And so Crispin had taken on the role of knight errant to a damsel in distress—a laughable mental image, to be sure. He would probably be one of those knights who managed to be thrown from his mount at the most critical moment of a battle, left sprawled on the side of the road, stuck in his rusty armor. Chivalry had never been a particular talent of his.
“I understand you hail from Herefordshire, Lady Cavratt,” Mrs. Glafford said, not quite masking her critical evaluation.
“Yes. Outside Peterchurch.”
“I don’t believe I’ve ever traveled to that rustic part of the kingdom.”
If her pointed remark had wounded Catherine, she didn’t let on. “We receive few visitors,” she replied demurely.
“With the exception of Lord Cavratt, I dare say.” Miss Glafford fluttered her lashes at him as though she were trying to rid her eye of a speck of dirt. She most likely meant it to be a tempting flirtation. What he wouldn’t give to be a rusted knight stuck far, far away from her.
“I understand your family resides in Surrey.” Catherine turned the conversation with finesse. She may have lacked some of the polish of the Glaffords, but Catherine was not feather-headed.
“Yes. At Farrlow Park.” Mrs. Glafford puffed up with obvious self-importance, jutting her chin out imperiously. Mrs. Glafford offered a description of their family estate that left out no detail, little or great. Catherine appeared to be listening, which was more than Crispin could say for himself. “And of course my Charlotte is quite the most beautiful young lady in the entire county, just as she is a favorite of all the gentlemen in Town. Dark hair is all the rage, as I’m sure you know.”
“How grateful you must be that Lord Cavratt was willing to overlook such an obvious shortcoming,” Miss Glafford said, leaning closer and lowering her voice almost enough to keep the remark private.
“I dare say he has overlooked other things and other people.” Catherine emphasized overlooked with a pointed glance at Miss Glafford.
Miss Glafford appeared rightly ruffled. Crispin managed to choke down a laugh. His Catherine had more spirit than he would have imagined.
The laugh disappeared instantly. His Catherine? Where had that come from?
“Would you care for tea, Mrs. Glafford?” Catherine asked calmly.
“I would be delighted.”
After seeing the tiresome lady satisfactorily provided with the refreshment she needed—hopefully enough to keep her quiet for a few minutes—Catherine offered the same to Miss Glafford, who accepted silently but not without a look of contempt shot in Catherine’s direction.
“No cream, if you please,” Miss Glafford said as Catherine turned her back to pour.
Catherine stopped in the midst of her preparations. “You do not care for cream, Miss Glafford?”
“Cream does not care for her,” Mrs. Glafford corrected. “Has a most decidedly unpleasant effect.”
“Mother,” Miss Glafford scolded, beginning to pink.
Catherine’s expression, though hidden from the others, was unreadable. She bit down on her lip a moment, brow furrowing. What was she thinking?
“No explanation is necessary,” Catherine told Mrs. Glafford. “An acquaintance of mine also chooses to omit cream from tea. I quite understand.”
Why did Crispin detect a sense of mischief in Catherine’s voice? Catherine, the quiet, demure young lady who’d tiptoed through his house for a week—he doubted she was capable of mischief. Although she had uttered a remark or two that made Crispin wonder if there wasn’t more to Catherine than met the eye.
He watched her with immense curiosity but outward casualness. She prepared Miss Glafford’s tea slowly. Crispin found himself mesmerized by the ritual. Was it the grace he saw in her slender fingers? Perhaps the way those often trembling hands were suddenly so steady. Or perhaps the fact that the look on Catherine’s face was frighteningly reminiscent of Lizzie’s expression during their many childhood acts of impishness.
Catherine quite smoothly took the cream pitcher and allowed three small drops of cream to drip into the cup. What was she up to? She stirred the cup silently before turning and presenting it to Miss Glafford.
Crispin had no idea what dreadful effect cream had on Miss Glafford. He hoped it was something drastic. Poetic justice, really.
“Crispin,” Catherine said.
