The Kiss of a Stranger (10 page)

“You do not have leave to use her Christian name, Finley. And I advise you to remember that she is my wife.”

Finley laughed as though he doubted the importance of Crispin’s last assertion. “A technicality most of the ton expects you to address shortly.”

“The ton can hang,” Crispin snapped. He would have said more if not for the increasingly familiar sensation that grasped him. Somewhere, Catherine was looking at him. Why was it he could always sense that?

Finley’s gaze slid past him and his brow rose seductively. Crispin turned to see Catherine behind him, far enough not to overhear, but close enough to see the exchange.

“Tell Catherine I look forward to seeing her again,” Finley said.

“Take care when speaking of my wife, Finley. In a less-civilized setting, the consequences would be swift and painful.”

“A threat?” Finley smirked, but Crispin thought he saw a hint of uncertainty in the man’s face.

“A promise.” Crispin left without another word. He held his arm out to Catherine, doing his best to look unshaken. They offered their farewells and climbed inside the carriage for a long and silent ride home.

Finley! Crispin’s blood boiled. How dare he insinuate what he had. And to profess his intention of meddling with Catherine. He’d have the bounder thrown from Town! No man had the right to speak about Catherine so vulgarly.

The rake was fortunate Crispin’s temper did not match that of others in society. The Duke of Kielder probably would have run Finley through on the spot. Crispin found the idea extremely appealing.

He stomped up the steps to Permount House, flung his outer coat at Hancock, and stormed into the sitting room. Finley had always pushed the bounds of propriety, but this was the outside of beyond. Using her Christian name. Looking at her the way he had. Catherine was a married woman. A married woman. Married to
him
!

“Crispin?” Catherine stepped past the sitting room door, half hidden in shadow.

Finley’s scheming look and pointed remarks came back again with force. Crispin continued his tense pacing.

“Are you angry with me?” Catherine asked from somewhere behind him.

“Of course not,” he grumbled.

“You sound upset.”

“I’m not upset.” He took a calming breath. “Not with you.”

“I probably did something wrong. Without Lizzie there to help tonight, I . . .”

“No, no.” Crispin forced all thoughts of Finley from his mind. Catherine did not deserve to be snapped at. He turned back toward her and motioned her inside the room.

With just the moonlight spilling in from the windows, she looked like a fairy. Yet another uncharacteristically sentimental thought. He’d had a lot of those of late.

“You played quite well tonight,” Crispin said once Catherine had crossed to where he stood. “I doubt anyone but Miss Clarent realized you had both played the same piece. They sounded nothing alike.”

“We played all the same notes.”

“But it was not the same. You . . .” Crispin searched for the right explanation. It came with a healthy dose of irony. “You understood the music.”

Catherine smiled up at him. With the moonlight illuminating her face and stray strands of hair wisping in front of her bewitching eyes, she was a vision.

“I won the duel, then?” Catherine asked, a twinkle in her blue eyes.

“You dealt your opponents a disarming blow.” Crispin stepped closer to her.

“A
disarming
blow?” The same mischievous tone she’d used earlier crept back into her voice. “But not fatal?”

“I’m afraid not.” He moved closer still. “I am certain they will rally again.”

“Then what is my best course of action?” She smiled, entrancing him. “Do I wait for them to regroup? Or do I retreat?”

“You must face their second.” He stood so close he could smell roses once more. “That is the proper protocol.”

“Didn’t
you
agree to be their second?” Catherine asked, her eyes focused on him.

Crispin reached to finger a wisp of honey-colored hair, guiding it back behind her ear. She looked so like a sprite he half expected her to vanish under his touch. Crispin’s heart pounded, his breath catching in his lungs. He leaned in.

Catherine stepped back. He stood frozen for a fraction of a moment, feeling the loss more acutely than he could have imagined.

Had he almost kissed her? He opened his mouth to apologize, to offer some kind of excuse, but the look of confusion in her eyes silenced him.

“I . . .” Catherine continued backing away from him, her confusion giving way to a look of concern. “Uh . . . good night.” She offered the final words with tremendous speed before spinning on the spot and nearly running from the room. She hadn’t run from him in days.

“Blast,” Crispin grumbled. He’d let himself get carried away by moonlight and music. And he’d frightened her.

Chapter Twelve

Catherine had no desire to entertain a caller. She had a great deal to think about.

Crispin was acting strange. Her
heart
was acting strange, pounding every time she thought about the look on his face as he’d stroked her cheek after the musicale a few nights before. There had been something in his expression she couldn’t define—gentle and kind and intense all at the same time—and she was absolutely certain that for a moment he’d intended to kiss her.

In a flash of panic, she’d realized what a horrible misstep she’d made. At some point between his kiss in the garden and that moment in the moonlight, Catherine had begun to fall in love with him. An unrequited attachment would only further complicate their situation.

