The Kiss of a Stranger

by Sarah M. Eden

  “That is not necessary,” Crispin interrupted, taken aback by her sudden talkativeness.

  “You must allow me to thank you for this.” Catherine’s eyes grew misty. Her chin quivered almost indiscernibly. “Please.”

  Gads, she was going to cry. He had no idea what to do with a watery female.

  “I suppose. Though you risk puffing me up like a peacock.” He folded his arms across his chest in an attempt to look unaffected.

  Catherine stepped closer to him. She smelled of roses, he noticed. She had that day in the garden, as well. Gown still clutched tightly in her hand, Catherine kissed his cheek. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Catherine offered a quiet thank-you and slipped back to the mountain of parcels, eyeing the collection with obvious awe.

  Crispin stood in stunned confusion. It was certainly not the first kiss he’d received from a woman. His own sister had kissed him in precisely the same way. So why did Catherine’s simple kiss make his breath catch and his mind momentarily empty?

  He simply hadn’t expected it, he told himself. That was all. Catherine’s reaching out to anyone would be understandably shocking. She’d spent the days since their arrival slipping around the house, obviously trying to go unseen, hardly speaking to a soul.

  So where had her sudden boldness come from? With any other society lady, the kiss would have been a calculated attempt to garner his sympathies.

  Catherine knelt beside the open box once more and painstakingly refolded the simple gown, laying it carefully back inside.

  A slight smile edged its way across his face as he watched her. She fingered the packages like a child at Christmastime.

  “What a sight this is!” Lizzie quite suddenly entered the sitting room trailed by her abigail carrying a box identical to the three large gown boxes currently on the sitting room floor. “I hope Catherine’s gown for tonight is among these.”

  “Gown?” Crispin looked around as if in confusion. “Is Catherine expected to wear a gown tonight?”

  “Very funny. I have the most delicious plan, Crispin.” Lizzie waved her servant upstairs. “My abigail, Mary, is a wonder with hair, and I want her to arrange Catherine’s for tonight.”

  “And sacrifice your own? Lizzie, you are truly a martyr.” He knew full well Lizzie didn’t make a move in society without a proper coiffure.

  “That is the reason I am here so early,” Lizzie said as if it should have been obvious. “I’ve brought my gown and everything I need. Mary can attend to us both and be done in plenty of time.”

  Crispin raised an approving eyebrow. Enlisting his sister’s aid had proven an ingenious move, provided she didn’t overwhelm Catherine right into the swoon Jane had earlier predicted.

  “Is not this the most spectacular plan, Catherine?” Lizzie crossed the room and clasped Catherine’s hands in her own. “You’ll be radiant, I’m certain of it!”

  Catherine smiled, though Crispin could tell she didn’t believe a word of Lizzie’s declaration.

  “Except we only have two hours!” Lizzie said.

  “Would not two hours be sufficient?” Catherine asked.

  “Hardly!” Lizzie dragged Catherine from the room. “We have ever so much to do!”

  “But I need to clear these.” Catherine glanced back at the room and the pile of parcels left behind. “They’ll be in Crispin’s way.”

  “Oh, hang Crispin! The footmen will have it cleared before he’s earned any right to be bothered by it.”

  “Your thoughtfulness, sister, astounds me.”

  “Oh, pish!”

  Crispin chuckled as the ladies disappeared down the corridor. Lizzie, it seemed, had developed an instant liking for Catherine. Not that Lizzie could have helped herself—Catherine was inherently likeable. If she had turned out to be a shrew or a scheming harridan, he would have begun the annulment proceedings with hardly a hesitation. Instead, he had two stacks of papers awaiting his signature at his solicitor’s office—one to end their marriage, the other to make it ironclad. And he still had no idea which set he intended to sign.

  * * *

  A person could only endure so much poking, prodding, and pinning. Two hours far surpassed Catherine’s limit. Lizzie’s abigail arranged and rearranged Catherine’s hair. Jane, her own abigail, dressed her. Lizzie insisted on keeping Catherine as far from any obliging mirrors as possible. The surprise, she said, would be far too fun to see.

