The Kiss of a Stranger

by Sarah M. Eden

  Miss Bower rose and made her way toward the double doors. Catherine managed to get to her feet, though she remained safely beside Crispin. His hand slipped around hers as Miss Bower collected her bonnet and gloves. Catherine’s breath caught in her lungs. Her heart was most certainly in danger if the mere touch of his hand could cause such an immediate blush.

  “It was a pleasure to meet you, Lady Cavratt,” Miss Bower said. Her gaze drifted to Catherine and Crispin’s entwined hands—a sight that didn’t seem to please her at all. “Crispin, always a pleasure.”

  “Thank you, Miss Bower.”

  Their very unwelcome visitor made her way out of the house. Catherine held more tightly to Crispin’s hand. She knew that leaning on him was not wise—learning to stand on her own two feet would be far more prudent. She would work on that, but in that moment she didn’t want to let Crispin go.

  Despite Miss Bower’s acidic comments, Catherine had found some enjoyment in the visit. Crispin had shown that witty side of himself that Catherine found she liked very much. He hadn’t laughed—she loved his laugh—but he’d smiled. And, quite surprisingly, he’d told her he liked to see her smile. He “dearly loved” it, he’d said. The warm strength of his hand wrapped around hers helped lighten the lingering weight of Miss Bower’s remarks.

  “She is always a ray of sunshine,” Crispin said as they reached the windows, Miss Bower’s carriage just then disappearing up the street. “Makes a man want to . . . jump in the Thames with an anvil tied to his ankle.”

  Crispin released her hand and much of the courage she’d found evaporated.

  “She seemed . . . to . . .”

  “. . . know a great deal about us?” Crispin still gazed out the windows. “She does. Miss Bower was in the garden that day at the inn.”

  Everything suddenly fit. The familiarity. The smug sense of understanding. Miss Bower was the beautiful young lady Catherine had seen Crispin walking with that day.

  “We have, hopefully, delayed her retelling of those events.” Crispin wandered toward the tray of pastries, taking a fairy cake. “She wouldn’t want to expose herself as a truthless gossip if our performance contradicts her assertions.”

  Our performance. Crispin had been pretending. Catherine shook her head in frustration with herself. Of course it had been an act—everything about their marriage was an act. He pretended to be happy with her and she pretended to be unconcerned about her future.

  What was wrong with her lately? Even under her uncle’s roof she’d managed to find ways to take control of her life. She had taken up instrument after instrument as a means of avoiding him, smuggled sweet biscuits to her room after tea to enjoy later, escaped through books she’d discovered amongst her mother’s things in the attic. Uncle may have controlled much of her life, but Catherine had never been one to give up entirely. She should have been actively seeking out her options since arriving at Permount House rather than developing a tendresse for her temporary husband.

  Crispin’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Are you all right, Catherine?”

  Catherine nodded but refused to look in his eyes. A single kind look from him would undermine all her resolve—she would find a way to convince herself he hadn’t been entirely pretending, that in some small way he wanted her to stay. Distance and neutrality were an absolute must.

  She needed to get her emotions under control before she broke down. A few moments on her own ought to be sufficient to talk a little sense into herself before she allowed her heart to convince her head of the impossible.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Wait, Catherine!” Crispin called after his wife’s retreating form. “Please.”

  He knew she’d been near crying, though he had not been able to see her eyes. He’d spent many hours since his hasty wedding pondering why he could sense her feelings at times. It was both unnerving and empowering.

  He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had truly needed him. He saw to the needs of his tenants, temporal as those needs were. He patronized several well-deserving charities. But with Catherine it was different. He felt at times that she needed him. Him, personally. The slightest act of kindness brought her to life. A tender word or a gentle touch seemed to lighten her in a way he could never have imagined his attentions affecting anyone. Despite their situation and his guilt in creating it, she seemed to be learning to trust him. Crispin felt an inexplicable need to not break that trust.

  “Catherine.” He reached her just at the foot of the stairs.

  She stopped but didn’t turn to face him.