She stepped inside the sitting room where Hancock had placed their unexpected visitor, a pretty young lady seated near the window whom she didn’t recognize.

“Good morning,” Catherine said.

“Good morning, Lady Cavratt.” Her visitor laughed the last words out, though she did condescend to rise.

This stranger had come to laugh at her, apparently. Why could she not simply be left alone to sort out the confused state of her life? She needed to ascertain just why a gentleman who was actively pursuing an annulment would come so excruciatingly close to kissing his wife. Further, she’d like to find some reasonable explanation for why that wife would spend four nights in a row wondering what it would have been like if she’d allowed him to do just that.

“Hancock.” She turned toward the door where Crispin’s ever-faithful butler still stood. “Would you ask Cook to send some refreshment, please?”

“Of course, my lady.”

Perhaps if she fed the visitor, she would go on her way and leave Catherine to her recollections. The lady seemed vaguely familiar, though she couldn’t place the face. “Please be seated, Miss—”

“Bower. Miss Cynthia Bower.”

“Won’t you please be seated, Miss Bower?”

They sat in awkward silence for several minutes. Catherine had never been equal to small talk, and Miss Bower seemed unwilling to take the initiative. Something in Miss Bower’s gaze proved disconcerting, as if she were taking a mental tally of all Catherine’s flaws.

“So Crispin still hasn’t untangled himself, then?”

Catherine was too taken aback to reply.

“I imagine he will do so at any moment—once the wrinkles are ironed out. The law, I understand, can be a bit complicated.”

“I wouldn’t know, as Crispin and I have never discussed anything of that nature.” She managed the lie with more aplomb than she had in the past.

Miss Bower simply smiled in patent disbelief.

A kitchen maid entered, setting a tray of tempting pastries and a tea service on a table before curtsying her way out.

“Would you care for tea, Miss Bower?” Catherine asked. She heard her voice break but did her utmost to keep her expression composed. She had yet to discuss the annulment in detail with
Crispin.
She certainly wasn’t going to do so with an overly critical busybody.

“Certainly.” Miss Bower did not attempt to hide her amusement.

The china clanked embarrassingly. Catherine handed Miss Bower her teacup before turning back to pour a minuscule amount for herself. She had absolutely no appetite.

“I heard Cook sent up fairy cakes.”

Catherine looked up at the sound of Crispin’s voice and saw him step inside the room. The look of annoyance he gave Miss Bower significantly lessened Catherine’s anxiety.

Crispin’s eyes locked with hers, and his expression changed completely. A look of concern crossed his features and it pulled Catherine to her feet. She met him halfway inside the room, a very hastily filled teacup in her hands.

“Are you in need of a second?” he asked quietly, his lips turned up in amusement.

“Desperately,” she whispered in reply, carefully setting the cup and saucer in his hand.

“Come, then,” he whispered in her ear. “Off to battle with us.”

The sensation of his breath tickling the stray strands of hair waving atop her ears was almost unnerving. Her heart pounded, her insides tying themselves in fierce knots. Crispin slipped her arm through his and they turned back toward Miss Bower. He set his teacup on an obliging table.

“Miss Bower.” He offered the customary, if abbreviated, bow. “You have, I assume, met my wife, Lady Cavratt.”

A smirky smile crossed her lips. “I have.”

Catherine took a deep breath, remarkably emboldened by the strength of Crispin’s touch. She felt braver with him beside her, even if his presence did tend to make breathing more difficult.

“How are your country friends, Miss Bower?” Crispin asked

“My country friends?” Miss Bower appeared quite baffled.

Crispin offered no further explanation but watched Miss Bower expectantly.

“I cannot claim any great acquaintance in the country just now.”

“Is that so?”

“Quite.” Miss Bower gave Catherine a rather smug look.

“How odd. I distinctly recall you were visiting friends in the country very recently.” Crispin raised an eyebrow.

“My . . . er . . .” Miss Bower creased her eyebrows a moment before understanding crossed her features.

“The Dawning of Realization,” Crispin muttered, guiding Catherine to sit on the sofa. Much to her shock, he sat directly beside her and quite calmly retook his tea.

“What, pray tell, was
your
reason for being away from Town, Crispin?” Miss Bower asked in turn, her own look just as challenging as Crispin’s had been.

“That,
Miss Bower
”—He seemed to place a tremendous emphasis on his very formal use of her name—“ought to be obvious.”

“It ought to be?” Miss Bower asked.

A mischievous smile crossed Crispin’s face. Catherine had discovered he possessed a remarkably sharp wit.

“While Miss Bower attempts to unravel this rather simple riddle,” Crispin said to Catherine, “would you retrieve a fairy cake for your famished husband?”

“Famished?”

“A fairy cake may mean the difference between a long, prosperous life and expiring right here in the sitting room.”

“I would sorely hate to be a widow after only a couple weeks.” Catherine shook her head and sighed a touch dramatically. “It is terribly inconvenient to have to change households so often.”