  Catherine occupied her time scolding herself for acting like such a wigeon in the sitting room. She’d been so overcome, so unspeakably grateful, she’d actually kissed Crispin—a Peer of the realm, for heaven’s sake! A gentleman, she reminded herself, who was actively working on ending their marriage. Catherine knew so little of annulments. She could not even begin to guess how long the undertaking would require. Every time he spoke, she half expected to hear he’d finished whatever proceedings were required, the marriage was over, and her things were waiting for her on the curb.

  Every stitch of clothing Jane dressed her in was new, from the silk stockings and unfathomably soft chemise to the exquisite gown. The color she couldn’t quite identify, a scrumptious blend of blue and green, of the softest satin embroidered with delicate flowers.

  The two abigails stood back in admiration after the tiny pearl buttons had been closed and Catherine had stepped into a pair of slippers perfectly matched to the gown.

  “Beautiful,” Jane whispered.

  “The gown is quite beautiful.” Catherine glanced down, trying to convince herself she was truly dressed so exquisitely.

  “She was not referring only to the gown, Catherine.”

  Lizzie spun her around to face the gilded mirror atop her dressing table. Catherine gasped. She hardly recognized herself. Mary had pulled her honey-colored hair into an intricate twist, graceful curls framing her face. The pearl pendant Lizzie had insisted Catherine wear perfectly complemented the sprigs of baby’s breath Mary had placed in her hair.

  Catherine studied her reflection. Much to her surprise, she had a figure. Somehow she still pictured herself with precisely the same proportions she’d had at twelve. She’d never been beautiful but had always wanted to be. Her uncle would have set her down quite drastically to hear her think something so vain.

  “The gentlemen will take us to task for keeping them waiting so long,” Lizzie said with a laugh. “I suppose we shouldn’t torture them further.”

  Catherine nodded mindlessly.

  “You are nervous.” Lizzie smiled at her in the mirror.

  “I am.” Excessively so.

  Lizzie squeezed her shoulders reassuringly. “Now. Take a deep breath.”

  Catherine obeyed.

  “I do that whenever I feel nervous,” Lizzie confided. “It always helps.”

  Catherine doubted the confident Lady Henley was ever very nervous. Three very deep breaths later, Catherine walked out of her rooms. She didn’t want to embarrass Crispin. She didn’t want him to regret her presence any more than he already did.

  Chapter Seven

  “And how do you think the new Lady Cavratt will fare this evening?” Edward asked Crispin as they waited in the sitting room.

  “Honestly, Edward, if Catherine doesn’t cast up her accounts on the Hardfords’ dining room table, I will consider the evening more successful than I am anticipating it being.”

  “No need to go borrowing so much trouble,” Edward assured him. “I have a feeling Catherine will surprise all of us tonight. Lizzie has complete confidence in her.”

  Edward’s innate optimism and cheerful nature were the very reason Crispin had so readily approved of his pursuit of Lizzie the year they were courting. She spent most of their childhood attempting to force smiles out of her “gloomy” older brother. He’d felt a tremendous responsibility for her since their father’s death. Crispin would never have allowed her to be forced into an unwanted marriage, and he couldn’t have parted with her to anyone less perfect for her than Edward.

  Lizzie al
so claimed that love had brought them together. Crispin called it divine intervention. Another Season of escorting his sister and worrying over the unworthies who clamored for her attention, and he would have put himself out of his misery.

  “Don’t be nervous.” Lizzie’s amused voice rang out from the other side of the door, obviously speaking to Catherine.

  If she needed reassurance among the three of them, she was doomed. Where was divine intervention when he truly needed it?

  Lizzie slipped inside the sitting room alone. “Catherine will be but a moment. Mary insisted on one more pin in her hair.”

  He paced to the window. Crispin had half a mind to give Lady Hardford their excuses—Catherine had been through enough already. He could certainly invent some drastic enough reason to cry off at the last minute: illness, an unexpected trip to the country, leprosy. “Is she going to survive?”

  “Mary is seldom dangerous with hairpins.”

  “Very funny. Of course I meant will she survive the dinner party.”