  “Please tell me what has upset you. If I’ve said or done something . . .”

  Catherine shook her head, her back still to him.

  “Miss Bower, then?” She would try the patience of a saint.

  But Catherine offered another silent denial.

  “Won’t you tell me?” Crispin laid his hands on each of her arms just below her shoulders, needing to comfort her in the only way he could think of. He felt her shudder as she breathed and heard a muffled sob escape.

  Crispin stepped around her and, placing a finger below her chin, lifted her face toward his. Tear tracks stained her soft cheeks, puddles of unshed tears clinging to her lashes. “You’re crying.”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice shaking. “I usually can control . . . myself . . . more.” Sniffles interrupted her words.

  “You don’t need to apologize, Catherine. I just want to know what upset you.”

  She dropped her gaze and shook her head.

  “I need to know.” He tried to coax her eyes upward by gently stroking her hair. The gesture didn’t seem to impact her, though it had a most decided effect on himself. His heart raced, as it seemed to every time he touched her. Needing to lighten the moment at least a little in order to regain his own equilibrium, Crispin opted for a more teasing approach. “We can hardly be a successful dueling team if we don’t talk to each other.”

  Crispin waited, unsure if she would reply, unsure if he really needed her to. She was no longer running from him, and he took comfort in that small improvement.

  “You . . .” A jumpy breath cut off her words.

  Crispin tensed. He had done something. If his unknown infraction had brought her to tears, he must have done something horrible. He’d find a way to make it up to her if he ever found out what he’d done.

  “You ate the last fairy cake,” Catherine whispered.

  “I . . .” Her words were so unexpected Crispin could hardly digest them. “Fairy cake?”

  “You didn’t even save me one.” Catherine gave him a look of complete disdain ruined by the twinkle of mischief in her still-wet eyes and the twitch he’d come to recognize as a smile fighting to be let free.

  She was bamming him! How unexpected. He’d always thought her too shy to tease him.

  Catherine must have had a genuine reason for her emotions, and a reason to not tell him. But, standing there, his fingers still brushing her hair, those deep blue eyes sparkling up at him, her rosy lips struggling to smile, Crispin was content with her evasion. For the moment she seemed to feel better. Eventually, he told himself, he’d convince her to trust him more.

  Eventually? Where had that thought come from? He hadn’t come to any concrete conclusions about eventually.

  He shook off the thought. “I believe there are several more fairy cakes on the tea tray.”

  “I am quite certain you ate them all.” She barely maintained her serious expression even as she wiped at a lingering tear. “And I’m not sure I can ever forgive you for it.”

  Her distressed pout absolutely undid him. How she’d managed to pull herself together when she’d so obviously been distraught, he didn’t know. She had fortitude, he’d learned that about her in the nearly two weeks they’d been married. It was an admirable trait not enough people possessed.

  “I do hope you’ll forgive me,” he said. “Lizzie will take a switch to me if you’re upset when they are here tonight.”
<
br />   Catherine shrugged. “I suppose for your well-being I ought to concede.”

  “Very considerate of you.”

  Then, Catherine smiled, truly smiled. Crispin’s heart pounded almost painfully in his neck, every breath growing more ragged. His hand, seemingly of its own volition, ceased stroking Catherine’s silken hair and brushed her cheek instead, the other hand rising to mirror it.

  Roses filled the suddenly warm air as Crispin took the last step toward her. Catherine didn’t pull back or push him away. His eyes focused on her face, her eyes, her lips. She was beautiful. Mesmerizing. Breathtaking.

  Footsteps echoed not far away.

  Suddenly aware that he was moments, breaths from kissing Catherine, Crispin shook himself to his senses once more. How had she managed to get under his skin so entirely? Their entire future was up in the air and he’d nearly kissed her twice in four days.

  “Shall I prove my innocence, then?” He forced lightness into his tone.

  “Your innocence?” Catherine sounded and looked confused.

  “I still maintain I did not, in fact, eat all the fairy cakes,” Crispin reminded her. “And I plan to prove I have been falsely accused.”

