The Kiss of a Stranger

by Sarah M. Eden

  “No.” Philip was far easier to talk to when he abandoned his façade. “It is just better this way.”

  “Better for whom? For you, perhaps. But have you thought about Catherine?”

  Thinking about Catherine seemed to be his sole occupation lately.

  “Perhaps during your long sojourn inside these hallowed halls”—Philip motioned at the room around them—“you’ve chanced to riffle through the betting books.”

  “I have no interest in the betting books.”

  “You should. They are positively filled these last few days with wagers regarding the future of your rather famed marriage.”

  Wagers! Crispin began a heated jump to his feet.

  “Don’t be a dolt. You’ve drawn enough attention as it is.” Philip really was dropping the act—he sounded almost angry. Once Crispin resumed his seat, Philip continued. “The odds are stacked heavily against the continuation of your marriage, Crispin. The two of you have not appeared in public together since the Littletons’ ball, and that didn’t go so well. Catherine’s hasty departure—alone, I might add—did not go unnoticed. And now you are noted to be spending precious little time in her company, avoiding your own home, even.”

  Why couldn’t society mind its own business for once?

  “Catherine showed me this while I was at Permount House this afternoon.” Philip handed the folded-back Times to Crispin, pointing out the opening paragraph of the society column.

  Crispin read silently. Lord and Lady C., subject of much conjecture since their hasty marriage, are rumored to be on the outs at last, with Lord C. going to remarkable lengths to avoid his bride. One close to the bridegroom reports an annulment is imminent, but Lady C. has, apparently, proven too undesirable a companion to make her company bearable during the interim.

  Philip leaned closer and lowered his voice. His eyes were penetrating in a way they hadn’t been in years. “Are you planning to seek an annulment?”

  “Why do you ask?” A suspicion lodged in his mind.

  Philip shook his head in obvious annoyance. “Lizzie’s scheme was outlandish from the start, and I am surprised you believed a word of it. Gentlemen do not pass around wives the way they do calling cards. She merely wanted to make you jealous so you would realize what a gem you married.”

  “That scheming brat.” Still, a smile very nearly escaped him.

  “I only went along after I realized that Lizzie was correct. You, my friend, married far above yourself. Regardless of the outcome of your time together, she deserves the protection of your public approval.” Then in a mutter so low Crispin could hardly make out his words, Philip added something that sounded suspiciously like, “You have offered precious little else.”

  “My approval means little to her.”

  Philip gave him a look of utter disbelief. “Rubbish.”

  “She asked for the annulment, Philip. I explained that she would be ruined, that she would have no place in polite society. Her uncle would face a very public criminal trial, in which she would not be painted in a very flattering light. I told her I was willing to go forward with the marriage, that she need not endure all that. And she chose the annulment.” He looked back at the now-crumpled news sheet in his hand. “Ostracism, it seems, would be more bearable than life as my wife.”

  “Yet she seemed anxious enough for your company when I spoke with her.”

  “That does not make any sense.” Crispin slumped further in his chair.

  “At what point did you decide a lady’s actions were supposed to make sense?”

  Crispin allowed a begrudging smile. The fairer sex ever had been a source of confusion to the both of them.

  “Perhaps her more rational side was temporarily silenced by the splendor of my dashing new waistcoat.” The lazy, not-a-care Philip was back in the blink of an eye.

  Philip rose from his chair and painstakingly straightened his clothing, including the waistcoat that would be the envy of many a gentleman in Town. With a bow he strode away, leaving Crispin to gather his thoughts.

  The protection of your public approval. It sounded so cold, so impersonal. But the tabbies had been drawing rather frigid conclusions about his feelings for Catherine. They would certainly go to great lengths to make her miserable.

  “Blast it,” Crispin muttered, getting to his feet.

  He had simply been trying to make this easier. Easier on Catherine, he told himself. She didn’t need the burden of his unreciprocated regard, but hiding that attachment had grown nearly impossible. Philip made it sound as though he’d been starving her in the dungeons.

