Catherine seemed entirely unconcerned with everything except the music. She swayed when the piece grew melodic, struck the keys with passion when the composition required it. A thousand feelings and emotions could be read on her face as she performed, and Crispin was hypnotized by her.
She came alive at the pianoforte. The timidity and uncertainty that seemed to always accompany her vanished as she played. Could one attach a pianoforte to a delicate wisp of a female? She seemed so much happier with the instrument. The mental image such an idea conjured was absurd to say the very least.
Crispin’s errant thoughts reigned themselves in as the music grew enormous in its complexity and volume and Catherine seemed to feel the intensity of it. Her face glowed; a fire flickered deep behind her eyes. Crispin watched awestruck, his heart pounding in his chest.
A single, reverberating chord filled the music room then faded into silence. Catherine pulled her hands from the keys and glanced up at the room. Amidst the complete silence of the audience, Crispin saw uncertainty in every inch of her face. The music’s spell over her had broken.
In a boom of thunder, the room exploded in applause. Crispin let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. The room was on its feet, accolades and praise directed toward the instrument and performer. Catherine turned decidedly red. She managed a curtsy before moving toward Crispin.
As she took her seat, cheeks flushed becomingly, Crispin took her hand in his and pressed his lips to it. “Marvelously done, Catherine.”
She didn’t reply but glanced nervously across the room to where Miss Glafford and Miss Clarent were looking daggers at her. Crispin expected Miss Glafford’s response, but Miss Clarent hadn’t struck him as ambitious enough to refuse to recognize a talented musician.
“Miss Clarent is upset,” Catherine whispered, anxiety in her voice. “I probably should have chosen a different piece. But . . .”
“I think you couldn’t have chosen better. How could Miss Clarent possibly object?”
“I . . .” A look of resolution crossed her features. “You didn’t believe me, and I wanted you to. For a moment I forgot you were not the only person listening.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I played the same piece.” Catherine looked precisely like a penitent child admitting some heinous crime.
“The same—?”
“As Miss Clarent.”
The same piece? It hadn’t sounded a thing like Miss Clarent’s. Catherine’s selection had been moving, entrancing, emotional. Miss Clarent’s had been . . . well . . . not unlike fifteen minutes’ worth of scales. No wonder she looked ready to storm and rage. “If the two of you were male, I do not doubt she’d call you out.”
“They issued the initial challenge.”
“Ah, yes, the gauntlet. And you appear to have chosen weapons.” Crispin nodded appreciatively. “What is left?”
“Perhaps you could serve as second,” Catherine suggested, the slightest twinkle of amusement behind her eyes. “For them.” She indicated the two fuming young ladies with a tilt of her head.
Crispin fought down a chuckle he knew would be de trop in a formal gathering. Catherine had backbone. He liked her all the better for it.
Mr. Yocking declared the evening a success and the entire room moved to obtain refreshments. Catherine and Crispin were accosted ceaselessly the rest of the evening. The guests praised her talent as well as his good judgment. In a single spectacular performance, Catherine had taken her potential critics by storm.
Mr. Finley cornered Catherine as the guests began to disperse. Crispin made his way across the room to where the two stood. He couldn’t hear their conversation but didn’t like the nervous look on Catherine’s face. Finley could be overpowering and had little sense of propriety when on the prowl.
Feeling a decided inclination to do the man some drastic injury, Crispin pressed his way past the guests dividing him from Catherine and Finley. “I think it is time for us to be on our way home, Catherine,” he said as he reached her side.
“I was only beginning to praise your lovely wife on her performance this evening, Cavratt.” Finley smiled far too much as he looked at Catherine. “Certainly you wouldn’t wish to deny her the accolades she has earned.”
“I thank you,” Catherine answered, “but I am anxious to be going.”
“As am I.” Crispin shot a look of utter dislike at the man.
“I would be in a hurry as well,” Finley added after Catherine had moved toward the door, his voice lowered so only Crispin could hear, “if I were on my way home with Catherine.”
“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.
&
nbsp; “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.
The Kiss of a Stranger Page 10