“
Inconvenient
?” Crispin’s feigned shock proved even more amusing than his exaggerated hunger. “You would mourn the inconvenience? I am wounded, Catherine. You have pierced my heart.”

“Oh, I doubt that very much.” The effort required to conceal her smile was almost too much.
A true lady does not smile like a ninny,
Uncle’s voice rang in her mind.

Crispin’s expression grew instantly more serious. “You needn’t hide your amusement, Catherine. I only tease you because I dearly love to see you smile.”

They sat nearly touching on the sofa. Crispin brushed the back of his fingers along Catherine’s cheek. She felt her cheeks burn bright. He really needed to not do that if she were to have any hope of emerging from their time together with any semblance of a whole heart.

“A very convincing performance,” a voice suddenly interrupted.

Catherine had completely forgotten about Miss Bower.

“Performance?” Crispin asked, casually retaking his tea.

“I understand your effort to avoid a scandal, Crispin,” Miss Bower said. “But there is no need to playact for me. I was there, you will remember.”

She was
where
?

“Yes, you do seem to possess an abhorrent sense of timing,” Crispin answered dryly. “You took all the romance out of our reunion, and, I fear, cast quite a shadow over our wedding.”

What were they talking about?

“An annulment will stir up a scandal regardless of your efforts,” Miss Bower said.

Crispin rose, agitation obvious in his posture. Was he upset about the possibility of a scandal? At the enormity of that scandal? Catherine had been too little in society to know precisely what the aftermath of an annulment would truly be.

“I, of course, will be willing to stand by you when the gossip begins to fly,” Miss Bower said, her assurances directed exclusively at Crispin. “And, I have on good authority, so will most of the Upper Ten-thousand.”

“It is a shame you have to be going so soon, Miss Bower.” Crispin motioned toward the doors.

Miss Bower rose and made her way toward the double doors. Catherine managed to get to her feet, though she remained safely beside Crispin. His hand slipped around hers as Miss Bower collected her bonnet and gloves. Catherine’s breath caught in her lungs. Her heart was most certainly in danger if the mere touch of his hand could cause such an immediate blush.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Lady Cavratt,” Miss Bower said. Her gaze drifted to Catherine and Crispin’s entwined hands—a sight that didn’t seem to please her at all. “Crispin, always a pleasure.”

“Thank you,
Miss Bower
.”

Their very unwelcome visitor made her way out of the house. Catherine held more tightly to Crispin’s hand. She knew that leaning on him was not wise—learning to stand on her own two feet would be far more prudent. She would work on that, but in that moment she didn’t want to let Crispin go.

Despite Miss Bower’s acidic comments, Catherine had found some enjoyment in the visit. Crispin had shown that witty side of himself that Catherine found she liked very much. He hadn’t laughed—she loved his laugh—but he’d smiled. And, quite surprisingly, he’d told her he liked to see her smile. He “dearly loved” it, he’d said. The warm strength of his hand wrapped around hers helped lighten the lingering weight of Miss Bower’s remarks.

“She is always a ray of sunshine,” Crispin said as they reached the windows, Miss Bower’s carriage just then disappearing up the street. “Makes a man want to . . . jump in the Thames with an anvil tied to his ankle.”

Crispin released her hand and much of the courage she’d found evaporated.

“She seemed . . . to . . .”

“. . . know a great deal about us?” Crispin still gazed out the windows. “She does. Miss Bower was in the garden that day at the inn.”

Everything suddenly fit. The familiarity. The smug sense of understanding. Miss Bower was the beautiful young lady Catherine had seen Crispin walking with that day.

“We have, hopefully, delayed her retelling of those events.” Crispin wandered toward the tray of pastries, taking a fairy cake. “She wouldn’t want to expose herself as a truthless gossip if our performance contradicts her assertions.”

Our performance.
Crispin had been pretending. Catherine shook her head in frustration with herself. Of course it had been an act—everything about their marriage was an act. He pretended to be happy with her and she pretended to be unconcerned about her future.

What was wrong with her lately? Even under her uncle’s roof she’d managed to find ways to take control of her life. She had taken up instrument after instrument as a means of avoiding him, smuggled sweet biscuits to her room after tea to enjoy later, escaped through books she’d discovered amongst her mother’s things in the attic. Uncle may have controlled much of her life, but Catherine had never been one to give up entirely. She should have been actively seeking out her options since arriving at Permount House rather than developing a tendresse for her temporary husband.

Crispin’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Are you all right, Catherine?”

Catherine nodded but refused to look in his eyes. A single kind look from him would undermine all her resolve—she would find a way to convince herself he hadn’t been entirely pretending, that in some small way he wanted her to stay. Distance and neutrality were an absolute must.

She needed to get her emotions under control before she broke down. A few moments on her own ought to be sufficient to talk a little sense into herself before she allowed her heart to convince her head of the impossible.