place to go after the annulment was official. Hiring herself out as a companion or governess seemed her most likely option. She simply needed to find someone who needed her.

With a sigh, Catherine returned her attention to the small expense book on the desk in front of her. Crispin had provided her with pin money, though it seemed more like a small fortune to her limited experience. Only Lizzie’s insistence that not accepting would reflect badly on Crispin had convinced Catherine to accept it.

She’d spent very little, having bought only the accounting book and a new rivet for her reading spectacles. Catherine unfolded the tiny glasses and pulled them on, grateful they were repaired but as frustrated at her dependence on them as she’d been since acquiring them seven years earlier. She dipped the elegant quill in a well of blackest ink and added the rivet expense, which had cost nearly nothing, into the ledger. She was determined not to be irresponsible with such a generous allowance.

Expense added and columns checked, Catherine closed the book and slid it to the back of the desk’s uppermost drawer. She folded her glasses, intending to place them with her account book but finding herself watching the rain again. She absentmindedly placed them on the desktop and wandered to another window to watch the garden being bathed in the unending downpour.

“My lady,” Hancock said, interrupting her solitude.

She turned toward him, not unhappy by his company. Hancock had proven himself an ally early in her sojourn at Permount House.

“Lord Cavratt has requested to join you for tea here in the library if that is agreeable to you.”

Catherine nodded and bit down on her lip, suddenly nervous. Had he completed the annulment? She had not yet found a position. There hadn’t been time. She crossed on shaking legs to a chair and sat, her mind swirling.

“Would you like me to take your place, my lady?” Hancock asked, still maintaining his proper butler’s posture but with a hint of conspiracy in his tone. “My well-timed appearance several days ago inspired quite a rousing round of laughter. And seemed to put you at ease.”

Catherine half smiled in spite of her worries. “Thank you,” she said. “But I believe I am equal to the task.”

Hancock offered a bow and a look of unfettered sympathy before slipping from the room.

Sitting alone in the library, Catherine did not feel at all “equal to the task.” How did one prepare oneself to be thrown out on the street?

Tea arrived in the next moment. The staff did everything with an efficiency that Catherine found both impressive and daunting. Crispin, she’d decided, liked things to happen a certain way. He liked his life to be predictable. No wonder he was eager to end their ramshackle marriage.

“Good afternoon, Catherine.”

She recognized Crispin’s voice and steeled herself to be calm. “Good afternoon.” Heavens, her voice was trembling.

Crispin looked every inch the Town gentleman, as always, in his perfectly tailored superfine and pristinely tied cravat. He made his way across the room toward her, and Catherine’s heart began pounding.

“I see you haven’t poured yet,” Crispin said, standing beside her at the table. “Now might be the best time for me to accept a cup—I can be certain you’ve done nothing to it.”

“Are we soon to be at odds with each other, then?” Catherine tried to keep her voice from shaking, even as she felt her limbs doing just that.

“Not at all,” Crispin answered with an easy casualness.

At all?
she repeated to herself. Was that possible? Uncle had always considered the two of them to be constantly at odds, even when he and Catherine hadn’t set eyes upon each other for days at a time.

Crispin actually seemed jaunty, happy. Did he feel no loss at her pending departure?

Catherine poured their tea, but her hands still trembled. Not a drop stained the pristine white table cloth. Catherine offered a silent prayer of gratitude. Uncle did not abide stains. Crispin likely didn’t either. Willing her nerves to settle, Catherine held her cup and saucer as still as she could manage and sipped unenthusiastically at her tea.

“That is a new gown, I believe.” Crispin watched her over his teacup.

“Hancock didn’t want it.” Catherine shrugged, the jest escaping from some hidden place inside.

To her relief, Crispin smiled at her. He selecting a finger sandwich from the silver tea tray. “I have some news.”

Catherine swallowed. “News?”

“Yes. We are invited to a musicale this evening.”

She could not reply immediately. Was that his news? “Lizzie told me as much yesterday afternoon. She provided me with a rather detailed description, in fact.”

“Including the colors of the Yockings’ music room and the breed of dogs who will howl from the stables during many of the evening’s vocal offerings, I imagine.” Crispin chuckled. “Lizzie is nothing if not a source of vital information.”

He had come only to speak of the musicale? Perhaps the annulment was not finalized, after all. She had more time.

“She may not have adequately warned you, though.”

“
Warned
me?”

“The Glaffords will be in attendance,” Crispin said with a knowing rise of his brow.

“Heaven help us all,” Catherine muttered. “So I should bring my cream pitcher, then.”

