A bit thrown off by the impact of a single tiny smile, Crispin made his way to Lizzie and Edward’s home entirely by memory. He paid very little attention to the path he took. His sister and brother-in-law lived only half a dozen doors down from Permount House. To Crispin’s relief, though not his surprise, they were at home and received him with enthusiasm and obvious curiosity.
“The rumor mill has been turning again, Crispin.” Lizzie eyed him over her steaming cup of tea.
“And what poor sap is being grinded in it this time?” Crispin was fairly certain he was the poor sap.
“It seems the highly sought after but quite uncatchable Lord Cavratt has been snared,” Lizzie said with an amused raise of her eyebrow before laughing out loud. “How many times have we heard gossip of that nature, Edward?”
“At least three times every Season.” Lizzie’s husband, Edward, grinned.
“But the gossips are quite frustrated in their efforts this time,” Lizzie continued. “Lady Littleton was here not an hour ago fishing for information. I couldn’t even give her a name.”
“That is the easiest part,” Crispin said.
“Oh, I could have rattled off several dozen names that could reasonably be connected to you.” Lizzie waved her hand dismissively. “You are being pursued by at least that many. I didn’t think you would appreciate my picking at random.”
“What name would you have her choose?” Edward asked, obviously amused by the entire thing.
“Catherine is a nice name.” Crispin shrugged as if it were merely a passing thought.
“To be sure.” Lizzie eyed him quizzically. “But why choose it?”
“Because that is her name.”
“You, apparently, have heard more detailed rumors than I. How did these rumors get started, I wonder.” Lizzie sipped her tea. “Did you dance with her once too often?”
“No.”
“Her mother is a little too anxious?”
“No.”
Lizzie’s lips pursed the way they always did when she felt her brother’s teasing had gone too far. “You are going to torture your own sister by refusing to relate some humorous on-dit? Come now. How did this bit of gossip get started?”
Crispin shrugged. “It’s quite simple, actually. I married her.”
“Good heavens!” Lizzie’s teacup clanked against its saucer. “You’re serious! What convinced you to do that?”
“Her rather large uncle.”
Crispin recounted the entire ridiculous ordeal, though leaving out Mr. Thorndale’s rough treatment of his niece. Somehow he couldn’t bring himself to further embarrass Catherine. Lizzie expressed disbelief and disgust when the story warranted it. Edward simply listened, mouth hanging in surprise.
“I have considered an annulment,” Crispin said. “But that is proving more complicated than I’d anticipated.”
“You obviously have grounds,” Edward said. “The license was obviously forged.”
“Why is it that gentlemen only ever think in terms of cold logic?” Lizzie set her teacup on the side table with a clink of annoyance. “Of course he has grounds for an annulment, but that does not make obtaining one a good idea.”
Lizzie, then, thought a marriage contracted under threat of bodily harm between two people entirely unacquainted with one another beyond one shattering kiss ought to be considered ideal? Lizzie’s thought processes had always been baffling.
“You will survive the scandal given time, but a lady, unless she is a duke’s daughter or possesses an even higher rank, would not emerge from the aftermath with anything resembling a good reputation.” Lizzie’s expression clearly told him that she found her brother sadly lacking in intelligence. “This Catherine of yours would not be welcomed anywhere afterward. She could, perhaps, find a position as a governess, if such a position were located far from the eyes of society and if the family were desperate enough to overlook the smirch on her good name.”
“Oh, but it is worse than even that,” Crispin said. “The best chance for being granted an annulment lies in denouncing Mr. Thorndale for his illegally obtained license in the most public and inflammatory way possible. The ecclesiastical courts would most likely grant the annulment, but in the process, Catherine would, at best, be painted as a mindless pawn and, at worse, as a—”
“Coconspirator,” Edward finished.
“Precisely.” Crispin wouldn’t wish such a thing on Catherine.
“But,” Lizzie said, “to be forced to remain married to someone she hardly knows . . .” She shook her head. “I couldn’t imagine being at all happy in a marriage I hadn’t chosen.”