  “Oh.” Catherine’s expression cleared a little. Then, with an exaggerated thoughtful expression, she added, “I suppose it is only fair you should have a chance to redeem your maligned character.”

  “Exactly.” Enough distance had arisen between them to calm his racing heart. Feeling more in control of himself, Crispin offered her his arm, which she took, and led her back into the sitting room.

  “Oh, dear.” Catherine was obviously feigning her despair. “It appears I have falsely accused you.”

  Crispin smiled, his gaze settling, along with hers, on half a dozen fairy cakes untouched on the silver tray. “Perhaps I should call you out for such an insult.”

  Catherine’s lips again appeared to battle against her determination to not smile. “But I get to choose the weapons, do I not?”

  “That is one of the rules, yes.” Crispin found it odd that she should know the intricacies of dueling. She seemed to know so little of society, yet understood this aspect of the realm of gentlemanly pursuits.

  “I haven’t the slightest idea how to fence.” Catherine paced the room, her eyes twinkling delightfully. “I am afraid you would have the advantage at fisticuffs.”

  “Pistols, then?” Crispin couldn’t remember the last time he’d had such a diverting conversation.

  “No.” Catherine’s answer was quick, abrupt, and not at all playful. Every hint of color had suddenly drained from her face, the twinkle in her eyes had vanished. “I don’t like pistols.” Apparently realizing the marked difference in her tone, Catherine stammered, her eyes on the floor. “M-my uncle cleaned his every month and insisted I be present when he did.”

  Odd behavior, to be sure.

  “He told me repeatedly that pistols were the ideal means of eliminating . . . enemies and . . . inconveniences. I . . . I do not like pistols.”

  A single glance at her pale countenance told Crispin that she was not at all equal to the task of further discussing her uncle’s warped and threatening behavior. He wanted to see her smile again, to wipe away the lingering impact of her uncle’s memory on her. “We’ve eliminated the usual arsenal. Something untraditional, then?”

  Catherine bit her lips closed with her teeth, not taking the bait he offered.

  “Frogs?” Crispin suggested.

  “Frogs?” She looked up at him once more. Curiosity replaced some of the pain in her eyes.

  Crispin couldn’t help the mischievous smile he felt spreading across his face. “I once put frogs in Lizzie’s bed out of revenge for a childhood spat.”

  “And so you won the duel?” Catherine asked, her voice still quiet, but not as heavy.

  “I found snakes in my bed the next night.” He shrugged. “So I threw her in the lake.”

  Catherine’s lips twitched again. Why on earth didn’t she allow herself to smile? He would get her to before the day was over. He had no idea how but swore he would manage it.

  “It wasn’t deep, then?” Catherine said.

  “Lizzie is an excellent swimmer, though she flailed around enough to convince me otherwise. I decided to rescue her and she pulled me in after her.” Crispin remembered that bit of trickery fondly. “I don’t even remember what started that battle.”

  “You probably ate all of the pastries.”

  How unpredictable she was proving. The more time he spent with her, the more he liked her.

  “And now I see I am going to be forced to adulterate your tea.” Catherine produced a melodramatic sigh that would have put Lizzie’s efforts to shame.

  He was grateful she seemed to have recovered somewhat from her difficult recollections. He followed her lead and offered a lighthearted comment of his own. “We’re having an argument, then?”

  “It is a very convenient way for a wife to let her husband know when she’s in a tizzy.” Catherine looked far less burdened than she had a moment earlier.

  “And, pray tell, what would be a convenient way for a husband to let his wife know that he’s claimed the upper hand in one of their, um, tizzies?” His grin, a rare-enough indulgence normally, felt perfectly natural at that moment.

  “He could always throw her in a lake,” Catherine answered.

  Her smile hovered very near the surface, Crispin could tell. He would make her smile. He would!

  “Of course, you don’t have a lake,” Catherine added with a look of amused triumph on her face.

  “No,” Crispin said, slowly, mischievously. “But I do have a large fountain.”