“Malicious, Catherine.” Crispin laughed, shaking his head.

Catherine sipped at her tea, relief and amusement easing her tension. Crispin had a wonderful laugh. And—she relaxed further—he wasn’t sending her away yet.

“If only cream were an unfailing weapon against more than just Miss Glafford.” Crispin’s expression turned rueful. “Should you be forced to do her in, there will, I am afraid, be others who will seize the opportunity to—”

“Itemize my woefully obvious but overlooked shortcomings?” Catherine answered dryly.

“Something like that.” Crispin exposed a crooked smile. “Society can be remarkably vicious.”

“Worse than the Glaffords?”

“Unfortunately.” Crispin’s eyes dropped to his teacup. The humor was gone. Catherine missed it sorely. “You will be expected to play tonight. Or sing.”

“I do not even remotely sing.” Hearing a tinge of panic in her voice, Catherine sought for something lighter to say. “Every dog in the neighborhood would undoubtedly die from the pain of it should I even make the attempt.”

Crispin’s smile returned instantly. “Those poor dogs.”

Catherine smiled back at him. A strange silence settled between them. Crispin watched her closely, and she tried to not squirm under the scrutiny. Quite suddenly, he seemed to snap himself from whatever had held him.

“You told me you play an instrument.”

“I play four.” Catherine endeavored to sound confident. Her musical talents, she knew, were her only redeeming quality.

“Only four?” Crispin clucked his tongue. “A shortcoming, indeed.”

“A shortcoming I am rather fond of.”

“As well you should be.” Crispin shifted from jesting to genuinely intrigued in a moment. “Which four instruments?”

No one had ever asked her that before. Uncle knew only because he had taken a very detailed inventory of the music room upon inheriting. “The pianoforte. The harp. The cello. And the flute.”

Crispin set his empty teacup on the tray beside him. “The Yockings will certainly have a pianoforte.”

“They really will insist I play?” The thought of playing in public petrified her. “But I have never played for anyone.” The teacup rattled in her hands as the reality of what she faced settled on her. “Not a single soul. I can’t—”

“Refusing would be unacceptable.”

“I’ll be terrified.” Catherine rose shakily, her head and thoughts swimming. “All those ears listening for mistakes. Eyes glaring at me. I couldn’t—” She tried to set her cup on the table to stop its rattling but misjudged the proximity. It fell to the ground and shattered.

Fear surged through her as her eyes settled on the heap of broken china at the table’s feet and the tea slowly seeping into the rug beneath. She snatched a napkin from the table and dropped to her knees. Her heart pounded painfully hard in her neck. He would surely send her away now, annulment or not.

“Catherine.” Crispin’s voice echoed above her.

He must be furious with her. Catherine grabbed at the pieces, trying to dab at the still warm tea. “I am so sorry.”

“Catherine.”

“I will replace the cup.” Her hands shook so violently she could hardly continue cleaning the mess. “And I will scrub the stain out as well.”

Crispin was at her side, kneeling on the floor also. Uncle only stooped to that level when he was livid.

Catherine grabbed more frantically. A jagged edge pricked at the smallest finger on her right hand, and she quickly pulled back in pain. Blood bubbled up from the small cut. Catherine dismissed it. She had to clean the mess. She had to.

“I am sorry. I am so sorry,” she whispered frantically, tears blinding her as she desperately cleaned.

“Catherine.
Catherine.
” She felt Crispin’s hand on her arm. “Stop. Look at me. Stop.”

She turned her head, her heart pounding. That same sick feeling she’d been accustomed to under Uncle’s roof seized her. She could feel her muscles tensing, bracing for punishment.

Crispin was watching her, his brow creased and eyes narrowed. He kept one hand wrapped around her arm, as the other rose to just above his head. On instinct Catherine flinched, hoping to lessen that hand’s impact by pulling closer to herself. She closed her eyes, the pain beginning moments before it should have—the memory of what a beating felt like always preceded the infliction itself.

But there was only silence. No sounds, no movement.

“Catherine.” Crispin spoke so quietly, so gently she hardly recognized the word as her name.

She opened her eyes and looked cautiously at him, still guarding her face as much as possible with her own shoulder. Crispin’s forehead creased in intense concentration, his eyes studying her face. There was no laughter nor jesting, only confusion mingled with concern.

“Did you think I was going to strike you?”

“You weren’t?” Her voice cracked on the words.

“No.” He actually sounded offended by her assumption. With his raised hand he pulled a napkin off the tea table and wrapped her cut finger in it.

Crispin gently pulled her to her feet, still holding her injured hand in his.

“But the cup.”