  Lizzie merely laughed at him. “I’m not sure you will survive. You are in a tizzy already.”

  “I am not in a tizzy.” Crispin turned from the window to face his sister.

  Lizzie smiled triumphantly. “I declared Catherine would be absolutely stunning, and so she is. You will have to humbly beg my pardon all the way to the millinery where my new bonnet is waiting.”

  “I never doubted she would look nice,” Crispin said. “She has always been pretty. I just . . .” He pushed out a breath. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so nervous over a simple dinner party. “Catherine is anxious enough as it is. She shouldn’t also have to worry over her appearance.”

  “Crispin.” Lizzie’s smile turned a touch syrupy. “You want her to feel pretty.”

  “I only want her to not be entirely miserable.” And yes, he wanted her to feel confident.

  The doorknob turned and Lizzie, smiling quite unapologetically, moved toward her husband. “You are about to see the most beautiful woman you’ve ever beheld, Crispin,” she said.

  And with that introduction, Hancock stepped across the threshold. Edward burst into laughter, as did Lizzie.

  Crispin’s face split into an all-consuming grin as he chuckled quite uncharacteristically. “Truly a vision, Lizzie. Although not necessarily an improvement.”

  “I think you need to have a talk with that mantua maker,” Edward chortled. “That dress didn’t turn out right at all.”

  Hancock eyed them all quizzically. Looking thoroughly unamused, he stepped back across the threshold and motioned to someone just out of sight behind the doors. Crispin got his laughter under control but couldn’t stop his smile. It felt wonderful to truly laugh. He seldom did.

  Catherine stepped inside in the next second and Crispin gave her a second look. While anything would have been an improvement over the frock her uncle had provided, Crispin could never have envisioned the transformation that had taken place.

  The woman—for she obviously was one—had a figure! Who would have guessed? The color of her dress made her eyes even more astonishing, adding a hint of green to their deep blue. Gone was the severe hairdo. Instead, her hair curled softly around her face. Crispin couldn’t seem to keep himself from staring.

  “Lord Cavratt, I do believe you owe my wife a bonnet,” Edward said, his voice low.

  Lizzie could have any bonnet she wanted. The change he saw in Catherine was well worth the cost of a hat or two.

  “Your carriage is waiting, my lord.” Hancock appeared to fight a smile.

  “Thank you.” Crispin offered Catherine his arm, still astounded by the change in her. “You look beautiful.”

  “I feel beautiful.” She spoke as quietly as ever, but something in her voice had changed. She seemed a little less uncertain.

  He threaded her arm through his and began walking toward the front door. Catherine paused as they passed Hancock.

  “Thank you,” she said to him.

  “My pleasure, my lady.” Hancock bowed. “And might I say, your plan worked splendidly.”

  Catherine nearly smiled. That seemed her way—hints of smiles, but never more. Even the tiny effort added a sparkle to her eyes that he rather enjoyed. But, almost before he’d registered it, the smile faded.

  “Will it be a very large gathering, do you think?” Catherine asked after the foursome had settled inside the carriage and had begun their journey.

  “Relatively.” Crispin’s answer seemed to make her more anxious. She pressed her lips together and tightly clutched her hands. “No need to worry. You’ll do fine. And we’ll all be there with you.”

  She did not seem appeased. Crispin eyed her nervously as he stepped out of the carriage at the Hardfords’ home. Catherine stared like a frightened kitten at the front of the enormous townhouse.

  “First”—Crispin slipped her hand under his arm—“we will be greeted by Lord and Lady Hardford.”

  “The vulture,” Catherine whispered back.

  Crispin smiled. Why was he suddenly so blasted cheerful? They were about to face the scrutiny of society and he’d spent an unusually large portion of the evening laughing and grinning? “I’d rather that conversation not be aired in public,” he replied.

  “Of course not.” She sounded almost flirtatious. An intriguing change.

  “After speaking with our host and hostess, we will proceed to their ballroom.”

  “Dancing?” Catherine barely whispered, her face suddenly panic-stricken.

  “No,” he quickly assured her. “We will take a turn around the room making polite conversation until dinner is announced.”

