She’d wandered from her bedchamber long after the house had settled into silent slumber and paced the cold wooden floors of the sitting area. Her future spread out before her in an unending tapestry of uncertainty. She had nowhere to go and no one to turn to. A night’s worth of pacing and pondering had offered no answers.
According to Jane, Crispin had left at eight o’clock that morning and had informed his butler he would return within the hour. So Catherine had placed the trunk she’d never bothered to unpack beside the chair nearest her chamber door and sat to await her dismissal.
Four hours had passed. She, apparently, had not married a terribly punctual gentleman.
The footfall grew closer. A shadow crossed the threshold. Catherine steadied her nerves. He had come to throw her out.
She allowed her eyes to shift upward. Crispin strode through the door, apparently deep in thought. The air of assurance he generally exuded seemed to have significantly dissipated. His gaze fell on her.
“Good morning,” he said.
His smile went a long way to soothing her badly rattled nerves.
“How are you?” he asked.
How was she? She had no idea where she was going, where she would be living the next day, the next hour. “Fine,” she managed to whisper.
“Agreeable weather we are having, are we not?”
Catherine nodded. Was the gentleman a bit thick in the head? What had inspired a discussion of the weather, of all things?
“The sun appears to have cut through the fog and the breeze is . . . I’m stalling. Can you tell?” Crispin raised his brow in self-derision.
She nodded again.
“Should I keep stalling?” he asked with feigned hopefulness. “I believe I could manage it with very little effort.”
“I would rather you didn’t.” Far better to know where she stood than to delay the inevitable.
“I was afraid you would say that.” Crispin closed his eyes and rubbed them with his thumb and forefinger. He let out a long breath before opening his eyes again. He pulled a chair from the writing desk over beside Catherine and sat facing her. He seemed to debate over his words for a moment. “I have a confession, Catherine. Now brace yourself . . . I am more of an idiot than I originally suspected.”
She hadn’t been expecting him to say that.
“I see you do not disagree. A telling blow, to be sure.”
“Are you stalling again?” She had the oddest urge to smile.
“Guilty.” He let out a strained breath. “Obtaining an annulment is more complicated than I thought, and my two-day timetable is proving a bit optimistic.”
More time? Catherine’s heart throbbed in her throat. This was precisely what she needed. Catherine watched the muscles in his face tighten around his jaw, and she felt a twinge of guilt. His revelation had been a relief to her. A little unanticipated time would allow her to search out her options. Crispin, obviously, disliked the delay.
She wrung her hands together, fighting her conflicting feelings. “What are we to do until the annulment is granted?”
“Cards?” He looked almost serious. “Perhaps a parlor game or two?” He shook his head. “Forgive me. I would not want you to think I do not recognize the seriousness of the situation.”
What an odd sense of humor Crispin had. Not unpleasant. Just odd.
Crispin rose to his feet and began treading a tension-thick circle about the room. “I won’t sugarcoat the fact that all of Town will be speculating about the state of our marriage. For a gentleman who is well known in society to suddenly marry someone entirely unknown and without a single member of his family or any of his friends present . . .” He rubbed his forehead again. “People will wonder. For the sake of both our reputations, we need to attempt to convince them, for the time being, that we are a happily married couple.” The obvious doubt in his face was not reassuring. “An annulment causes an uproar regardless of the circumstances, but an amicable ending keeps the entire thing quieter.”
“You’re not sending me away?”
“I am thinking of sending myself away. By nightfall I could be in Bedlam where I belong.” Crispin paused at the fireplace, fingering the molding along the mantel. “I am certain you believed me completely mad within seconds of meeting me.”
Catherine pinked at his reference to their ill-fated encounter outside the otherwise insignificant inn a mere two days earlier. Her color only deepened as she realized how often she’d thought since then that, under different circumstances, she would very much like to be kissed that way again. Perhaps she was the one who had gone a bit mad.
Crispin stopped his pacing and faced her, looking quite serious. “For the immediate future, you will be Lady Cavratt, and that comes with certain obligations.”
Catherine felt her eyes widen. Obligations? What did he mean by “obligations”?
“Socially,” Crispin clarified, amusement sparkling in his eyes. “Did you think I planned to make you clean my linens or something?”
She just shook her head, unsure what she’d thought he meant.
“I only meant you will be expected to attend dinners and balls and other forms of socially condoned torture.”
Catherine bit down on her bottom lip. He wished her to appear in public as a titled lady of consequence? She’d never play that role convincingly.
“Were you educated in social proprieties?” Crispin watched her, obviously doubtful.
“I was.” Catherine tried to hold herself confidently.
Crispin didn’t appear convinced. “Last night—” he began awkwardly, “You didn’t seem—”
“I never accompanied my uncle in to dinner. He insisted on preceding me, and I was instructed to wait for him to eat.” She had realized quickly during her meal with Crispin that her uncle’s rules were not observed in Crispin’s house—probably in any house.
The explanation seemed to satisfy him. “Do you know how to dance?”
“I had a dance instructor before my presentation.” Her training felt very inadequate in that moment. “That was a couple years ago, however.”
