Crispin had forgotten Ritfield’s tendency to grin unceasingly. That would either prove relieving to Catherine or unnerving. Crispin watched her, ready to move on if the encounter didn’t look promising.
“Lord Cavratt is quite a favorite in the neighborhood. We’ve all been hoping he would find a lovely lady to bring home to Kinnley.”
“Kinnley?” Catherine whispered to Crispin.
“My estate in Suffolk,” he answered quietly.
“Lord Cavratt is quite the catch, I understand.” Ritfield’s grin only grew. “Quite sought after by the ladies—er, that is he was quite the catch. But then, you surely knew that.”
Catherine nodded, not appearing at all overwhelmed by Ritfield’s ceaseless flow of words.
“He is genial and polite. A gentleman to the core, of course. Bang up to the mark, I’ve always said. His estate is the envy of all of Suffolk. And we must certainly add to his talents that of discovering hidden treasures.”
“I think that is sufficient flattery for one evening, Ritfield,” Crispin said. The man really was a very good neighbor but had a tendency to be too effusive in his praise. “I will be sure to enlist your services if ever my good name is in question.”
“Capital!” Ritfield laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. “Capital!”
The next three-quarters of an hour passed rather tediously and for Catherine, no doubt, in a blur. Each of the dinner guests had seemed quite anxious for an introduction to the mysterious Lady Cavratt. She managed to keep her composure if not all of her coloring. Crispin appreciated her continued ability to remain conscious—he’d expected a swoon within the first half hour. Catherine, it seemed, was made of sterner stuff.
Mr. Finley, a jack-a-dandy of deservedly poor reputation, held her hand longer than necessary only moments before dinner was expected to be announced. Catherine summarily extracted her fingers from his grasp. Crispin had the sudden desire to extract the man’s head from his neck.
“And might I be so bold as to request the honor of escorting her ladyship in to dinner?” Mr. Finley asked.
Catherine’s face blanched—the first sign of distress he’d seen her allow since stepping into the ballroom.
“That would be entirely too bold,” Crispin said. “She quite outranks you.”
“Of course, Cavratt.” Finley did not appear at all put in his place.
“And,” Crispin added, snaring Finley with his most determined glare, “should the question arise, you will not find yourself escorting her to supper at any future functions, either, as I have every intention of reserving that honor for myself.” The declaration surprised him. He hadn’t, until that precise moment, planned to live in his accidental wife’s pockets. Strange that he didn’t regret the impulse.
With a smile too much like a smirk, Finley bowed. Crispin didn’t like the way the man’s eyes lingered on Catherine in the moments before he walked away. Why he should feel such a possessive inclination he didn’t know, but couldn’t deny that in that moment he did. Perhaps it was simply his dislike for Mr. Finley. The man was, after all, a rake.
“Is it common for a gentleman to escort in to supper a lady to whom he is not married?” Catherine asked in a distressed whisper.
“That depends very much on the gentleman.” Crispin’s eyes burned a hole in Finley’s retreating back. “And on the lady.” He could think of a few who would undoubtedly enjoy Finley’s company regardless of their marital status.
“And on the husband?” Catherine asked, her words laced with a hint of teasing he’d recognized from earlier that night.
“Your husband would never agree to such a thing.” Crispin tried to match her tone but found himself entirely too serious. He would never have allowed another man to escort his wife anywhere. Catherine, of course, only fell into that category technically.
“Were the roles reversed,” Catherine said, “would you allow a lady, other than your wife, to hang on your arm?”
Catherine sounded very nearly jealous.
Crispin distinctly liked the possibility.
Chapter Eight
Catherine sent countless silent prayers of gratitude heavenward during their meal. Crispin was seated beside her, which relieved her mind enormously. Lizzie had spent most of the previous day explaining the expectations of a dinner party among the ton and even ventured to practice with her over a private tea in Catherine’s sitting area. Without their combined efforts, Catherine would have made fools of them all.