  Drat that man! Crispin was the knight in not-so-shiny armor, not the feudal executioner. Didn’t Philip know anything about not mixing metaphors?

  That, however, was not the problem at hand. Gossip, society’s most viciously wielded weapon, needed addressing first. Seated inside the chaise, Crispin looked over the rather pointed report of his very irregular marriage.

  “Lord C. going to remarkable lengths to avoid his bride.” “Lady C. is too undesirable a companion to make her company bearable.”

  He let out a tense breath. In the few weeks since he’d met Catherine, his life had been entirely unpredictable. Nothing he did seemed to work out the way he’d planned. Fool that he was, he’d spent the better part of the past week wondering why a lifetime with him hadn’t proven a promising prospect for her.

  “You owe her the protection of your public approval.” Philip’s words repeated in his mind. But how should Crispin do that? Bandy about his approval? Take out an advertisement in the Times? Lord C. wishes to declare his unrequited affection for his wife and cordially invites society to stick their noses in someone else’s business.

  He needed an actual plan. There were certainly any number of balls or musicales being hosted that very evening; they’d undoubtedly been invited to most. But suppose he dragged Catherine to one only to have her cut by every guest present? That would never do.

  No. There had to be something more private yet public enough for them to be seen together, spending a harmonious evening in one another’s company. He wondered if Catherine had ever been to Drury Lane. He hadn’t taken her and doubted Thorndale ever had. It certainly met the requirements for a redemptive excursion. The theater was, after all, the place to see and be seen. She would probably even enjoy it.

  So busy was he evaluating the soundness of his plan that he hardly realized he’d reached the music room. He hadn’t had time to prepare himself for seeing Catherine again.

  Lud, she was beautiful. She was seated at the pianoforte, hands on the keys, eyes on . . . him. He had to shake himself to focus his thoughts.

  “Hello, Catherine.” That sounded idiotic! Think, man.

  She didn’t even try to reply but simply watched him. Crispin would have felt less uncomfortable if she’d ranted and raved or looked daggers at him for all the difficulties he’d inadvertently caused her. He saw not a hint of anger or annoyance in those breathtakingly blue eyes. He saw disappointment.

  “I . . . um.” He cleared his throat. “I thought perhaps you would enjoy a trip to the theater tonight. I don’t believe we’ve been since we came to London.”

  Catherine silently shook her head.

  “Would you like to go?” He suddenly felt like a six-year-old begging Cook for a biscuit, completely unsure of himself.

  “Are you sure you can bear my company?” she asked rather dryly.

  Crispin recognized her almost verbatim reference. “The gossips can be vicious.” And, on occasion, they could be frighteningly accurate. Catherine’s company had grown remarkably difficult to bear, but not for the reasons they insinuated. “I am hoping tonight to—”

  “Stand them down?” Catherine finished for him.

  Crispin nodded. Her utterly lifeless tone was disheartening.

  She sighed, her gaze drifting to the piano keys. “I have discovered that doing so is both exhausting and fruitless.”

  “It is infinitely easier when
you aren’t alone.”

  She plunked out a stilted few notes. “I will have to take your word on that. This past week I have done everything alone.”

  Frustration pushed out a cynical reply. “Annulments are like that. In the end, one is left doing a great many things alone.”

  Her hand froze above the keys before dropping into her lap.

  What was wrong with him? He hadn’t resorted to cutting remarks in weeks—least of all with her.

  She rose from the pianoforte and walked toward the door, not sparing him so much as a glance. The swish of her skirts. The smell of roses. He would be without her soon enough and couldn’t leave things as they were. “Wait. Please, Catherine.”

  She stopped only steps past him but didn’t turn back around to face him.

  “I’m sorry about all of this,” he said. “The gossip and the mess. I wasn’t trying to make the situation worse by staying away.”

  “Then why did you?” She didn’t look back at him.

  It was a direct enough question with an answer he knew well. Because I’ve never felt this way about anyone and I don’t understand it. Because being in the same room as you is torturous. He couldn’t seem to verbalize an answer.