“The servants will attend to that,” Crispin insisted. His gaze rested on the hand he held. “Would your uncle have struck you over a broken teacup?”

Why did Crispin sound upset? And why did his apparent concern make her feel like sobbing? She hadn’t truly cried in the presence of another person since the day her father had been buried.

Catherine nodded, unable to meet his eyes.

“Among other things, I assume.” His tone grew tense.

“He was not the easiest person to please.”

“
I
am not always the easiest person to please,” Crispin said. Catherine stepped back almost involuntarily, but Crispin took hold of her other arm. How was it that his touch could be both strong and gentle? She’d never known such a contradiction. “Please, hear me out,” he said.

Catherine’s eyes moved to his face. Uncle had never once attached a “please” to any sentence he’d uttered in her direction.

“I can be particular and grumpy and stubborn,” Crispin said, his eyes boring into hers. “But I have never—
never
—struck a woman. Not even as a child. My sister pestered me to no end, but I never raised a hand to her. I wouldn’t.” His gaze locked deeper with her own. “So long as you are in this house, you have no need to live in fear for your safety. I promise you that.”

Catherine closed her eyes to concentrate on those words. Fear for her physical well-being had been a constant concern of hers for nearly a decade. She hadn’t dared imagine herself free of that burden.

“I would never hurt you, Catherine.”

No. But he would eventually send her away, and she would lose the one place where she felt safe.

Chapter Eleven

Miss Eunice Johnford’s singing was enough to put any ill-bred tomcat to shame. Crispin tried to maintain as neutral an expression as possible. He glanced at Catherine seated beside him as she endured the painful performance. Catherine, he’d learned in the week since they’d met, was incapable of completely hiding her feelings.

He leaned toward her. “This is truly an unparalleled performance,” he said quietly in Catherine’s ear, unable to keep from commenting.

“I quite agree,” she answered in a whisper, her lips twitching.

Why did she constantly fight the urge to smile? At least she no longer looked scared out of her mind. The fear that had seized her that afternoon in the library still haunted him. To feel the need to cower over something as inconsequential as a broken teacup was unfathomable. And the way she’d cringed when he’d knelt beside her as if expecting him to lash out at her. He hoped his reassurances had eased her worries.

The moderately sized gathering politely applauded as Miss Johnford curtsied.

“How is your finger?” he whispered.

“I believe it will fully recover.” Catherine’s eyes twinkled up at him. “But only just.”

“A near-run thing, was it?” He was finding the subdued appearance required at a musicale difficult when faced with Catherine’s little-seen sense of humor.

“Shockingly near-run.”

Miss Olivia Clarent stepped up to the pianoforte. Crispin had heard her play before. “You will enjoy this next performance,” he said.

“I have your word on that?” Catherine asked.

“May I be forced to ingest gallons of adulterated tea if I am wrong.”

The briefest flicker of a smile touched Catherine’s face. Crispin reached for her hand—a completely subconscious gesture—before catching himself. He had never in all his life had such an urge. What was Catherine doing to him?

He forced himself to concentrate on the performance rather than his very confusing reaction to his equally confusing wife.
Wife.
That still felt strange.

His gaze drifted back to Catherine. She looked up at him and their eyes met. Leaning closer, Crispin whispered, “Miss Clarent is a talented performer.”

“She plays quite well.” An unexpected hesitancy accompanied her words.

“Except that . . . ?” Crispin was beyond intrigued. What did she find to censure in Miss Clarent’s performance? “Certainly the mongrels in the stables cannot be suffering.”

“They would have to be terribly fastidious mongrels to object to such a . . . technically flawless execution,” she said.

“What is it you find amiss?” Crispin watched her closely. He’d never heard a single soul evaluate Miss Clarent’s playing as anything less than perfect.

“I do not believe she understands the music.” Catherine kept her voice to a whisper, but an uncharacteristic look of authority crossed her face, conviction entering her eyes.

“Really?” How could anyone who played flawlessly not understand music?

“Never mind,” she muttered. “Forget I even spoke of it.” She looked away from him, giving the impression to any who happened to look in her direction that she found the performance pleasing rather than lacking.

“I have offended you,” Crispin whispered. “That was not my intention.”

She didn’t answer but kept her gaze firmly fixed ahead. He’d ruffled her feathers. Odd that the notion bothered him. He’d irked enough women in his days to fill Carlton House twice over. The others had deserved their set-downs, however. Catherine had done nothing but honestly answer his question. It was that honesty that had caught him off guard. Sincerity was, in his experience, a virtue few people embraced.

“What is it she doesn’t understand?”

