The Kiss of a Stranger (3 page)

Jane whistled, bringing the blush to Catherine’s face in an instant. “Why’d ’is Lordship go’n do that?”

“Honestly, Jane, I haven’t the slightest idea.”

Chapter Three

The journey to London required eight hours. Though they had covered only half the distance to the metropolis, Crispin felt as though three days had passed since they’d left the inn that morning. Self-castigation did not make time pass swiftly.

He discovered very little about his wife during the first half of their journey beyond the fact that she didn’t have very much to say and blushed every time he spoke or looked at her or moved. Despite the obvious drawbacks to a reticent traveling companion, he found he liked her company far more than Miss Bower’s.

Catherine had nodded off within thirty minutes of retaking the road after stopping for lunch. She was a wisp of a thing, really. No obvious fuss had been made over her appearance. His servants had ascertained from the Thorndale servants that Catherine’s uncle inherited an estate and a sizable fortune upon the death of his older brother, Catherine’s father. Yet her dress and unobtrusive mannerisms would lead anyone to mistake her for a servant.

An intelligent, thinking, logical gentleman could reasonably make that exact misinterpretation. He kept telling himself that. The mistake had been understandable and excruciatingly unfortunate and, when it came down to it, rather idiotic.

Crispin’s eyes settled on her bruised cheek. Her lady’s maid had certainly applied some plaster or another to the bruise and fat lip—it looked much better than it would have otherwise. He didn’t think Thorndale had hit her again, not after the first two times.

To hit a woman. Twice. Crispin shook his head in disgust. The man’s own niece, even. And, worse, she hadn’t been at all surprised by her uncle’s actions. What kind of life had Catherine known? Not that Crispin’s role in her life had been particularly ideal thus far, accosting her with unasked for and unwelcome attentions.

“You are a cad,” he told himself. “A cur. A bounder. A scoundrel. A . . . human thesaurus.”

The countryside flew past as the carriage rolled on toward London. Catherine slept on despite the jarring of the carriage on the rutted and ill-maintained roads. The sleep of the innocent escaped Crispin, however. The guilty, apparently, don’t sleep at all.

That kiss
. An unexpected smile began to cross his face. He hadn’t expected the kiss to affect him at all. It was, after all, merely a display of his “talents,” as he’d called them. And yet he’d spent half the night trying to pull his thoughts away from his ill-timed talent show. He’d never before held a woman who felt so perfect in his arms. Nor shared a kiss that left him unable to think.

The hinted-at smile disappeared, however, the moment he looked across the carriage at Catherine sleeping. Her bruised and swollen face was the price of that kiss. And neither of their reputations would emerge intact after an annulment.

“You
are
a cad,” he whispered to himself and forced his gaze out the window.

Several hours passed without a moment’s rest. Crispin didn’t need to look out the window to know when they arrived in London. The smell of horses and humanity hung heavy in the air, which tasted vaguely of smoke and cinders. He knew from experience his senses would cease to notice the onslaught after he’d been in residence a few days. Time always numbed him to the impact of hypocritical society as well.

Welcome back to London.

Crispin glanced across the carriage. Catherine had awoken nearly an hour earlier but had not yet spoken. She sat in the far corner of the carriage, sunken so far into the deep blue cushions she nearly disappeared. Her eyes were fixed apprehensively on the dimly lit city outside the carriage window. He wondered if she noticed the taste in the air as well.

“London can be a little overwhelming.” Crispin hoped to be consoling. It seemed like a husbandly thing to do. Husbands were usually consoling, weren’t they? He might only be her maybe-legal husband for a day or so, but he could at least do the thing properly.

“I know,” Catherine said, her voice little louder than a whisper.

Against the noise of the city, Crispin could hardly hear her. “You’ve been here before?” He leaned a little closer to hear her response.

She nodded. “When I was presented.”

“You’ve had a Season, then?” Strange. He didn’t remember seeing her in society.

Catherine shook her head but offered no further explanation.

The carriage came to a halt and Crispin glanced out the window. Permount House. At last.

A footman appeared on cue and handed Catherine out, something that seemed to surprise her. The “my lady” he offered appeared to startle her even more.

