His lips brushed lightly over hers. The scent of roses filled his nose. He could feel her breathing, feel the warmth of her so close to him. Their lips met again, still gently, but with more fervor. That same sensation he remembered all too vividly from their first kiss swept over him in waves—the inarguable reality that Catherine’s presence in his arms felt absolutely right, that his brain was barely functioning, registering nothing but her.
“Good heavens!” a woman shrieked.
Chapter Fourteen
He wanted to continue kissing his bride, blast it. Who was making all that racket? Maybe if he ignored the noise, it would go away.
“Crispin,” Catherine whispered against his lips.
He kissed her again, but she pulled back.
“Crispin, someone is here.”
With a groan of frustration, he glanced over Catherine’s head at the inconvenient visitors. Lud. “Mrs. Glafford. Miss Glafford.”
“Oh heavens.”
He nearly laughed at Catherine’s tone of annoyance.
“This is quite a spectacle,” Mrs. Glafford said.
“That is the risk you take calling on a newly wedded couple.” Crispin shrugged, releasing his hold on Catherine but immediately taking her hand. For the sake of the appearance, he told himself, and not because his mind was still completely wrapped around that unexpected kiss.
“But, I—” Miss Glafford began.
“Hush, child,” her mother whispered tersely. “Apparently, this is a bad time.”
“On the contrary.” Crispin kissed Catherine’s fingers, bringing a blush to her cheeks. He looked away before he lost his head again. “Cook has sent down fairy cakes. They’re delicious.”
He distinctly heard the tiniest of laughs escape Catherine’s lips. Crispin grinned unrepentantly.
“Well!” Mrs. Glafford shot her chin into the air, spun on her heels, and stormed out the door, her bewildered daughter in tow.
“I tried to tell them you were not home to visitors,” Hancock said as he shut the door. “They bullied their way inside.”
“I believe you.” Crispin took a deep, much-needed breath. He hadn’t fully refilled his lungs after that kiss. If Mrs. Glafford’s wailing hadn’t broken the spell . . .
He felt Catherine’s hand shift inside his. How strange that merely holding her hand made his heart thump nearly as much as kissing her had. He needed a few minutes’ respite from his unexpectedly charming wife to bring him back to his senses.
“So am I still to be resigned to the fountain?” Catherine’s teasing tone seemed a bit forced.
Her words didn’t immediately register. Why was it, he continued to wonder, that he seemed to make a cake of himself every time he touched Catherine? He was no lovesick young beau. What would the Glaffords make of the encounter? More important yet, what version of the afternoon’s events would they bandy about Town?
Suddenly remembering that Catherine had asked him a question, Crispin stumbled for a reply. She had asked him something about the fountain. “I’m not going to—no.” He shook his head absentmindedly.
He tried to think of every possible angle from which the Glaffords might depict what they’d seen. If he could anticipate any possible damage, he might be able to prevent it. The mess they were already in over this marriage and its future hardly needed further complications.
A knock echoed from the front door.
“We’re not at home, Hancock,” Crispin warned.
Hancock opened the door. “Lord and Lady Cavratt are not at home,” Hancock declared, though Crispin heard a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
Crispin glanced to the heavens, wishing for patience. And why, he demanded of himself, was he in such a sour mood? The Glaffords weren’t likely to make too much of the scene they’d stumbled on, not if it lessened their chances at a prize catch: he himself being the fish they supposed on their pole.
“I tried to stop her,” Hancock said as Lizzie flitted into the room.
“Blast it, Hancock!” Crispin muttered. “Could I not have one moment of peace in this house?”
“Oh, fiddle.” Lizzie waved a hand dismissively. “Hancock wouldn’t have let me in if I weren’t family. Ooh, fairy cakes!”
A smile tugged at Crispin’s mouth. He’d never think of fairy cakes the same way again. He stole a glance at Catherine. She had retreated to the fringes of the room, studying her clasped hands. What had happened to the teasing, smiling Catherine?
