The Kiss of a Stranger

by Sarah M. Eden

  “He would lose his footing.” Crispin suddenly grasped Catherine’s point. “Without the possibility of claiming your inheritance, he would likely drop the charges. I doubt we would ever be bothered by him again.”

  “Is it possible, do you think? Could we stall him somehow?”

  She hadn’t objected to the “we” nor his insinuation that they would be together in the long term. Encouraging signs, indeed. Feeling lighter and more hopeful than he had in weeks, despite the legal entanglements hanging over his head, Crispin nodded confidently. “Philip’s brother Jason, the barrister I mentioned, is remarkably good at his profession. If anyone can think of a solution, he can.”

  “Do you think he would help?” Catherine grasped his arm, her expression hesitantly hopeful.

  He brushed one lingering tear off her cheek with his thumb, more shaken by her touch than he had expected. “The Jonquils are a reliable bunch.” Even if they did attempt to win the heart of one’s wife. Philip, however, would not find himself doing so much longer. Crispin fully intended to win her heart for himself.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Catherine had hardly touched her dinner. Her appetite seemed to have fled with Uncle’s latest attempt to destroy any hint of happiness that entered her life. Worse, he meant to destroy Crispin in the process.

  Her gaze wandered to Crispin, leaning against the mantel. He was absurdly handsome, really. Catherine smiled to herself at her wayward thoughts. She had never met a kinder person—a touch moody, perhaps, but kind to his very soul. He could easily have made her life miserable after the difficult beginning they’d had. Instead, he’d been gentle and understanding, providing her with clothing and pin money, seeing to her comforts and needs, laughing with and smiling at her.

  She pulled her feet underneath her as she sat in her favorite window seat and leaned her head against the cool glass. How easily she had fallen in love with him.

  “Mr. Jason Jonquil,” Hancock announced from the library door.

  A young gentleman stepped inside. He bore a remarkable resemblance to Lord Lampton: golden hair, a tall and lean frame. Personally, Catherine preferred Crispin’s dark hair and athletic build. But he likely did not prefer a relatively plain, soft-spoken lady.

  Knowing her duty, Catherine rose and crossed the room to where the two gentlemen stood.

  “Thank you for coming, Jason.” Crispin shook Mr. Jonquil’s hand. “May I introduce my wife?”

  Catherine tried to look confident as she offered the appropriate curtsy and greeting.

  “I read the information you sent me.” Mr. Jonquil’s serious expression stood in stark contrast to his brother’s usually jovial demeanor. “Mr. Brown has accurately surmised your options, and I would, of course, be willing to serve as counsel in any case that might arise.”

  “We are, actually, hoping to avoid the predicament altogether,” Crispin said. “We have reason to believe if the inheritance were out of his reach, Thorndale would drop the suit entirely.”

  Mr. Jonquil clasped his hands behind his back and pursed his lips, apparently thinking through the situation. “And you say this Thorndale has a magistrate in his pocket?”

  Crispin nodded. Catherine’s eyes darted between them. There simply had to be a way to stop her uncle.

  “If this ‘friend’ of his agrees to hear it, there’s very little to stop the proceedings from being pushed through,” Mr. Jonquil admitted solemnly. “If Thorndale is determined enough, the proceedings could receive a great deal of attention—very little occurs in the courts that cannot be leaked to the press and the public with minimal effort.”

  “Would his charges hold up?” Crispin asked.

  Mr. Jonquil shook his head. “Your word far outweighs his. The damage would still be done, however. Speculation would be rife, every accusation reiterated in papers and news sheets. He can easily cast enough doubt on the legality of your marriage to tie the hands of the ecclesiastical courts—they would have no choice but to settle the matter.”

  “Dragging both our names through the mud.” Crispin had begun pacing again.

  Catherine stood firmly in place, willing her brain to search out a solution. She had managed to deal with nearly every disaster Uncle had heaped upon her. She seldom emerged unscathed, but the outcome would have been far worse otherwise.