Crispin stepped out and motioned her up the steps where the butler, Hancock, held the door open for them. They stepped into the front hall and Catherine’s eyes widened. She was impressed, he surmised. He felt an unexpected surge of pride.

“You received my instructions?” Crispin asked Hancock.

“Yes, my lord.”

“And you’ve carried them out?”

“Precisely as requested.” Hancock eyed him with amusement. This uncharacteristic formality between them felt uncomfortable. The butler, well into his seventh decade, had known Crispin from the time he was in leading strings. Many gentlemen would have replaced a retainer old enough to have known their grandfathers and familiar enough with their youthful peccadilloes to treat them with too large a degree of amused familiarity. Crispin liked Hancock far too much to dismiss the man simply because he knew enough to embarrass him before all of London.

Crispin had decided that, for the few hours Catherine would reside in his home, he’d not give her any reason to disparage his household or himself after the annulment. At least something should come out of this intact. Their reputations wouldn’t, not entirely. His would, of course, emerge better than hers, he being male and the holder of an old and prestigious title.

“Will you have Miss—” He barely caught himself. “—Lady Cavratt shown to her rooms, please?”

Hancock bowed and disappeared to fetch an upper maid.

Crispin could feel Catherine’s gaze on him. How did she do that? The half a dozen times she’d actually looked at him since they’d left for London he’d been able to sense her gaze before he’d seen her face. It was a phenomenon he could not at all explain.

Catherine looked at him expectantly. Did she need something? Could it be she didn’t know the hour?

“So you can change for dinner.” He kept his voice low. Best not give the servants anything further on which to speculate.

“Change, my lord?”

“Of course.” He eyed her warily. Certainly she’d been taught society manners. Changing for dinner ranked among the most basic.

“This is the only dress I have.” Catherine hung her head, the same defeated posture her uncle’s presence had inspired.

“Then you can wash up,” he answered, trying to seem unconcerned about her appearance for her sake. “And wear . . . that.”

It really was an ugly gown. He’d never met a lady who’d have willingly worn something like that. It was only slightly more flattering than a potato sack and nearly the same color.

“This way, my lady,” one of the upper maids bid. Catherine followed after a moment of confusion.

Crispin let out a tense sigh and stepped into the sitting room to gather his thoughts and his wits. His entire life was about to be turned upside down, he could feel it. Weren’t kisses suppose to create widespread upheaval only in overly dramatic novels and fairy tales?

“Port, my lord?” Hancock offered with a little too much cheek.

“Brandy,” Crispin replied, not bothering to hide his sarcasm. “Port later. Maybe you should search out some Blue Ruin and a long pint of Huckle My Buff.”

“For a gentleman who does not drink, you have acquired a very colorful alcoholic vocabulary.” Hancock hadn’t moved a single inch to fulfill Crispin’s directive. He obviously recognized the bluff for what it was. “Is the new Lady Cavratt so unbearable?”

“I have no idea how unbearable she is or isn’t.”

With a weary look, Hancock closed the doors of the sitting room behind him and, after checking to see if they were alone, gave Crispin a look that told him to unload his mind. After an honest and thorough retelling of the previous day’s events, Crispin slumped into an upholstered chair and dropped his head sideways into his open hand.

Hancock shook his head in disbelief.

“It shouldn’t be difficult to annul,” Crispin said. “Probably nearly as easy as getting engaged. Perhaps if I kissed Mr. Brown, he’d push the annulment through as quickly as Mr. Thorndale pushed through the wedding.”

Hancock took Crispin’s grumbling in stride, not looking at all surprised. It was precisely why Crispin liked the man so much. No hypocrisy nor insincerity in Hancock. Crispin’s father had trusted the man implicitly.

“Her abigail arrived a full hour before you and her ladyship,” Hancock said. “Her Jane seems to be a woman who can assess a situation and determine with whom to share confidences.”

“I take it you’ve learned something of my . . . wife.” The last word stuck a moment before allowing itself to be spoken.
My wife.
A man really ought to have some warning before being required to utter that phrase.

Hancock nodded.

“You’re better than Bow Street. I’m married to the lady and all I know is she hardly speaks a word, is scared to death of everything, and has abhorrent taste in husbands.”

Hancock nodded his agreement, something Crispin found neither insulting nor surprising. “In addition,” Hancock said, “she is an orphan, her uncle’s ward, and she was married last night.”