“Do you play an instrument?”
“Several.”
Crispin stared at her as though those musical instruments were protruding from her face. He opened his mouth to speak but closed it again and resumed his pacing.
Perhaps society preferred a lady to resign herself to only one instrument. “Is that a bad thing?” she asked.
“Not at all. It makes me feel a touch fat-headed, is all. I probably could not name several instruments, let alone play them.”
She knew he was teasing her, exaggerating his ignorance. “Perhaps if you copied the names out a few dozen times you could commit them to memory.”
He leaned against the mantel, looking far more at ease than he had since his arrival. “Did your governess require you to do lines as well, then?”
“She was merciless.” Catherine had actually rather adored her governess. Uncle had dismissed her the day of his arrival at Yandell Hall.
“But she managed to teach you to play ‘several instruments.’ The merciless tyrant was efficient, anyway.”
Her governess had laid the foundation for Catherine’s musical pursuits. Her tenacious determination to master those instruments came later. Uncle generally let her be while she practiced. So long as music could be heard echoing from the frigid music room of Yandell Hall, Uncle left her alone.
“Lady Hardford extended an invitation to a dinner party Friday evening,” Crispin said from the far end of the room. “We will, of course, be expected to attend. If the viscountess is convinced our marriage is nothing out of the ordinary, half the ton will be convinced of the same within hours. Minutes, maybe. With her, gossip spreads faster than Prinny’s waistline, which is saying something. And though she rather looks like a vulture, she is far more like a hen. Clucks incessantly, but doesn’t bite.”
“Do you really think I can convince her?” Catherine knew well her shortcomings.
&nbs
p; Crispin took up his pacing once more. She watched him take turn after turn around the small room. A man of obvious means, his clothes were precisely tailored and of the latest fashion, his home richly furnished and more than adequately staffed. She had gleaned from the efficiency of his home that Crispin appreciated his comforts and routine. Her presence must have upset both. He certainly couldn’t be lacking in admirers. He’d been walking with one—a particularly beautiful one—the day they’d met.
Perhaps he was in love with some refined lady of distinction. What an explanation he’d have to make should he encounter his amór with his inconvenient wife on his arm.
“You look troubled.” Crispin’s voice interrupted her thoughts.
Catherine shook her head, not wanting to burden Crispin with more of her difficulties.
“Planning my imminent demise?” Crispin raised his brow the way he did when being sardonic. She’d come to recognize that look in the short time she’d known him. In all honesty, she enjoyed it. The expression bordered on playful and went a long way toward relieving her sometimes overwhelming worries.
“I hope I don’t completely embarrass you,” Catherine said quietly. “I am not very experienced with social engagements. I’ve led a very different life, I assure you.”
A look bordering on sympathy crossed Crispin’s face. He studied her for a moment. “Did you say that was your only dress?”
Catherine glanced down at the lump of hideousness she’d donned the past year. Age and wear had only rendered it more awful. Feeling embarrassed to her very core, Catherine nodded.
“Do you own a coat?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Put it on,” Crispin instructed.
“Now? Am I leaving?”
“We are visiting Madam LaCroix.”
Catherine had never heard of the woman.
“A mantua maker,” Crispin explained. “And a miracle worker.”
“I have no money to have a gown made.” She had no money at all.
Crispin smiled and his entire face softened and brightened. “You, Lady Cavratt, are among the wealthiest ladies of the ton. An entire wardrobe will barely dent your pin money.”
“An entire—” Catherine choked on the words. “I cannot. The expense!”
“I had always planned to be a generous husband,” Crispin interrupted, his tone teasing. “You might as well take advantage of that.”
Catherine rose to continue her protest. “I would never take advantage of—”
“Our little charade will fall apart in an instant if you are seen socializing in a potato sack, Catherine.”
She felt her face catch fire. His assessment left little doubt of her unattractive appearance. “I did not choose the dress.”
“Don’t be angry with me.” Crispin crossed to her, speaking gently. “Soon you will have plenty of fine gowns, and I won’t chide you about this one again.”
“I don’t want to embarrass you, but I can’t possibly accept—”
“I am generous, Catherine. But also stubborn, and I am determined to take you to Madame LaCroix the moment you get your coat.”
Crispin smiled at her and, to her utter astonishment, Catherine felt better. She almost managed a smile in return.
“Much better,” he said. His eyes rested on her face and Catherine could feel her cheeks flush. Crispin’s expression grew more intense. He brushed his fingers against her face and her heart began to pound. “Try not to be too miserable. This will all work out one way or another.”
With his hand so gently touching her cheek, she could not begin to fashion a reply. Breathing became something of a struggle.
Abruptly, Crispin pulled his hand away and stepped toward the door. “We also have to do something about your hair,” he said, distant again. “Put on your coat. I’ll be waiting below.”
Catherine stood statue-still, her shock too great for movement. She could still feel his fingers on her cheek. She’d spent nearly a decade cringing from the slightest touch, so accustomed had she become to the violence of her uncle.