  “It hardly seems right for him to choose the judge,” Catherine objected quietly. “There has to be another who would be more just.”

  “Any number of magistrates could hear it,” Mr. Jonquil said.

  “Could we insist the question be heard by someone else?” Crispin asked, stopping his pacing to look directly at Mr. Jonquil.

  “You could certainly make the request,” Mr. Jonquil answered, hands still clasped firmly behind his back.

  “You seem rather doubtful the request would be granted,” Crispin said.

  “There is no guarantee,” Mr. Jonquil admitted. “Only time would tell.”

  “How much time?” Catherine asked, a glimmer of hope twinkling on the horizon.

  Suddenly, Mr. Jonquil’s very even expression turned thoughtful.

  “If he could be delayed only two weeks, it would make a world of difference,” Catherine pressed. “I could almost guarantee he would give up the suit if the question weren’t heard before the inheritance was dispersed.”

  Mr. Jonquil regarded her intensely for a moment. Catherine held her breath. She glanced across at Crispin, whose eyes were firmly locked on Mr. Jonquil. No one spoke or moved for several moments.

  Please, she silently prayed. Please help us.

  “It may just work,” Mr. Jonquil finally said. “With some ingenuity, we could tie this entire thing up until after Lady Cavratt’s birthday.”

  “Are you sure you can create such a long delay?” Crispin asked, looking at Mr. Jonquil even more intensely.

  “The legal profession is notorious for complicating the simplest of things. I believe this would be an enjoyable use of an otherwise wasted talent.”

  “What if Thorndale chooses to pursue the charges even after losing the inheritance?” Crispin asked.

  Mr. Jonquil appeared deep in thought for a moment. How very different he was from his brother—so serious and businesslike. “There would only really be two feasible options. You could file a counterclaim against him, accusing him of illegally obtaining the license, and begin the annulment proceedings in order to solidify your claim.”

  Catherine’s heart sank. She hated the idea of an annulment, of living out her life without Crispin.

  “Or you can petition the Archbishop of Canterbury to officially confirm the validity of your marriage.”

  Good heavens. “The Archbishop of Canterbury?” Catherine nearly choked on the prestigious name. “How can a person possibly accomplish such a thing?”

  Crispin gave her a crooked smile that set her heart pounding once more. “He has a seat in Lords, my dear.” The endearment brought heat to Catherine’s cheeks. “Though we are only slightly acquainted, I would certainly be granted an audience with him.”

  “With the Archbishop of Canterbury?” Catherine shook her head at the absurdity of it all. Until she’d met Crispin, she hadn’t been acquainted with anyone of more significance than their local vicar.

  Crispin chuckled. “I can see you are suddenly very impressed with this ramshackle husband you have acquired.”

  “A little impressed.” His teasing never failed to lighten her heart.

  “Then I should tell you I am also acquainted with the infamous Duke of Kielder—that should render you speechless with awe at my elevated connections.”

  Catherine smiled and felt herself relax for the first time since Mr. Brown’s visit. Crispin would not be laughing with her if the situation were dire. “I am afraid I do not know who the Duke of Kielder is.”

  “Then I shall be sure to introduce you,” Crispin said. “His Grace is . . . one of a kind.”

  She followed Crispin’s gaze as it shifted back to Mr. Jonquil,
who stood silently watching them with a look of keen interest. Catherine abruptly dropped her gaze, something in Mr. Jonquil’s expression telling her he’d seen far more than she was comfortable revealing.

  Crispin cleared his throat. “My apologies, Jason. Where were we?”

  Not even a hint of a smile touched Mr. Jonquil’s face, though he did not look unhappy. “I will discover which magistrate Thorndale is manipulating. You, in the meantime, need to decide which course of action to take.”

  Crispin nodded, his own expression growing more somber.

  “Good night, Crispin. Lady Cavratt.” The door clicked closed behind Mr. Jonquil.

