The Kiss of a Stranger

by Sarah M. Eden

  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 gues
sed, 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.

  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 a
t 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.