“Yes, I attended the ceremony—it was lovely. And I have met her uncle. Wonderful man. Makes Napoleon seem like a pleasant sort of fellow.”

“Which may explain why the uncle never married.”

“If he’s in the market, I know a remarkably efficient way of finding oneself married with very little effort,” Crispin said. “One does not even have to know the lady.”

Hancock pressed on without acknowledging a single sardonic syllable. “According to her ladyship’s abigail, the uncle was not at all pleased with this marriage.”

“He rather insisted on it.”

“Under the assumption you’d annul it as soon as you reached London,” Hancock added. “He told Lady Cavratt as much.”

“
I
told her as much,” Crispin said. “I wouldn’t be shocked if John Coachman mentioned it in passing. It is an assumption most of London is going to make.”

“And, though her ladyship does not know the particulars,” Hancock said, “she told Jane that she suspects, rightly so, that her standing in society and her reputation will suffer as a result of the annulment.”

Crisping nodded. There would be an unavoidable scandal. She would be cut by most of society afterward, something that bothered him more than he would have guessed, considering she was little more than a stranger.

“Mr. Thorndale has cut her off,” Hancock said, a cautionary edge to his tone that caught Crispin’s attention. “In no uncertain terms, he informed her that, should the marriage be ended, he would not welcome her back.”

“His generous nature warms the soul, does it not?” No reasonable man would throw out his own flesh and blood for an infraction he knew she hadn’t committed. “Did you find out anything else?” Crispin rubbed his face wearily. “Perhaps this Jane told you if her ladyship is one who might murder an unwanted husband in his sleep.”

“I didn’t think to ask, my lord.”

Crispin recognized Hancock’s return to formality. He, too, had heard footsteps outside the door.

“Will you be dressing for dinner, my lord?”

“At risk of losing my title as a dandy,”—he was sorely tempted to roll his eyes—“I believe we will dine informally this evening.”

“Very good.” Hancock straightened his own blue livery and opened the doors of the sitting room.

Crispin stepped out, regaining his formal air. Catherine stood outside the dining room doors, dwarfed by the enormity and splendor of the hall.

“That is an ugly dress.” Crispin had the strangest urge to run out that very minute and buy her the frilliest, fanciest dress he could find. Where on earth had that sudden inclination come from? He’d never been particularly eager to buy a dress for his own sister, though he’d never begrudged her any addition to her wardrobe she’d wanted.

“Quite hideous,” Hancock concurred before hastily adding, “my lord.”

Crispin watched Hancock disappear before turning his eyes back on Catherine. Why, he wondered, was she so quiet? He’d known several people who were naturally shy, but she didn’t strike him that way. Did he, in particular, frighten her? Or was it people in general?

“Dinner is served,” Hancock announced, pulling the dining room doors open.

Crispin stepped to where Catherine stood quaking. They were going in to dinner, not an execution. He offered her his arm and she simply stared at it, confused. Now what did he do?

Crispin opted for teasing her—the approach had generally worked with his sister, Lizzie. “It is a nice arm, isn’t it?” Crispin said. “Perhaps you’d be willing to take hold of it for me—safeguard it from would-be thieves. I only have two and would hate for some unscrupulous ruffian to make off with one of them.”

He held his arm out further still, trying to get across to her that he meant for her to take it. Catherine looked between him and Hancock.

“You want me to go in
with
you?” she asked.

Why did that prospect seem to unnerve her so thoroughly? He was not such an ogre. “Yes.”

“
With
you?” she pressed again.

“And when we get in there, I’ll probably even expect you to eat, heartless dictator that I am.”

Hancock cleared his throat in an obvious attempt to stifle a laugh.

Catherine didn’t laugh as Crispin expected her to. In fact, he didn’t believe he’d heard her laugh once in the twenty-four hours or so they’d been acquainted. Granted, there hadn’t been many lighthearted moments.

She cautiously slid her arm through his. It was progress, anyway. He practically had to drag her with every step, though. She actually looked shocked when a footman slid her chair underneath her. A bowl of mock-turtle soup was set before the both of them. Despite its less-than-worthy reputation, the impostor soup had become a favorite of Crispin’s.