  They stood in heavy silence until Catherine left without a word or a backward glance.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  “There must be a thousand people here,” Catherine whispered, staring in awe at the mass of humanity that stretched out beyond Crispin’s private box at the Theatre Royal.

  “The Theatre holds just over three thousand,” Crispin said. “And I’d guess nearly every seat is taken tonight.”

  “Good heavens.”

  Three thousand people in one place. Until coming to London, a crowd of three hundred would have been all but impossible for her to imagine. The sight was so overwhelming she might not have trusted her legs to remain steady beneath her had she been standing.

  She had yet to account for Crispin’s offer to bring her. He had quite obviously been avoiding her. Now that there was no question of their not seeking an annulment, she never saw him. Perhaps his affectionate behavior had been a futile attempt to force himself to care for her should they be required to remain wed.

  “Now.” Crispin leaned closer. Catherine commanded her heart to remain calm. He had made his relief at their pending separation quite clear, and she must not misinterpret a moment of kindness as anything more than that. “Time for a tutorial on theater-going. Of the three thousand or so people here tonight, five or six might actually watch the production. The rest will watch the audience.”

  “The audience?”

  “The point of the theater is to see and be seen. Everyone will be on the lookout for fresh gossip.”

  Catherine shuddered at the word. “I am heartily sick of gossip,” she muttered under her breath.

  Crispin’s fingers wrapped around hers. Catherine kept very still. He pulled their entwined hands to his lips and softly kissed her gloved fingers. Why would he do such a thing?

  “Yet another thing for which I must apologize.” Crispin spoke in a low whisper. Despite the dull roar of the enormous crowd, his every word reached her ears with amazing clarity. “I have been inexcusably inattentive.”

  Catherine couldn’t pull her gaze from Crispin’s eyes. Their color never seemed the same from one moment to the next. Brown with varying flecks of gold and green. Sometimes dark as night. Other times the color of creamed coffee. Regardless of their hue, his eyes could be positively hypnotizing—ofttimes the only window into Crispin’s often shuttered feelings.

  He smiled at her, lightly rubbing with his thumb the hand he held. She could almost believe, in that moment, that he cared for her beyond a desire to be civil. It was the gesture of an affectionate husband, not a man anxious to end his marriage. Yet he had jumped at her offer to walk away.

  Crispin continued tracing a slow, lazy circle along the back of her hand. Catherine nearly snatched her hand away, too confused and overwhelmed to endure his touch. Why must he torture her like this?

  The curtain rose, though the crowd did not quiet down at all. Catherine forced her gaze to the stage, attempting to ignore the tingle his touch sent up her arm. She’d longed for his reassuring presence the past two weeks. The temptation to lay her head on his shoulder was nearly too great to withstand. How perfectly natural it would feel at that moment to lean against him for the remainder of the night, to pretend he would always be with her.

  “I understand from Mr. Brown that Mr. Jonquil has successfully stalled your uncle’s suit,” Crispin whispered in her ear, sending a shiver down her spine.

  “It seems we chose the right course of action.” Only a Herculean effort kept her voice calm and steady.

  “And it was your suggestion, if I recall. When Brown retires, I’ll have to hire you as his replacement.” Crispin’s breath tickled her ear. “You apparently have a remarkable legal mind.”

  Catherine forced herself to take a breath despite the tension in her lungs. “Are you certain you can afford the outrageous fee I would require?” Catherine whispered. Somehow she managed a teasing tone.

  “It is to be highway robbery, then?” Crispin leaned a little closer. Heaven help her, she would burst if he didn’t put a little distance between them.

  “You, sir, are a hardened criminal.” The joking banter relieved a little of the tension building in her. “You know what they say about honor among thieves.”

  “Could I, perhaps, pay you in fairy cakes?” Crispin slipped his arm around the back of her chair.

  She pulled herself excruciatingly upright, desperate to keep his arm from brushing against her. She could not endure much more.