“I have come on urgent business, Crispin,” Lizzie announced, gingerly wiping a few crumbs from the corners of her mouth.
“Please spare me the dramatics.” Surely Catherine hadn’t found that unexpected kiss so very unwelcome. Maybe she found it revolting—sobering thought for one who’d always believed he possessed a talent in that area.
“You are awfully grumpy this morning,” Lizzie said.
“I am not grumpy.” He hadn’t been, at least. The Glaffords could make the most amiable individual remarkably ill-tempered.
Lizzie obviously didn’t believe a word of it. “Irritable, then.”
His wife, apparently, hated kissing him. He had every reason to be irritable. “It has been an unpleasant morning.” Crispin rubbed his face—an outward show of tension he rarely indulged in. “Out with your news, Lizzie.” Crispin knew he was being too short, but couldn’t seem to shake his bedevilment.
“What is the matter with you?” Lizzie tensely whispered, walking quickly to where he stood. “All this grumbling and snapping.” She glanced quickly behind her before looking back at him. “Have you and Catherine quarreled?”
That at least would have made sense. “Of course not.”
“She seems unhappy,” Lizzie said rather pointedly.
Crispin looked across at Catherine. She had sunk into a wingback chair that seemed to engulf her suddenly tiny frame. Blast it! She did look unhappy.
Forcing his unwanted attentions on her had gotten him into this mess in the first place. Repeating the offense had probably made things worse.
Did all husbands do this much apologizing? How many of them regularly apologized for mistakes they didn’t even know they’d made? A man certainly didn’t expect to apologize for kissing his wife, especially when he had rather enjoyed it.
Catherine rose from her chair. “I have some things . . . I need to . . .” She slipped out of the room before Crispin could even begin formulating an apology.
“What did you do to upset her so much?”
I kissed her. What now? Should he ignore their kiss, act impersonal? Or was the opposite tactic the better idea? Marriage really ought to come with an instruction manual.
“What is your desperate business?” he asked Lizzie.
“Urgent business,” Lizzie corrected. “I have thought of someone perfect!”
“Perfect for what?” He’d thought many times that no matter how much he loved his sister, he would have been forced to do himself some dire harm if he were ever to find himself married to a woman as theatrical as she. He far preferred a lady grounded in reality and calm and . . . not opposed to being chased around the sitting room. He smiled at the memory.
“I am going to find a husband for Catherine!” Lizzie declared.
“You—” Shock tied his tongue for a split second. “Catherine has a husband.”
Lizzie waved off that rather important fact. “Neither of you wanted to marry the other. I can’t imagine her opinion has changed, and I know yours hasn’t.”
His hesitation surprised him. He hadn’t made any final decisions regarding the annulment. The solicitor had unearthed an inheritance of some kind that Catherine was entitled to through her mother’s side, though he had no details beyond his belief that it should be sufficient for her to live on. The discovery relieved Crispin’s mind on one point—Catherine would not be left destitute—but still he couldn’t bring himself to make a final decision. Which would make Catherine more miserable: an unwanted marriage or a socially devastating annulment? And at what poi
nt had he stopped putting his opinion on the subject foremost?
“It is perfect, Crispin.” Ah, yes. Lizzie was still there. “Catherine has already made a splash in society. Chances are excellent that someone will develop a tendresse for her. If that lucky someone happens to be a gentleman of consequence and rank, his standing would save hers after you destroy her reputation and hopes for the future by coldheartedly annulling the marriage.”
“You want me to play matchmaker for my own wife?” What utter rot.
“Of course not. I am going to play matchmaker for her.” Obviously Lizzie thought her logic infallible.
“Perhaps I should take out an advertisement. ‘Found: one wife. Inquire at Permount House if interested.’”
“Do not be such a dunderhead.” Lizzie set her hands on her hips, head cocked to the side. “It’s not as if you want to be her husband, and she quite obviously doesn’t wish to be your wife.”
