The Kiss of a Stranger

by Sarah M. Eden

“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.