  He could feel Catherine tremble, no doubt unnerved at the thought of speaking to so many people. Crispin quickly glanced at her, expecting to find her a moment from fainting, but she looked perfectly at ease.

  Catherine’s hand tightened on his arm, and he distinctly heard her breath shake. She was nervous, but no one would be able to tell simply by looking.

  “Lord Cavratt.”

  Crispin offered a polite bow to their host. Lord Hardford always wore bold colors. He’d selected a vivid purple for his well-tailored waistcoat. Crispin had always preferred the more subdued black though occasionally opted for white. Lizzie had scoffed at his “dullness” many times during the past three years.

  Lady Hardford sported a high-necked dress of deepest blue silk with feathers fanning out at her neck. She looked precisely like a vulture, just as he’d described her to Catherine. Crispin barely kept an even countenance.

  “This must be Lady Cavratt.” The viscountess had a reputation for taking over every conversation in which she took part. “So pleased you could join us this evening.”

  Catherine curtsied prettily and offered a subdued smile, just as any lifelong member of the ton. “Thank you for extending the invitation.” She spoke no more forcefully than ever but managed to cover the uncertainty Crispin knew she felt.

  Good show, Catherine.

  “Where have you been hiding this diamond?” Lady Hardford smiled, tapping Crispin on the arm playfully with her fan. “I am quite certain I have not seen her in Town before. Were you hiding her in some hamlet? Keeping us all in the dark until the opportune moment?”

  “Do you wish me to give away all my secrets in one night, Lady Hardford?”

  She smiled as he expected her to.

  A bit of flattery and they could move on. “Yours is, as I’m sure you must realize, the first assembly we have attended since coming to Town.”

  The viscountess pulled herself up rather like a rooster, her feathered neckline ruffling appropriately as the realization of the status this distinction would lend her appeared to sink in. Crispin offered another bow and lead Catherine toward the ballroom.

  “Well done, Catherine,” Crispin whispered, leaning toward her so his words would not be overheard.

  “She looked precisely like—”

  “I know.” Crispin barely held back a laugh.


  “How have I done so far?” Catherine asked in an urgent whisper. “Have I embarrassed you?”

  “Not in the least,” he replied and laid his hand on hers.

  “Then I will have to try harder,” she said.

  “To embarrass me?”

  “You practically asked me to.”

  Crispin quietly chuckled. “I am beginning to suspect that you are a handful.”

  Catherine pinked quite attractively and her lips twitched but didn’t turn upward. What would it take to coax an actual smile out of her?

  “Lord and Lady Cavratt,” the Hardfords’ servant announced to the ballroom.

  The room fell instantly silent. Catherine’s fingers tightened around his arm. She looked entirely composed, though he could still see a hint of fear in her eyes in the split second she looked at him before they stepped inside the suffocatingly attentive ballroom.

  Crispin could feel dozens of eyes upon them. Word of their sudden marriage had certainly circulated as, he was sure, had speculation about its future. He scanned the crowd for someone friendly whom he could count on being amiable. If Catherine’s first introduction could be pleasant, she might relax. Her fingers must have been white from strain beneath her gloves. If she gripped him that hard any longer, he would have to summon the sawbones for an emergency amputation.

  Almost miraculously, his eyes fell on Charles Ritfield, whose property adjoined his own in Suffolk. Though he was ten years Crispin’s senior, they got on well. Charles was one of the most agreeable men of Crispin’s acquaintance and not at all likely to devour an unsuspecting newcomer.

  “I see someone I’d like to introduce to you,” he told Catherine in low tones and began moving in Mr. Ritfield’s direction. Around them the murmur picked up again in the room and the latest arrivals were announced.

  “Lord Cavratt!” Mr. Ritfield smiled as they reached him. “A pleasure!”

  Crispin undertook the introductions, miraculously managing to quite smoothly utter the phrase “my wife.”

  Mr. Ritfield paused only long enough for a breath before launching into a one-sided conversation with Catherine. “Only the other day I said to my wife, ‘Lord Cavratt really ought to find himself a wife.’ And now I find out he has. Capital! Capital!”