“‘Quite obviously’? Did she tell you she didn’t want to be married to me?”
If Lizzie gave him one more dismissive wave, he would throttle her. “You forced her into this. What reason could she possibly have to like the idea of staying?”
What reason, indeed? Crispin didn’t think he was such a bad catch, though Catherine, apparently, objected to kissing him. “But she would like the idea of staying with this paragon of masculinity you’ve unearthed?”
Lizzie nodded enthusiastically.
“And who is he?” He spoke through his clenched teeth.
Lizzie regarded him with equal parts surprise and amusement. “Not jealous, are you?” She sounded moments from giggling.
Of course he wasn’t jealous, and he told her as much. When she simply smiled at him speculatively, Crispin felt his patience slip further. “Well?” he pressed after slowly counting to five.
“Philip,” Lizzie announced triumphantly.
“Philip?” Crispin practically shouted. “You want to marry her off to my best friend? Are you insane?”
“He is ideal,” Lizzie said. “He’s lighthearted and genial—precisely what Catherine needs. Her spirits are too often depressed, and, quite frankly, you are far too cynical for her.”
Crispin paced tensely around the room. Philip? Lizzie had lost her mind. And cynical? Would a cynical gentleman chase his wife around a room or laugh over fairy cakes? No! He was lighthearted . . . sometimes.
“Catherine would be immensely happy with Philip. As the Earl of Lampton, he outranks you. Taking his name would save her reputation.”
“They wouldn’t suit.”
“We’ll let them see that for themselves.” The picture of indignation, Lizzie flew from the room.
Crispin dropped into a chair. Lizzie had gone mad, completely and utterly mad. Just because he and Catherine had not had an ideal marriage did not mean Lizzie could go about arranging an even less ideal marriage. Catherine deserved better treatment than being tossed from one husband to another.
He slumped down in the chair, worn to the bone. Catherine also deserved better than the public humiliation and ruin of an annulment. She ought to have a say in her future.
Lud. Life should not be so confusing.
* * *
Catherine looked unseeingly at a day-old issue of the Times laid out on her lap. She took a deep breath. What a morning she’d had. Miss Bower’s poisonous visit. Crispin’s unexpected words of comfort. He’d actually seemed genuinely concerned about her. He hadn’t scolded her for her tears nor scowled at her emotions. And she had laughed for the first time in years. Those few moments of lighthearted enjoyment had proven remarkably liberating, as if a tremendous weight had temporarily lifted from her.
He’d held her in his arms. Sitting alone in the leather wingback chair, she could still feel his arms around her. And that kiss! She’d absolutely melted. How easily he made her forget their real circumstances. For a moment, she’d even entertained the notion that he’d grown fond of her, that he’d kissed her out of affection, perhaps more.
She focused once more on the Times, adjusting her askew reading spectacles. If she were to find a position before their marriage ended, she needed to begin searching for one.
“How long have you used reading spectacles?”
Catherine jumped at the sound of Crispin’s voice. She hadn’t even heard him come in.
She quickly removed her glasses. “They are awful, I know,” she whispered.
“No, not at all.” Crispin leaned against the library fireplace mantel. “It is just unusual for someone as young as you to require them. Have you had them long?”
Catherine took a long breath. She knew she could not easily avoid offering an explanation. “Seven years.”
“You would have been only a child.”
“I was nearly fourteen.”
“Did your parents have poor vision as well?”
Catherine shifted uncomfortably, doing all she could to avoid looking at him. “No. I . . . My vision was . . . damaged.”
“What happened?” he asked.
She really did not want to talk about this. Crispin continued to watch her, his curiosity not abating in the slightest. Perhaps a quick retelling would satisfy him and she could once again push the memory to the quiet recesses of her mind.
“My uncle was not accustomed to children.” She’d used that as an explanation throughout the original ordeal. The words had offered little comfort then and even less in the years that followed.
“I had a feeling your uncle might have had something to do with this.”