Catherine just shook her head, quite obviously dismissing his request for an explanation.

“I would really like to know.” In actuality, he was nearly desperate to know. Catherine continually surprised him, and he found himself evermore interested in solving the mystery she presented him.

With an almost imperceptible sigh, she leaned a little closer.
Roses
. He was growing quite fond of the scent of roses. “The piece Miss Clarent is playing is intended to be emotionally urgent. Mournful, even. It is meant to convey an enormous, almost insurmountable loss. She plays it as though she were plunking scales. I dare say she doesn’t understand the music.”

Then Catherine pulled away again, barely masking the frustration in her eyes. Frustration with the music? Or with
him
? Crispin couldn’t be sure, though he had a feeling the honest answer wouldn’t be pleasant.

Crispin looked back at the pianoforte. Miss Clarent looked almost bored with her own performance. She did usually seem indifferent now that Crispin thought back on it. He’d always assumed this was merely from an abundance of skill.

Miss Clarent ended her piece and the room applauded, more enthusiastically than they had for Miss Johnford’s butchered performance. Their host, Mr. Yocking, looked to the other young ladies for the next performer, though Crispin knew the evening to be at its end. Miss Clarent’s skills were so legendary that no lady he’d ever encountered had been willing to follow her. She’d been given the distinction, whether prearranged or not, of ending every musical evening as the final performer.

“I should so like to hear Lady Cavratt play,” Miss Glafford said with a look of utter adoration on her face—one she’d no doubt spent hours in front of the looking glass learning to produce. What Crispin wouldn’t have given for a cream pitcher! “I’m quite certain her skills are polished enough to follow Miss Clarent tolerably well.”

The entire room turned to look at Catherine, and Crispin watched her turn pale. He hadn’t anticipated this complication. He’d wondered why Catherine had not been invited to play, but he hadn’t pressed the issue, thinking perhaps Catherine would appreciate being left off. It seemed she’d been the victim of a well-plotted conspiracy.

“Of course, if Lady Cavratt doesn’t feel equal to the task, I’m sure we all understand.” Miss Glafford looked a touch too smug. So much for her social mask.

“Perhaps Miss Clarent would indulge us with an encore,” Mr. Yocking suggested.

“I would not wish to deprive Lady Cavratt of her opportunity,” Miss Clarent answered. Crispin could tell she felt more curiosity than concern for Catherine’s social standing, as her look wasn’t poisonous like Miss Glafford’s.

“Gracious of you, to be sure,” Miss Glafford praised with no hint of their well-known rivalry. “I am sure she would not presume to possess the talent to adequately follow you. Though I am told she is quite a diamond.”

Every eye turned to Catherine, including Miss Glafford’s and Miss Clarent’s. Crispin tensed. This was an all-out attack. If Catherine accepted and fell short, she’d be seen as a presumptuous failure. If she declined to perform, she’d be deemed inferior in the eyes of everyone in the room.

“You don’t have to do this,” Crispin said in her ear.

“The gauntlet has been thrown, my lord,” she answered as she rose to her feet.

Her response more than surprised him. What an approach to take in such a situation. Catherine, apparently, recognized she’d been dragged into a battle and had no intention of backing down.

She walked quietly to the pianoforte. Miss Glafford had the audacity to look on the verge of laughter. Crispin barely refrained from glowering at her. So help him, if she so much as brought an embarrassed blush to Catherine’s face—

He dismissed the thought before it could fully form. What had come over him lately? He was behaving like an overprotective nursemaid. No,
nursemaid
wasn’t exactly right.

Catherine sat at the pianoforte; no music, no curtsy. Crispin hoped she wasn’t also sitting there with no talent.

The room took in a collective breath. Her actions were unheard of in this circle. Miss Clarent was the pièce de résistance musically. Crispin kept his eyes on Catherine’s face. She’d told him she’d never played for another living soul. How terrified she must have been sitting there before a crowd of at least thirty anxious spectators.

He had a terrible feeling that very soon his wife would be in need of rescuing. He could just see the scene play out in his mind. Amidst jeers and guffaws, she would succumb to a fit of the vapors and collapse in a heap at the pianoforte. He, her ill-qualified knight in lackluster armor, would scoop her limp frame from the cold, unfeeling floor and whisk her off to Permount House. Several quarts of smelling salts later she’d regain consciousness, eternally grateful for his heroism. Or, more likely still, demand to know why he hadn’t ended their marriage yet.