He looked up and found her directly beside him, holding a cup of tea for him. “Thank you.” Before she could move away he caught her in his gaze and whispered, “What have you secreted into my tea?”
Catherine’s face paled. She bit her lips once more, a debate obvious in her eyes. She seemed ready to form some excuse or another but glanced momentarily at Miss Glafford before sitting beside him and lowering her head. “It was not enough to have much of an effect,” she answered, her whisper almost too low to be heard. “I—”
“Then you should have put in more,” he whispered conspiratorially.
Catherine slowly raised her face until it tipped up toward him, her brows knit in a look of assessment she’d only once before given him, one that made him want to stand straighter, to adjust his cravat, to stay on his mount despite his rusty armor.
Her lips twitched ever so slightly. Then the movement became more pronounced. In a wave of transformation, Catherine’s lips turned upward. That smile he’d long awaited proved utterly delightful. Her eyes danced under its influence.
“What was your maiden name, Lady Cavratt?” Mrs. Glafford asked.
Catherine’s smile disappeared. Blast Mrs. Glafford! Crispin had been enjoying the rare sight.
“Thorndale,” Catherine answered. Crispin could hear the uncertainty in her voice once more.
Mrs. Glafford watched him and Catherine over her cup. She seemed anxious to interrupt, though she couldn’t possibly have overheard the conversation. Mrs. Glafford appeared to be on the “Anticipating an Annulment” list, and furthermore on the “Will Still Accept Lord Cavratt as Good Ton Afterward” list. Two lists of which Crispin did not approve.
“Thorndale,” Mrs. Glafford repeated. “Not a name of significance, I fear.”
“No, it is not,” Catherine said. Why couldn’t everyone leave her be? She did not deserve to be harassed.
He opened his mouth to offer a sharp set-down, but Mrs. Glafford spoke before he managed a single word.
“The Littletons’ ball is quickly becoming the talk of Town,” she said. “Do you intend to grace the event, my lord?”
“Of course.” Crispin hid his scowl behind his teacup. “We”—He emphasized the we—“are quite looking forward to it.”
“I am so glad to hear as much,” Mrs. Glafford said sweetly. “Charlotte will, of course, be there. You must save a dance for her, Lord Cavratt. She has been given permission to waltz, you know.”
Crispin let his eyes wander to Catherine. The spirit seemed to have drained from her, though she sat with a quiet determination to endure the remainder of the visit.
“She is quite an elegant dancer, my lord, though I say it myself.” Mrs. Glafford smiled at her daughter. “I have no doubt the two of you would prove a very handsome couple dancing.”
“I fear the world will never know,” Crispin said. Before Mrs. Glafford could utter the question he saw behind her forced smile, Crispin continued. “I have every intention of spending the entire evening with my wife.”
Mrs. Glafford gave an unladylike snort. Crispin’s jaw clenched instantly. He’d had quite enough of these women and their insults. Even before his rumor-inspiring marriage, he’d endured every imaginable hint and insinuation from debutantes and mothers alike regarding hoped-for alliances and unions. They were the very reason he’d sworn off the Marriage Mart his first year in London.
“Mother.” Miss Glafford’s voice sounded pleading.
Perhaps she could keep her mother quiet. Crispin doubted it.
“Always modest.” Her mother eyed her with overwhelming maternal regard. “Lord Cavratt, I’m sure—”
“Mot
her.” The pleading had grown almost desperate.
“Yes, of course.” Mrs. Glafford seemed to come to her senses. “We really must be going, I am afraid.”
How tragic.
Catherine showed the women out with nary a word.
“A few more calls to make,” Crispin heard Mrs. Glafford remind her daughter as they reached the front walk.
“I’m not quite feeling the thing, Mother,” Miss Glafford answered, sounding as though she meant it. “I think, perhaps, we should return home.”
What exactly had Catherine’s secreted cream done to their unwelcome visitor?
“Miss Glafford didn’t seem quite herself as they left,” Crispin said when Catherine returned to the sitting room. He moved a little closer to where Catherine stood. “It was the cream, was it not?”