Not being at all happy. Was that what Crispin had to look forward to should he remain married?
“Have you explained all of this to her?” Lizzie looked the very picture of their old nurse when she’d scolded them for irresponsibility.
He shook his head. “Being the picture-perfect husband I am, I lied to her. I told her there were legal complications and then very quickly changed the subject.”
“Good strategy,” Edward said with a nod of approval.
Lizzie did not appear to agree. “She will bear the weight of whatever comes of this. Either she will be shunned by good society and left to earn her keep by spending the remainder of her life in drudgery and necessary exile, or she’ll be married to you.”
“Why is it, dearest sister, that I cannot tell which option you consider the more horrid?”
Lizzie studied him a moment, as if piecing something together. “She hates you, does she?” Sympathetic sisters were, it seemed, hard to come by.
“Oddly enough, I don’t think she does.” Catherine had every reason in the world to be storming through his house, looking daggers at him and despising him. But she had done nothing of the sort. “I seem to have married a saint.”
“And when do I get to meet this pattern card of feminine virtue?” Lizzie asked. “Before you pack her off to slave away over a brood of destructive brats, I hope.”
“Tonight at dinner.” They never stood on ceremony with invitations. “You, of course, will be bringing carriage loads of presents.”
“Will I now?”
“Bonnets. Shawls. Slippers. Even unmentionables, I think.” Crispin tapped his lip thoughtfully.
“And why will I be bringing these, um, gifts?”
“Because I will be paying the bills.”
“Ah, that does make a difference, doesn’t it? Is there anything else on your list?”
Plenty. A return to normalcy. A wife he knew something about beyond her tendency to blush and cower in terror. A foolproof guide to what he ought to do about the messy situation in which he’d landed. “I have no idea. What do you think she needs?”
“What does she have?”
“A potato sack that is currently serving as a dress.”
“Anything else?”
“A coat. A pair of boots that are, miraculously, still holding together. I have no idea if she even owns a night rail.”
“Her uncle’s generosity at work, I assume,” Edward said.
Crispin nodded. “An oversight I very much want to rectify.”
Lizzie looked far too intrigued for Crispin’s peace of mind. “I accept.”
* * *
Crispin watched Catherine throughout dinner that night. Lizzie and Edward were hardly intimidating, but Catherine seemed overwhelmed. How, he wondered, could she possibly survive a formal dinner party?
Lizzie completely monopolized Catherine after dinner, spending nearly an hour in a one-sided conversation Crispin didn’t attempt to overhear. He stayed near the fire, pondering every upcoming social obligation he had scheduled and trying to determine the best way to help Catherine survive. Perhaps they could shrug off, say she was ill. But no. That would give rise to even more unwanted rumors.
If only he knew how to go forward. Crispin had sent a note to Mr. Brown, his solicitor, that afternoon. Though he had not committed one way or the other to the annulment proceedings, h
e instructed Brown to prepare the paperwork for either scenario. Brown would investigate the criminal aspect of Thorndale’s forged license, as well as Catherine’s situation so a marriage settlement could be drafted should they not obtain an annulment.
The clock chimed nine and Catherine excused herself, nearly running from the room as she’d done the night before. She would eventually grow accustomed to Town hours and Town manners and Town greediness. London had a tendency to corrupt with mind-boggling speed. He hoped she proved an exception.
Crispin turned his eyes on his sister and brother-in-law. “Care to place any wagers on the likelihood of her surviving anything beyond a poorly attended musicale?”
“I’ll give you five to one,” Edward said.
“Will you two stop it?” Lizzie had her fist propped on one hip. That look always preceded pain and suffering, usually in the form of a drawn-out lecture directed at him.
“Lizzie”—Crispin jumped in before she could thrash him too thoroughly—“you know I would never actually wager on any lady’s chances for social success, especially not my own wife’s.”