“How long have you known your lovely wife, Lord Cavratt?” Lord Hardford asked, though his eyes were on Catherine.
A shiver of panic slid down Catherine’s spine. How would Crispin explain this? Three, four days. I kissed her quite scandalously in a garden and was forced to bring her home with me. Surely he could think of something less humiliating to say.
“It feels as though a lifetime has passed since I first saw her, Lord Hardford,” Crispin answered rather convincingly. “And yet the time has passed so quickly it seems only days.”
Catherine bit back a smile. He’d managed to produce the perfect explanation.
“A lovely sentiment, to be sure.” An ebony-haired lady across the table gazed at Crispin through her lowered lashes. Catherine couldn’t say why, but she instantly disliked the lady.
“Where did you two first meet?” the viscount asked.
“In a garden, beside a late-season bloom of hyacinths.”
Catherine was surprised to hear Crispin had noted the flowers. They were, of course, the reason she’d stopped—they’d been so immensely fragrant. She hadn’t expected Crispin to notice them.
“I certainly hope you plucked one for her,” their host said. “Women are forever wishing for flowers.”
“I confess I had not the foresight,” Crispin replied.
“Too overwhelmed by the beauty of the lady to note the beauty of the flowers.” This compliment had come from Mr. Finley, she believed his name to be. Catherine avoided his gaze—something about the gentleman made her uneasy.
Crispin grew sullenly quiet beside her.
Had she done something wrong? She’d kept her facial expression neutral while doing her utmost to appear contentedly disposed. She’d eaten with delicate manners and had offered her attention to those speaking around her. She knew she hadn’t said anything to discredit herself or Crispin. In fact, she hadn’t said a word since the meal began.
Perhaps that was where she’d erred. Lizzie hadn’t thought her reticence would give offense, so long as she didn’t refuse to speak when spoken to. Not a soul had spoken to her, though, and she hadn’t felt obligated to join in the conversations around her.
“What part of the kingdom do you hail from, Lady Cavratt?” the ebony-haired woman asked.
“From Herefordshire.” Catherine spoke with as much self-possession as she could feign.
“Indeed?” The lady raised an eyebrow. Apparently Catherine hailed from the wrong part of the kingdom.
The lady turned to Crispin with the same eyebrow arched in a strangely amused display. “And you met her in Herefordshire, my lord?”
“As a matter of fact, I did not, Miss Glafford.”
“Have you been to Town often, Lady Cavratt?” A heavy dose of condescension accompanied the question.
“Not very often, Miss Glafford,” Catherine answered, managing to sound unaffected. “Herefordshire is a considerable distance from London, as I’m sure you are aware.”
“It borders Wales, I believe.” Miss Glafford sounded quite repulsed.
She apparently disapproved of Wales—the feeling was, no doubt, mutual. “Bordering Wales is a rather demanding job, I suppose, but someone must undertake it,” Catherine said with forced indifference. “Herefordshire manages it quite well, I daresay.”
Somewhere along the table someone snickered. Catherine held back a pleased smile. She could see by the annoyed expression on Miss Glafford’s face that the remark had not been appreciated in that quarter. She probably thought Cathe
rine would crumble under her scrutiny.
“I understand you have taken a new French chef,” Crispin abruptly said to the viscount, a hint of anxiety in his otherwise calm voice.
Catherine glanced at him. Had her pointed response to Miss Glafford been a misstep? Lizzie had told her to be gracious and civil. She hadn’t gone beyond those bounds, had she?
“Is this not the finest crème brûlée you have ever tasted, Lady Cavratt?”
Catherine recognized Miss Glafford’s voice and she willed herself to reply evenly. “It is delightful.” She offered the compliment to Lord Hardford, the viscountess being at the far end of the table, hoping that was the appropriate course despite the inquiry having come from Miss Glafford.
“You are a connoisseur of fine food, then?” Miss Glafford’s look of pretended innocence marked her comment as a backhanded insult.
“I do not profess to be.”