  After several drawn-out moments, Crispin broke the silence between them. “We must come to some decision about the an—”

  “I don’t want to talk about this.” Catherine turned away, panic choking her words.

  “We cannot avoid the topic any longer.”

  She moved to the window seat, trying to keep her breaths even and calm.

  “Even if your uncle’s charges against me can be prevented, bringing charges against him would call unwanted, negative attention to our situation.” His voice was distant enough to tell her he had not followed her across the room. “Your reputation would be in tatters.”

  She pressed her hand to her heart. “And yours.”

  “Pressing charges against someone else would not hurt my reputation. Even the annulment itself would have less impact as a result of the criminal charges. Society would know the reasons, and while I might endure a few sideways glances and unflattering remarks, I would not be detrimentally affected. You, on the other hand, would be ruined. Utterly.”

  Catherine sat on the window seat, digesting what he said. He would emerge from the uproar of the annulment relatively unscathed. She, on the other hand, would not emerge with anything resembling a good reputation. She hadn’t realized how enormous the consequences would be.

  “I will not place such a burden on your shoulders, Catherine. You do not deserve to bear the weight of this.”

  “Neither do you,” she countered quietly.

  “There really is only one choice.” A note of decisive determination entered his tone. “I will speak with the Archbishop.”

  Crispin had chosen against the annulment. He had chosen to continue their marriage. Catherine knew her heart ought to have been singing, but she felt numb, hollow.

  “You would do that for me?” she asked, her heart thudding unpleasantly, painfully in her chest. She did not look back at him but kept her eyes fixed on the darkness outside, praying he would offer the smallest declaration of affection, confess to some degree of tender regard.

  “It would not be fair otherwise.”

  The cold logic of justice. He would keep her out of a sense of fair play. Catherine closed her eyes against the tears that hovered too near the surface. She knew the loneliness of living in a home where she was not truly wanted—Uncle, too, had been forced to keep her, but by the stipulations of the law, not the dictates of his conscience. Crispin would come to resent her and she would be miserable. Chivalry was a poor substitute for love.

  “I think you should file the charges, Crispin.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I want you to file the charges.”

  The sound of his footsteps warned her of his approach. One touch and she might lose her conviction. Catherine steeled herself. She had to be as fair to him as he’d thought he was being to her. A marriage without mutual affection would make neither of them happy.

  “And the annulment?” He spoke directly behind her.

  She took a breath to steady her nerves. “And the annulment.”

  Crispin didn’t speak and didn’t touch her. She could hear him breathing, could smell his shaving soap. The slightest movement would allow her to lean against him as she’d done so many times. But he did not deserve to be trapped by his own sense of honor.

  “This is what you want, knowing the irreparable damage it will do to you?”

  No. I want you to love me. Catherine could manage nothing beyond a nod. She opened her eyes and saw his reflection in the window. He stood perfectly still, his posture tense.

  “We will have to wait and see what Jason can manage,” he said tightly.

  She nodded again, completely unable to speak. He had taken her suggestion without a single objection, with little beyond the briefest hesitation.

  “Once we are more certain of your uncle’s actions, we can proceed.”

  “That would be best.”

  He must not have noticed the catch in her voice. Crispin stepped away and walked, without a backward glance, to his desk. She watched him a moment as he flipped through papers.

  Catherine wrapped her arms around herself and rested her forehead against the window. The cold glass soothed to some degree the throbbing in her head. She wished he would protest, insist he wanted her to stay because he cared about her.

  She stared out at the rain-drenched garden and the sobbing skies and felt like weeping herself. She had fallen in love with a man who didn’t love her in return. For a brief few weeks she’d had a glimpse of happiness and in a single moment it had disappeared.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  A creative man can think of countless ways to avoid his wife. Crispin discovered over the next week that he was a very creative man. Tattersall’s. His club. Riding. The lending library. Staring out of windows. Pretending to read books in which he had absolutely no interest.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t want to spend time with Catherine. In fact, the longer he stayed away, the more he realized the opposite was true. He missed her more each day. He missed the sound of her skirts swishing as she walked and the way she always smelled precisely like a rose in full bloom. He missed coaxing a smile to her face. He missed laughing with her at things only they would find funny.