Crispin’s touch had been gentle and frightening at the same time. She could feel her entire world tipping on end. She’d come to expect anger from every man she encountered, disgust at her appearance and complete indifference from society at large. Instead, she was on her way to a dressmaker, being treated kindly by a Peer, of all things.
The entire ordeal terrified her.
Chapter Five
Catherine looked terrified. Or perhaps simply overwhelmed.
Crispin silently congratulated himself on selecting Madame LaCroix. She was not only a talented modiste, but one whose silence on Catherine’s current appearance could be trusted.
Madame LaCroix declared that designing a wardrobe for Catherine would be “a challenge,” which was probably the official dressmaker’s term for “exorbitantly expensive.”
“This is your only . . . dress?” Madame LaCroix eyed Catherine’s ensemble with a look of utter disgust. Her French accent was, of course, not authentic, but being French helped a modiste pay her bills.
Catherine silently nodded.
“It must be burned. The shoes may be tossed into the flames beside it.” Madame LaCroix turned to Crispin. “I can, of course, recommend a shop to replace the boots.”
Shoes were definitely a necessity.
“Do you have bonnets?” the dressmaker asked.
Catherine shook her head.
“Stockings? Wraps? Pelisses? A reticule? Slippers? A riding habit? Shawl?”
Does Catherine have anything? Crispin wondered. Her head hung lower with each question. So Thorndale was a bully and a skinflint. How could he have allowed Catherine’s situation to grow so ridiculous?
“I can only imagine the state of your underthings,” Madame LaCroix mumbled. Catherine turned a very becoming shade of crimson. Crispin bit back a smile—he liked the fact that she blushed so easily. “She cannot obtain all of these things here, Lord Cavratt.”
“I suppose I will have to lend her my bonnet and shawl, then.” Crispin pretended to be serious. “Unless, of course, you wish to provide me with a list of where we might go to obtain them.”
“So she could parade around the city looking like this?” Madame LaCroix waved her hand over Catherine, her nose turned up in obvious disapproval. “Non! Inexcusable, Lord Cavratt. The wife of a man of your position dressed as she is.”
“Which brings us back to the reason for our visit to your establishment. You do still sell dresses, do you not?” Crispin eyed Madame LaCroix with a look meant to remind her who was paying the bill. “A decent dress would be a drastic improvement.”
“Decent?” Madame LaCroix scoffed. “I have never made a ‘decent’ dress in all my life, Lord Cavratt. My creations are magnifique.”
“I would trust no one but you to make the attempt.” Flattery, he instinctively knew, would go a long way with the faux-Frenchwoman.
“You do not believe I could make her magnificent?” Madame LaCroix’s eyes narrowed.
Catherine was pretty. She possessed a fine pair of eyes. But Madame LaCroix seemed to think she could be an Incomparable—a distinction very few ladies were granted.
“You doubt, but you should not. I am a worker of miracles.” Madame LaCroix began circling Catherine, eyeing her with immense interest.
Crispin watched Catherine shrink into herself the way she seemed to every time anyone paid her any attention. She turned her eyes on him—so blue and so uncertain.
He’d seen something in them in her sitting area at Permount House, some hint of spark behind the fear, and it had pulled him in. Before realizing what he was about, he’d nearly kissed her again, his own too-vivid memories of the one kiss they’d shared clouding his judgment. She’d probably received little if any attention from men before and he wasn’t about to confuse her for all the heart-wrenching looks in the world.
“Go. Go. Go. I must work,” Madame LaCroix said, still surveying Catherine as she circled. “You have m
any purchases to make.”
“I have always had quite an eye for stockings and slippers,” Crispin replied dryly.
“Psh!” Madame LaCroix mocked. “And have her look worse than she does now?”
Catherine’s head seemed to drop even lower. Crispin began to wonder if Madame LaCroix truly had been the right choice. Her bluntness was as legendary as her gowns. Catherine’s obviously fragile heart might not be able to bear it.
“Ask Lady Henley to assist you.” Madame LaCroix waved him off. “Her taste is impeccable.”
Lizzie! Why hadn’t he thought of his sister? She and her husband would most certainly be in Town. He had no doubt she would not only take up the assignment, but thoroughly enjoy it. Lizzie spent more time shopping than the entire House of Lords spent in Parliament. She would never pass up the rare opportunity to spend Crispin’s money while enjoying her favorite pastime.
He thanked Madame LaCroix and turned to go.
“You’re leaving?” Catherine asked, a thread of worry in her voice.
Crispin smiled reassuringly. “I will return in two hours’ time. Your maid is here should you require anything, and Madame LaCroix will keep you excruciatingly occupied, I assure you.”
“But you will come back?”
For just a moment he was tempted to throw out a cheeky remark about being unable to resist the opportunity to conveniently skip out. He realized not a moment too soon that their uncertain situation would likely render such a comment decidedly unfunny. “Of course I will.”
She smiled at him, actually smiled. The miniscule effort would have gone unnoticed on anyone else, but coming from Catherine, the slightest lightening of her expression made those eyes of hers all the more striking.
The Kiss of a Stranger Page 4