“Does she do herself an injustice, Lord Cavratt?” Miss Glafford turned to Crispin. “Or is her palate more discerning than she will admit?”
Catherine hated that Miss Glafford had discovered exactly how to disconcert her. Crispin had no idea what Catherine’s tastes were, her likes or dislikes. Such a revelation would ruin the façade Crispin had been so dependent on her to help keep up. Miss Glafford’s intention, no doubt.
“You must realize, Miss Glafford, I would never contradict a lady,” Crispin answered quite civilly. “Most especially my new bride.”
“But in doing so, you must contradict me.” Miss Glafford once again gazed almost longingly at Crispin through her lowered lashes. “Is that not also inexcusable?”
“There are times, I fear, when offense cannot be avoided. One simply must choose which offense one is willing to give, however much one wishes to avoid doing so.”
Miss Glafford smiled with marked satisfaction. Catherine tried to steady her hands. Which of them would Crispin “choose to offend”? She was certainly accustomed to having her feelings battered indifferently, but she hadn’t yet endured such ill treatment from him.
Mr. Finley offered his own observation. “I am quite certain, Cavratt, you would suffer far longer for offending your lovely wife than you would any other lady in the room.”
Catherine’s eyes widened despite herself. Had Mr. Finley just labeled her as unforgiving?
“I fear I have offered the offense this time.” Mr. Finley smiled a touch too broadly. “That was not my intention, Lady Cavratt. I only meant to refer to the unavoidable fact that, as husband and wife, ample opportunity would exist between you and Lord Cavratt to relive an offense long after this dinner has ended.”
Perhaps not so long afterward. If she were failing as miserably as Catherine suspected she was, Crispin would likely push through the annulment proceedings with tremendous speed. Could such things be sped up? She had no idea, and yet her entire future hung on the answer to that and so many other questions. Eventually she would have to summon the courage to ask Crispin for more information.
Catherine forced her thoughts back to the moment only to find Mr. Finley’s gaze still on her. His devilish smile grew. He went so far as to wink at her again. She shuddered at the unwelcome attention.
“I believe my wife has planned a musical evening for us,” their host announced as the entire assembly made their way from the very formal dining room a few moments later. “Miss Glafford, I understand, is quite accomplished on the pianoforte.”
Miss Glafford, escorted by Mr. Finley, blushed in a way that seemed more practiced than genuine. Only steps behind them, Mr. and Mrs. Glafford added their voices to the compliments Lord Hardford had already begun to offer their daughter.
Edward pulled Crispin aside and Catherine found herself unavoidably left for a tête-à-tête with Miss Glafford.
“Do not worry yourself, Lady Cavratt,” Miss Glafford offered. Catherine didn’t believe her tone of compassionate concern. “While Lord Cavratt could certainly have had his pick of any young lady in the ton, I’m certain he won’t regret his choice.” She then offered a painfully obvious look of unsatisfied analysis and shook her head as though discounting her previous assertion. “At least I hope not, for his sake.”
Catherine had no response and didn’t attempt to offer one. She didn’t want Crispin to regret his choice either. Yet an annulment seemed rather pointed proof of regret.
“Catherine.” Crispin abruptly stepped to them. “Lady Henley is suffering from a sudden headache.”
Lizzie was ill? “Is there anything I can do for her?”
“Do you happen to have an apothecary chest in that reticule of yours?” That dry humor again. Catherine had quickly discovered she enjoyed it. “No? Well, then, she believes she must return home. However, since they arrived here in our equipage, they will need to use it again to return.”
“Of course,” Catherine answered.
“You would not be disappointed to leave earlier than expected?” Crispin asked, eyeing her uncertainly.
“I could hardly enjoy myself knowing your sister was suffering.”
“I will offer our excuses to the viscount and viscountess.” Crispin quickly disappeared into the crowd without another word.
“I’ve never known Lady Henley to suffer megrims before,” Miss Glafford said as though deeply contemplating the development. “Something distressing must have entered her life recently.”