  Therein lay the problem.

  He had grown far too attached to a lady who preferred ostracism and social ruin to a life with him. Thorndale’s suit continued to be delayed by arguments of jurisdiction and other legal entanglements, compliments of the venerable Jason Jonquil, barrister. Jason seemed quite certain the point would not be heard before Catherine’s birthday.

  Her birthday. She would be free to leave after that, having sufficient funds to live on and no compelling reason to stay. Would she be relieved? Would she miss him? He’d given up trying to convince himself he wouldn’t think of her after she left.

  She had become too much a part of his everyday life for her to fade easily from his thoughts. He was simply accustomed to her presence. He had come to expect her to be around, much the same way he anticipated Hancock’s presence.

  No, he corrected himself again. Not at all like Hancock. He had no idea what Hancock smelled like. He didn’t care what Hancock smelled like.

  Crispin felt certain of only one thing. Her presence had grown excruciating. He found he couldn’t bear to be around her twenty-four hours a day, knowing she wanted nothing to do with him, while he constantly battled the growing urge to beg her to give him a chance. But she knew her options and had made her decision. He had forced her hand once, however inadvertently, and would not do so again.

  “You look like the back end of an overworked farm mule.”

  “Thank you, Philip. That is so relieving to hear.” Crispin watched his oldest friend slide lazily into a leather wing chair directly beside his own in a secluded corner of White’s. “Would you care to know which member of the animal kingdom you remind me of at the moment?”

  “Peacock, I dare say.” Philip straightened his aqua blue waistcoat. “No dandy would settle for any other comparison.”

  “You are no true dandy, and I know it,” Crispin muttered, dropping the pretense of reading the Times. “Though I never understood why you bother with the act.”

  Philip shrugged. “We all wear masks of one kind or another.”

  “So what brings the swaggering bird to the mule’s backside this time?”


  “Your lovely wife.”

  “She sent you to find me?” Crispin knew he ought to feel affronted, but he felt strangely excited. Did she miss him too?

  “Somehow I cannot see Catherine commissioning a team of spies to track down her negligent husband.”

  “You’re using her Christian name now?” Crispin knew he was grumbling. He didn’t particularly care.

  “She gave me leave to,” Philip said as though it were of minimal importance. “My name she has changed to Ph-Ph-Philip. I had no idea it was such a difficult name to pronounce.”

  The droll character Philip insisted on presenting to the world never ruffled Crispin the way it did just then. Was this really the man Lizzie thought so perfect for Catherine? He himself might be little better than a rusted, useless knight, but that was vastly more fitting for Catherine than a court jester.

  “But I digress.” Philip straightened his waistcoat and gave himself a drawn-out visual inspection. Apparently satisfied, he retook his tale. “I went by Permount House looking for you. Catherine insisted she hadn’t seen you in days.”

  “I have been busy.”

  “You have been avoiding her.”

  “That is ridiculous.”

  “She is no empty-headed female, my friend.” Philip picked up the paper Crispin had set aside. “In the past few days Hancock has seen you. Your housekeeper and cook have spoken with you. Several of the footmen have seen you in passing. Catherine realizes she is the only person at Permount House who has not seen you lately.”

  “Coincidence.” Crispin wasn’t even convincing himself.

  “Rubbish.”

  The Times crinkled in protest as Philip folded back one page and then another.

  “Why are you avoiding your wife, Crispin?” Now that sounded like the Philip whom Crispin had known for half his life. Intelligence and authority resonated in his voice. The look of mindless amusement had dissolved into one of discernment. “Have you two quarreled?”