She seemed only minimally appeased. “Catherine is quiet, but when she does speak, she is well spoken. With proper clothing and attention to her hair, I do believe she will prove herself an unparalleled beauty, which, as you know, goes a long way toward obtaining the ton’s approval.”
“Do you not think you’re doing it a bit brown? Catherine is quite pretty, I grant you that. But—”
“You don’t believe me.” Lizzie’s other fist took its place on her other hip.
“Now you’re in for it,” Edward muttered.
“I always believe every word you say, beloved sister.” Crispin bowed for good measure.
“Mark my words.” Lizzie waved her finger in warning. “When I have finished with dear Catherine, she will be the toast of the ton and every gentleman in London will be desperate to know where you’ve been hiding her.”
“‘Dear Catherine,’ is it?” Crispin shook his head in amused disbelief. “I hope that you are absolutely correct and that Catherine will mesmerize all of society. In fact, if you can accomplish precisely that, I will buy you that ridiculous excuse for a bonnet you’ve been attempting to convince your husband to buy you for weeks.”
Edward chuckled.
Lizzie squealed. “Agreed!”
Crispin would buy Lizzie the entire millinery if she could help Catherine in any way.
“Do you really mean to take her out amongst the ton?” Edward asked.
“I don’t imagine I can avoid it.”
“You most certainly could, which makes me wonder just what conclusion you’ve come to. If you were firmly set on tossing her out, I suspect you would have sent her to rusticate someplace inconspicuous.”
“Oh, Crispin!” Lizzie looked very nearly giddy. “Have you decided to keep her?”
“You make her sound like an abandoned puppy. And no. I haven’t decided anything yet.”
There were too many complications. Regaining his freedom seemed to require sacrificing Catherine’s future. But Lizzie’s declaration earlier that day—that she couldn’t be happy in a marriage she was forced into—made him wonder if ending the marriage might not be best, after all. What good was saving Catherine’s reputation if she spent the rest of her life miserable? Maybe she would be miserable either way.
No, he hadn’t decided anything yet.
Chapter Six
The day of the Hardfords’ dinner party dawned without a hint of Madame LaCroix’s gowns. Crispin did not generally spend hours on end watching the streets for a delivery, yet he’d been practically glued to the front windows all day. His agitation, though, was nothing compared with what he saw in Catherine.
She tiptoed around the house, avoiding everyone, including the servants, and wrung her hands in almost constant agitation. Her lips were pulled tightly together, her eyes constantly darting to the clock. A man felt like a failure seeing his wife so ill at ease in their home.
He’d done everything he could think of to lessen her anxiety. Lizzie made daily appearances, spending hours on end discussing what Catherine should expect at the dinner, topics of conversation, who would be in attendance—everything Lizzie could think of. The effort didn’t seem to help.
Catherine looked more nervous with each passing day. If she could just make it through the dinner without crumbling, Crispin would consider the night a success. But they didn’t stand a chance if Catherine had nothing decent to wear. A lady ought not feel self-conscious about her appearance at her first society function.
“Several packages have just arrived, my lord,” Hancock said from the doorway. “Where would you like them placed?”
An entire day staring out the windows and he’d missed the delivery? “Bring them in here, and please send for Lady Cavratt.”
Crispin laid aside his book, a pointless distraction after all. Three of the footmen entered, heavily laden with long white boxes and smaller parcels of red and blue. Crispin rose, relief seeping through him as he recognized Madame LaCroix’s seal on the larger boxes. The dressmaker had cut the delivery time awfully close.
He counted four gown-sized boxes. Madam LaCroix’s staff had been busy. The smaller boxes were most likely wraps or accessories. Lizzie’s acquisitions had arrived the day before and she’d obviously enjoyed spending her brother’s blunt. Catherine’s abigail had placed it all out of sight, certain her lady would “swoon for days on end” if faced with so much finery at once.
Until she came into his life, he hadn’t known more than a handful of ladies who did not have an insatiable thirst for all things fashionable and expensive. He liked that about her but wondered how quickly society would change her.