  “I don’t swim,” Catherine said, emotions warring on her surprisingly expressive face. Doubt, curiosity, amusement, apprehension, joviality.

  “It’s a large, shallow fountain.”

  “But I am not actually in a tizzy.”

  “You’ve twice accused me of pilfering sweets.” Crispin stepped toward her. “And since you refuse to choose the weapons for the duel my honor requires, I have no choice but to dump you in the fountain.”

  “You wouldn’t.” It was as much a statement as a question.

  In Crispin’s mischievous mood, the declaration stood as a challenge. “Wouldn’t I?”

  He took another deliberate step closer to her. She inched backward. He stepped again but kept a close eye on her face. He didn’t wish to frighten or upset her. She needed to smile, to laugh, to have a moment’s enjoyment in life.

  “Surely I haven’t disparaged your honor so drastically as all this.” Catherine stepped back yet again. Any moment now that elusive smile would break the surface. He saw not a hint of the apprehension that too often marred her remarkably lovely face.

  “Fairy cake theft is a serious crime,” Crispin said.

  “A hanging offense, is it?”

  Lovely? Was that the insipid word he’d assigned her features only moments earlier? She was enchanting. He could think of at least a dozen simpering debutantes who would have spent hours in front of their looking glasses trying to perfect the look Catherine was giving him: her brow raised in challenge, unknowingly pulling him closer to her.

  “You would mock my maligned reputation?”

  “Perhaps I don’t take your threat seriously.” Her eyes crinkled in a smile, though her mouth still fought against her emerging smile.

  A deep chuckle escaped Crispin’s chest. “I am going to have to inspect my tea,” he said, moving more quickly toward Catherine even as she skirted around the sofa. “After your thorough dunking, I have a feeling you will be in a monumental tizzy.”

  Then, it happened. Catherine’s face split in a spectacular grin. That single reward was worth all the effort.

  “I suppose I should be grateful I am married to a much older man,” Catherine quipped, pulling Crispin out of his momentary reverie.

  “Much older man?”

  “I am counting on your advanced rheumatism,” Cath
erine explained. “You can’t throw me in the fountain if you’re too stiff in the joints to even catch me.”

  “To the fountain with you, woman!” Crispin lunged after her.

  Crispin momentarily froze as Catherine’s laughter rang across the room. He had never heard her laugh.

  “Poor old man.” Catherine smiled without hesitation. “I suppose I should take pity on your aging limbs and slow down a bit.”

  Crispin came swiftly around the sofa, but Catherine proved too quick. He spun to follow her only to be outmaneuvered. He faked to the right and she sped toward the door. Expecting this, Crispin cut her off, grabbed her at the waist, and pulled her directly to him.

  Catherine’s eyes danced with amusement. Any moment her laughter would erupt once more. What an enchanting picture she made. Her cheeks had colored with the exertion and her eyes had brightened with happiness.

  “You, my dear, are more evasive than I would have imagined. I would almost think you had practice avoiding deserved punishments.”

  With that, every hint of laughter in her countenance disappeared. The guarded, fearful Catherine returned instantly.

  “I am sorry, Catherine,” Crispin quickly said, recognizing his blunder immediately. Punishments had been far more than a teasing threat with her uncle, he was certain. “That was a thoughtless comment. I forgot about your uncle.”

  “So had I,” Catherine said. “I can’t remember the last time he wasn’t somewhere in the back of my mind. It has been wonderful, you know.” Catherine tilted her head back, her eyes boring uncharacteristically into his. She usually avoided eye contact.

  “What has been?” Crispin’s voice sounded a bit husky as he became ever more aware of how close they stood.

  “Not worrying,” she said, still gazing into his eyes. “Not being afraid. Of you.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to be afraid of me.”

  “Then it is a very good thing I am not.”

  “Catherine . . .” Crispin began, no idea what he intended to say to her. That smile of hers. He was done for. He bent his head, wrapping his arm more snuggly around her to close the distance. This time he didn’t hesitate, he didn’t stop himself. And Catherine didn’t pull away.