Catherine nodded. She looked as though she felt a hint of guilt.
“You seemed to know a great deal about the effect it would have.” He managed a straight face despite his growing amusement. “Have you tainted tea before, then?”
Catherine turned her eyes on him, pleading with him again. Did she not realize he’d been teasing her? He’d wanted to see her smile again, but his jest seemed to have missed its mark.
“Who was it?” Crispin asked, a sudden curiosity sweeping over him. He understood so little about Catherine and found himself inexplicably wishing to find out more.
Catherine took a trembling breath, her face shifting to match the emotion. “My uncle,” she whispered.
“Your—” Crispin almost choked on the admission. He would never have expected Catherine to stand up to anyone, let alone Mr. Thorndale.
“Please don’t tell him! I shouldn’t have. I know I shouldn’t have. But I . . . I had to . . .” Her hand clasped his arm, her eyes never leaving his. “There were days when I simply couldn’t endure it, Crispin. But when he was ill he didn’t . . .” Tears threatened in those bewitching eyes. “Please don’t tell him. He’ll honestly throttle me. Please!”
Crispin took her face in his hands, forcing her to look directly at him. He could feel her trembling. “I won’t breathe a word of it,” he promised. In that moment he would have gladly taken on the role of rescuing knight in order to protect her.
Lud, where did that thought come from?
“Thank you.” She looked immensely relieved.
He could smell the hint of roses that seemed to follow her wherever she went. At what point had he come to like that scent? And why was he so reluctant to release her?
Shaking his head at his own ridiculous thoughts, Crispin stepped back and pulled his hands safely away from her.
She seemed struck by the abruptness of his departure, but what choice did he have really? He naturally felt compassion upon hearing of her uncle’s ill treatment. He’d simply reacted as any feeling human being would have. They were not truly husband and wife, but two people in an impossible situation. Holding her or remaining glued to her side made no sense considering their circumstances.
“I won’t put cream in Miss Glafford’s tea again,” Catherine said, not quite looking at him. “That was unkind of me.”
Apparently she thought he disapproved. Disapproved? It was a stroke of genius! “If you won’t, I will,” Crispin said. “I’ll pour in the entire pitcher.”
“She’d be done in for days.” A hint of amusement colored Catherine’s words, but still her smile had not returned.
“We would have the gratitude of every person who would avoid her company during her illness,” Crispin said.
“Is that not a little malicious?” One corner of her mouth twitched up.
Gads, he wanted to see an actual smile again. “It is not my malice that concerns me, Catherine,” he answered. “I am afraid I shall be on my guard from now on.”
“And why is that?” Catherine asked. Her tone had lightened considerably. The sparkle in her eyes lit her entire face. She really was quite pretty—she had been even before Lizzie’s ministrations.
Crispin leaned closer, the scent of roses greeting him as he did. “Because,” he used the mock-serious tone he’d all but perfected, “I will inevitably question every cup of tea I’m offered for as long as you are here.”
He watched for the sparkle to grow, for her smile to return, for her face to brighten. But, instead, she turned a touch more pale and seemed to retreat inside herself once more. The spark he’d seen in those brilliantly blue eyes extinguished in an instant. Her brows knit and her posture slipped.
There was no playfulness, nor was there the pleading he’d detected in her looks only moments earlier.
What had he done wrong this time?
Chapter Ten
Catherine had been married an entire week. She sat at a writing desk of deepest cherrywood beneath a tall window splattered by rain. From her position she could look out over the gardens, too wet and muddy for exploring that afternoon. A disappointment, to be sure. She had found she liked Crispin’s gardens: well appointed, well maintained, and surprisingly peaceful in a world she found more and more in turmoil.
Rain pelted the glass as her thoughts wandered. They hadn’t been out in society at all since the night of the Hardfords’ dinner. Several bouquets of flowers had arrived for her in the days that had followed that remarkably uneasy night, offering congratulations on their marriage and flattering assessments of her character and beauty. Lizzie had assured her such gestures were customary and expected. Perhaps, Catherine thought hopefully, she hadn’t proven too monumental a failure.