Miss Glafford looked pointedly at Catherine then flitted away. The truth of her words stung. She had certainly unsettled the lives of Crispin, his sister, and her husband. Why was it she managed to annoy every person she’d ever lived with? At least Crispin hadn’t locked her in her room yet—Uncle had taken that road rather quickly.
Crispin returned and offered her his arm. She took it but couldn’t bear to meet his eyes, afraid his disappointment would be evident. She’d known him less than a week, and already his opinion of her mattered.
The carriage ride began in absolute silence. Catherine’s gaze fell on Lizzie leaning unapologetically against her husband’s shoulder, her gloved fingers raised to her brow. Edward had an arm around his wife’s shoulder, whispering something into her ear.
Catherine watched the touching scene with a longing she’d felt countless times before. She’d certainly dreamed of a caring and gentle husband—someone who loved her.
Edward noticed her gaze. “She will be fine,” he whispered.
The reassurance brought her some relief. Lizzie had become a fast and unexpected friend. Catherine hadn’t enjoyed a single friendship in the years since her uncle had assumed ownership of Yandell Hall. She did not like the thought of her friend suffering.
“Is there anything I can do?” Catherine whispered as well.
Edward shook his head and turned his attention back to his wife.
Her eyes settled momentarily on Crispin. He kept his gaze on the window, his posture stiff and unyielding.
Catherine lowered her gaze to her own trembling hands before closing her eyelids altogether. Miss Glafford’s cutting comments rang anew in her weary mind. Crispin must have sorely regretted ever stepping foot in that garden. She felt even worse realizing she, to a degree, was grateful he had crossed her path. For a few blessed days she had lived free of her uncle’s tyranny.
She nearly jumped from her seat when a warm, gentle hand took hold of hers. The streetlamps outside offered just enough light to illuminate Crispin’s face, his eyes watching her closely.
“Were you disappointed to leave?” he asked.
Catherine shook her head. She’d seldom been so happy to leave a place before.
“Jealous of Hancock’s gowns?” Crispin managed to look entirely serious.
“You did give him the prettiest ones.” The humor helped lighten her load a little.
“He is so very demanding.” Crispin leaned toward her, his next words not reaching across the coach. “Are you concerned for Lizzie?”
“I am.”
“But that is not the only reason for your tears?”
/>
Catherine turned away, embarrassed by her lack of self-control. She wiped with her free hand at a tear hovering on her lashes.
“What has upset you?”
She felt Crispin slide closer to her. His leg barely brushed against her own, and the warmth of him so near made her shiver. Yet she wanted him to stay as close as he was, to continue holding her hand.
“Catherine?”
All at once, the sleepless nights, the tension, the upheaval she’d endured over the past week came crashing down on her. She promised herself she wouldn’t cry. She refused to, even as several tears escaped just to spite her.
“I am sorry,” she whispered.
Crispin didn’t reply but kept her hand in his throughout the remainder of their journey. Her worries didn’t disappear. Her uncertainty over the future remained. But for those few moments, she felt secure.
Chapter Nine
Crispin would have greatly preferred being almost anywhere else in London the next morning, but his anxiety for Catherine kept him pinned inside the sitting room. He worried about her more than he had about anyone before, even his own sister. But, then, Lizzie had never been as excruciatingly vulnerable as Catherine.
Which brought his mind back to their visitors: Mrs. Glafford and her daughter, who had managed to spout more barely veiled insults during the previous night’s dinner than there had been dishes. Catherine had handled the entire ordeal with unfathomable polish, something that astounded him still. She’d even managed a crackingly witty rejoinder. He had been hard pressed not to laugh out loud at the unexpected show of steel. But she’d been teary during the journey back to Permount House. Catherine had said she was fine, but the tears had been real.
His sudden marriage had caused quite a stir. According to the ever-reliable servants’ network of gossip, the possibility of an annulment was quite the hot topic. All of Town, it seemed, looked forward to being thoroughly scandalized.
The Kiss of a Stranger Page 7