A hushed melody floated from the pianoforte, snapping Crispin back to reality. The piece Catherine had chosen was vaguely familiar. He glanced nervously around the room. Several people were leaning forward, obviously concentrating on the music. Others had closed their eyes, as if needing to rid themselves of any distraction in order to better hear the quiet refrain.

Subtly, skillfully, the melody grew. Complicated trills and runs interwove throughout, crescendos giving way to notes little more than whispered. How different from Miss Clarent’s scales! Not a single comment or conversation interrupted the performance. All ears were on Catherine, if not every eye. Many of the assembly kept their eyes closed as they seemed to lose themselves in the beauty of the music. So much for his desperate damsel in distress. Crispin found he much preferred the actual solution to their difficulties over the one he’d imagined.

Catherine seemed entirely unconcerned with everything except the music. She swayed when the piece grew melodic, struck the keys with passion when the composition required it. A thousand feelings and emotions could be read on her face as she performed, and Crispin was hypnotized by her.

She came alive at the pianoforte. The timidity and uncertainty that seemed to always accompany her vanished as she played. Could one attach a pianoforte to a delicate wisp of a female? She seemed so much happier with the instrument. The mental image such an idea conjured was absurd to say the very least.

Crispin’s errant thoughts reigned themselves in as the music grew enormous in its complexity and volume and Catherine seemed to feel the intensity of it. Her face glowed; a fire flickered deep behind her eyes. Crispin watched awestruck, his heart pounding in his chest.

A single, reverberating chord filled the music room then faded into silence. Catherine pulled her hands from the keys and glanced up at the room. Amidst the complete silence of the audience, Crispin saw uncertainty in every inch of her face. The music’s spell over her had broken.

In a boom of thunder, the room exploded in applause. Crispin let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. The room was on its feet, accolades and praise directed toward the instrument and performer. Catherine turned decidedly red. She managed a curtsy before moving toward Crispin.

As she took her seat, cheeks flushed becomingly, Crispin took her hand in his and pressed his lips to it. “Marvelously done, Catherine.”

She didn’t reply but glanced nervously across the room to where Miss Glafford and Miss Clarent were looking daggers at her. Crispin expected Miss Glafford’s response, but Miss Clarent hadn’t struck him as ambitious enough to refuse to recognize a talented musician.

“Miss Clarent is upset,” Catherine whispered, anxiety in her voice. “I probably should have chosen a different piece. But . . .”

“I think you couldn’t have chosen better. How could Miss Clarent possibly object?”

“I . . .” A look of resolution crossed her features. “You didn’t believe me, and I wanted you to. For a moment I forgot you were not the only person listening.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I played the same piece.” Catherine looked precisely like a penitent child admitting some heinous crime.

“The same—?”

“As Miss Clarent.”

The same piece? It hadn’t sounded a thing like Miss Clarent’s. Catherine’s selection had been moving, entrancing, emotional. Miss Clarent’s had been . . . well . . . not unlike fifteen minutes’ worth of scales. No wonder she looked ready to storm and rage. “If the two of you were male, I do not doubt she’d call you out.”

“
They
issued the initial challenge.”

“Ah, yes, the gauntlet. And you appear to have chosen weapons.” Crispin nodded appreciatively. “What is left?”

“Perhaps you could serve as second,” Catherine suggested, the slightest twinkle of amusement behind her eyes. “For them.” She indicated the two fuming young ladies with a tilt of her head.

Crispin fought down a chuckle he knew would be de trop in a formal gathering. Catherine had backbone. He liked her all the better for it.

Mr. Yocking declared the evening a success and the entire room moved to obtain refreshments. Catherine and Crispin were accosted ceaselessly the rest of the evening. The guests praised her talent as well as his good judgment. In a single spectacular performance, Catherine had taken her potential critics by storm.

Mr. Finley cornered Catherine as the guests began to disperse. Crispin made his way across the room to where the two stood. He couldn’t hear their conversation but didn’t like the nervous look on Catherine’s face. Finley could be overpowering and had little sense of propriety when on the prowl.

Feeling a decided inclination to do the man some drastic injury, Crispin pressed his way past the guests dividing him from Catherine and Finley. “I think it is time for us to be on our way home, Catherine,” he said as he reached her side.

“I was only beginning to praise your lovely wife on her performance this evening, Cavratt.” Finley smiled far too much as he looked at Catherine. “Certainly you wouldn’t wish to deny her the accolades she has earned.”

“I thank you,” Catherine answered, “but I am anxious to be going.”

“As am I.” Crispin shot a look of utter dislike at the man.

“I would be in a hurry as well,” Finley added after Catherine had moved toward the door, his voice lowered so only Crispin could hear, “if I were on my way home with Catherine.”