She’d narrowly escaped a hornet’s nest with Miss Glafford. Her prank had been childish, she admitted to herself in retrospect—not at all like the times she had done the same to her uncle. She’d barely put in enough cream to give Miss Glafford a nagging stomachache. She’d often given Uncle enough to leave him indisposed for hours. Heaven help her, she didn’t regret a single time she’d resorted to such desperate measures.
So much of the last eight years had been little more than perseverance. In the seven days she’d been at Permount House, survival hadn’t been her foremost thought. With Crispin she felt safe, which seemed illogical. Without a moment’s warning he could walk in and announce that their marriage was over.
She hardly knew Crispin. He fluctuated between personable and grumpy, between kind and distant. How could she find security in the company of a man whom she did not really understand? One who saw her as a temporary inconvenience? For just a moment after the Glaffords’ visit, she had forgotten how uncertain her situation truly was.
She repeated his words. “For as long as you are here.”
Catherine pushed out an uneasy breath. She needed a place to go after the annulment was official. Hiring herself out as a companion or governess seemed her most likely option. She simply needed to find someone who needed her.
With a sigh, Catherine returned her attention to the small expense book on the desk in front of her. Crispin had provided her with pin money, though it seemed more like a small fortune to her limited experience. Only Lizzie’s insistence that not accepting would reflect badly on Crispin had convinced Catherine to accept it.
She’d spent very little, having bought only the accounting book and a new rivet for her reading spectacles. Catherine unfolded the tiny glasses and pulled them on, grateful they were repaired but as frustrated at her dependence on them as she’d been since acquiring them seven years earlier. She dipped the elegant quill in a well of blackest ink and added the rivet expense, which had cost nearly nothing, into the ledger. She was determined not to be irresponsible with such a generous allowance.
Expense added and columns checked, Catherine closed the book and slid it to the back of the desk’s uppermost drawer. She folded her glasses, intending to place them with her account book but finding herself watching the rain again. She absentmindedly placed them on the desktop and wandered to another window to watch the garden being bathed in the unending downpour.
“My lady,” Hancock said, interrupting her solitude.
>
She turned toward him, not unhappy by his company. Hancock had proven himself an ally early in her sojourn at Permount House.
“Lord Cavratt has requested to join you for tea here in the library if that is agreeable to you.”
Catherine nodded and bit down on her lip, suddenly nervous. Had he completed the annulment? She had not yet found a position. There hadn’t been time. She crossed on shaking legs to a chair and sat, her mind swirling.
“Would you like me to take your place, my lady?” Hancock asked, still maintaining his proper butler’s posture but with a hint of conspiracy in his tone. “My well-timed appearance several days ago inspired quite a rousing round of laughter. And seemed to put you at ease.”
Catherine half smiled in spite of her worries. “Thank you,” she said. “But I believe I am equal to the task.”
Hancock offered a bow and a look of unfettered sympathy before slipping from the room.
Sitting alone in the library, Catherine did not feel at all “equal to the task.” How did one prepare oneself to be thrown out on the street?
Tea arrived in the next moment. The staff did everything with an efficiency that Catherine found both impressive and daunting. Crispin, she’d decided, liked things to happen a certain way. He liked his life to be predictable. No wonder he was eager to end their ramshackle marriage.
“Good afternoon, Catherine.”
She recognized Crispin’s voice and steeled herself to be calm. “Good afternoon.” Heavens, her voice was trembling.
Crispin looked every inch the Town gentleman, as always, in his perfectly tailored superfine and pristinely tied cravat. He made his way across the room toward her, and Catherine’s heart began pounding.
“I see you haven’t poured yet,” Crispin said, standing beside her at the table. “Now might be the best time for me to accept a cup—I can be certain you’ve done nothing to it.”
“Are we soon to be at odds with each other, then?” Catherine tried to keep her voice from shaking, even as she felt her limbs doing just that.
The Kiss of a Stranger Page 8