  “That would require an awful lot of fairy cakes.” Did he hear the catch in her voice?

  “Perhaps I could pay over time.”

  “I rarely extend credit. You would have to be extremely trustworthy. Or my most important client.”

  “And how does one become your most important client?” Crispin leaned closer, his breath rustling the strands of hair framing her face. She closed her eyes. “I could take you for a ride in Hyde Park. Ices at Gunter’s.” He kissed her cheek. “Dinner at Vauxhall Gardens.” Kissed her temple.

  “You do all this with Mr. Brown?” Catherine tried to steady her breathing. Crispin’s nose still brushed the side of her face. “No wonder he’s so loyal.”

  Crispin’s quiet, warm laughter reached her ears. She’d come to adore that laugh, rare as it was. His arm slipped across her back and she felt him gently squeeze her shoulders. He pulled her closer, so she had little choice but to lay her head against his obliging shoulder.

  Catherine barely held back a sigh. She would allow herself this moment, though she knew it would make leaving that much harder. Years down the road, when she was little more than a vaguely familiar name amongst Crispin’s many acquaintances, Catherine would pull this moment to the forefront of her own thoughts and perhaps find some comfort in the recollection.

  “You aren’t asleep already, are you?”

  Catherine managed to shake her head slightly but didn’t open her eyes.

  “The Prince Regent has arrived in his box,” Crispin whispered.

  Catherine glanced across the theater, along with three thousand others. “Who is that with him?” She did not recognize a single soul who had arrived in the Prince’s company.

  “Lord Alvanley is seated beside the prince,” Crispin said. “Beside him is Beau Brummell.”

  The list continued and expanded beyond the Prince’s box. Crispin seemingly knew the entire Upper Ten-thousand. Such information would, undoubtedly, have transfixed the attention of any lady of the ton, but Catherine found she could hardly concentrate. Crispin kept his arm snuggly wrapped around her shoulders and caressed her hand as he spoke. Her heart would ache when he let her go, but she hadn’t the strength to pull away.

  Heaven help her, she was in love with him. What she wouldn’t give to hear him say he loved her in return
.

  The first intermission arrived, and Catherine hadn’t watched a single minute of the play. She’d spent the first act memorizing everything about being held in his arms. When he broke that contact, her heart plummeted.

  “Champagne, I believe.” Crispin rose to his feet.

  “Champagne?”

  “Tradition, my dear. One must have champagne at the theater.”

  “I have never known you to drink champagne.”

  “Special occasion,” Crispin explained with another trademark lopsided grin. “I shall return shortly,” he said with a brief bow and a wink.

  Catherine pressed her hand to her thudding heart after he left. That organ would certainly never be the same again.

  Footsteps sounded from the back of the box and Catherine spun around, expecting to see Crispin. Had he decided her company was preferable to obtaining refreshment? Instead, she came face-to-face with Miss Cynthia Bower.

  “Lady Cavratt.” Why did Miss Bower always sound on the verge of laughter when she greeted Catherine?

  “Miss Bower,” Catherine returned as civilly as possible. “To what do I owe this honor?”

  Miss Bower gave her a very condescending look. “I am looking for Crispin.” She gave Catherine a look of utter contempt, as though her mere presence was an inconvenience.

  “Lord Cavratt will return shortly. If you would rather not wait, I can tell him you were here.”

  “I’ll wait.” Catherine did not at all trust the gleam in the lady’s eye.

  Then came a voice she not only didn’t trust but couldn’t bear: Mr. Finley’s.

  “Dear, dear Catherine,” he intoned, stepping to where she stood and reaching for her hand. Catherine slipped around and out of reach.

  “Mr. Finley,” she replied, hoping her voice was as icy as she felt.

  “I have brought you a restorative,” Finley said, a seductive glint in his eye.

  “I am not in need of one.” She had been in need of a respite and was rather in need of a rescue at the moment.

  “You most certainly are, having endured Cavratt’s company when you could have been enjoying mine.” Finley inched ever closer to her.