“He did not want me underfoot when he first inherited after my father’s death. I had to stay in my bedchamber, but the windows were darkened and there were no candles.”
Crispin crossed from the fireplace and sat on the ottoman directly in front of her. “I suspect there is more.” He sat watching her, his expression so kind and compassionate she couldn’t bring herself to refuse an answer, even if she could no longer bring herself to look at him.
“I was locked in.” She’d never told anyone about the time she still thought of as her imprisonment. How worthless must a person be to be locked in her room for so long? Crispin certainly deserved to know, she told herself. After all his kindness, she didn’t want him to look back and feel he’d been misled. “I tried to leave once. As punishment he refused me food for several days.”
A strange silence followed. Catherine warily glanced up. She expected to see disgust, the realization that he’d married someone who couldn’t even secure the affections of her own blood relations. Instead, he looked angry.
“Surely the servants could have helped you leave or, at the very least, brought you a candle.”
“Uncle replaced the entire staff after Father’s death.” Including her governess, the one advocate she might have had. “Jane told me years later that Uncle convinced the staff I was a bit mad and that he had locked me in my bedchamber for my own protection. Only Jane was permitted to see me when she brought me my food. She eventually realized I wasn’t really a Bedlamite.”
“How long were you locked in?” Crispin’s jaw tensed, his hands balled up in fists.
“Thirteen months.”
“Over a year!” Crispin abruptly stood. “The bloody—” Crispin stopped himself midsentence. “And the imprisonment is what damaged your eyesight?”
“The doctor was unsure if the culprit was the prolonged lack of light or . . .” She truly hated talking about those experiences. “. . . or an injury I sustained very soon after I was permitted to leave my chamber.”
“An ‘injury’?” Crispin gave her a look far too searching for comfort. “Did your uncle have anything to do with this injury?”
Catherine did not answer—she could see she didn’t need to.
“I am surprised he had the decency to allow you to be seen by a doctor.”
“The servants paid for the doctor.” Catherine shifted, feeling herself redden—she never had been able to repay them for that kindness. “For a year they put aside wha
t they could and when a doctor happened through the town, they arranged for him to see me in the kitchen. The local doctor would have told Uncle, and he would have been furious.”
“Bloody—” Crispin grumbled the same half statement. “Doing that to anyone, let alone a child who had just lost her father! His own niece, even!”
“I tried not to be a bother when he first came.” She wished Crispin would drop the subject.
“You were a child,” Crispin interjected. “What could he possibly have been punishing you for?”
“He never told me.” She’d spent a great deal of those thirteen months pondering what her grievous crime had been.
Crispin again sat on the ottoman. He took one of her hands in his. How different the grueling eight years she’d spent with her uncle would have been if Crispin had been with her. She’d needed the comfort his gentle touch offered.
“I didn’t mean to imply that you could have done anything to deserve being treated that way,” he said.
She understood that on an intellectual level, but deep inside the scars remained. A fleeting and uncharacteristically pleasant memory of those long months brought a hint of a smile to her face. “I used to imagine creeping around the house at night making otherworldly noises and frightening Uncle out of his wits, perhaps even enough to make him flee the house for good. I became very adept at moving around in the dark and could have easily managed it if the door had been unlocked. I drew a great deal of satisfaction from imagining his terror-filled face.”
Crispin squeezed her fingers. “Either you are the most forgiving person on the planet, or your imagination was sorely lacking in your younger years. I am afraid I would have thought of more dire forms of retaliation than merely frightening the cad.”
“I did devise the tea adulteration scheme,” Catherine reminded him. “Uncle certainly found that ordeal dire.”
“And I called that scheme of yours malicious.” Crispin shook his head. “Under the circumstances, you could have put arsenic in his tea, and it would not have been in the least uncalled for.”
She sighed, weary from the weight of unwelcome memories. “Life has not been easy with him.”
The Kiss of a Stranger Page 12