A moment later, Catherine appeared in the doorway, still bedecked in her brown-gray gunnysack, looking at him the way a child would look at a parent about to dole out a harsh punishment.
“I promise you are quite safe,” Crispin said. “I have already eaten.”
She slowly inched inside the doorway, her gaze flitting between Crispin and the pile of parcels. Crispin waited for her reaction, for a look of avarice to enter those bewitching eyes. Catherine stood completely still and obviously confused. She kept her gaze firmly on the floor.
“Have I done something wrong?” she asked after what seemed like ages.
“Wrong?”
“Hancock said you wanted me to come down here.” Her voice shook a little as she spoke.
“To show you this.” Crispin motioned at the enormous pile she couldn’t help but have noticed.
“Packages?” Catherine’s eyes suddenly seemed to register understanding. “Madame LaCroix,” she whispered. Her eyes jumped around at all the parcels, her face growing more panic-stricken each second. “All of these are for me?”
“A couple of the gowns may be for Hancock.” Crispin shrugged. “The Cavratt livery just isn’t very becoming with his coloring.”
“Really?” Was that a hint of sarcasm he heard in her voice? The thought made Crispin smile.
“The rest are for you.”
Catherine looked up and stared at him, shaking her head. She looked unhappy. How could she possibly be unhappy with an entire new wardrobe? Buying things for Lizzie had never failed to improve her mood.
“This is too much.” Catherine looked very nearly miserable. “I can’t possibly accept all of this.”
Crispin chided himself for what must have been the hundredth time that week. He’d assumed she was scoffing at his generosity when she’d simply been overwhelmed. She never seemed to act the way he expected her to. A wife really ought to be easily understood, oughtn’t she? Surely other husbands did not find themselves so frequently and thoroughly confused by the ladies they’d married.
“I refuse to send any of it back, so you’ll simply have to accept it.” Crispin tried for a lighter tone.
Catherine turned those pleading eyes on him. “I’ve been such a burden already.”
“N
onsense.” Her look tugged at his heart in an increasingly familiar way. Something about those eyes of hers haunted him. “Consider it a thank-you for not scratching out my eyes during the past week.”
Catherine turned toward the stacked boxes. “May I open one?” she asked, her voice so quiet Crispin hardly registered the hesitant question.
“Open them all if you’d like.”
Her eagerness, though subdued, was refreshing. Catherine lifted a long white box from the pile. She knelt beside it, slowly raised the lid, and set it cautiously on the floor. Her long, slender fingers carefully peeled back a layer of thin paper. Then another.
Crispin stepped closer, glancing over her shoulder at the box. Madame LaCroix had promised him a miracle, and he wanted to see if she’d kept her word. The box Catherine had selected contained a cream-colored morning dress, its three-quarter-length sleeves edged in delicate lace. A thick ribbon of deep maroon edged the bodice and neckline.
Catherine stood, pulling the dress out as she did, the skirt falling gracefully to full length. Looking closer, Crispin spied hair-thin stripes of shimmering maroon interwoven in the delicate fabric. A pretty dress, to own the truth, but hardly the eye-catching creation Crispin had been expecting.
“That is not one of Hancock’s.” Perhaps a bit of humor would head off the disappointment Catherine must have been feeling.
She turned to face him, her eyes threateningly red-edged, her lips pressed together in an obvious attempt to steady them. She really was disappointed, Crispin thought.
“I’ve never owned anything so beautiful,” Catherine whispered with inarguable sincerity.
Beautiful? The dress was very plain by society’s standards, certainly nothing he’d expect a lady to become emotional about. At least not pleasantly emotional.
“Oh, I’m obviously already making a cake of myself.” Catherine clutched the gown closer to her, watching him with growing concern. “I will try not to embarrass you tonight, Crispin. I promise.” She’d moved to where Crispin stood evaluating the confusing scene unfolding before him. “I’m only . . . so overwhelmed . . . by your generosity. Thank—”
The Kiss of a Stranger Page 5
