The Kiss of a Stranger

by Sarah M. Eden

  “May I come in?” she asked, uncertain.

  “Of course.”

  “I received your parcel,” she said.

  A hint of a smile touched his face. “And have you come to absolve me of my crimes?”

  “You, sir, owe me an inordinate number of fairy cakes.” Relief surged through her. He was in a teasing mood. She loved that side of him. “One will hardly acquit you.”

  A corner of Crispin’s mouth quirked a touch higher than the other, his eyes sparkling the way they had the first time she’d accused him of pastry thievery.

  “I suppose I shall have to send you another tomorrow, then.” Crispin shrugged, looking every bit the unrepentant rake.

  “Bribing a judge is criminal, you realize.”

  “Hopeless, aren’t I? Of course, I will probably steal another cake at tea tomorrow, which should negate the bribe entirely.”

  “Perhaps I should throw you in the fountain.”

  “That is a harsh sentence, my dear.” Crispin chuckled. My dear. Catherine thoroughly enjoyed the way that sounded. “Can you not be lenient?”

  Catherine waved him off in a display of mock disfavor. “’Tis no worse than you deserve.”

  “My mother would have been disappointed to know she raised such a hardened criminal.” Crispin sighed dramatically. “But then she introduced me to fairy cakes in the first place.”

  “Then perhaps she is to blame.” Catherine tapped her lip with her finger as if deeply considering the possibility.

  Crispin stepped closer. He took her hand in his, pulling it away from her mouth. “Best not do that, dear.”

  Tap her lips? Why ever not?

  Both of Crispin’s hands encircled her one. “A less scrupulous gentleman than me might be unable to resist the temptation.”

  “What temptation?”

  He didn’t answer, his gaze seemingly riveted to her mouth. Catherine’s heart flipped inside her. Suddenly her lungs refused to take in a full breath.

  “We . . .” Crispin looked away, but his eyes wandered back to her lips once more. He cleared his throat. He released her hand but didn’t step back. “We should probably go down to dinner.” His gaze locked with hers, some unidentifiable emotion in his eyes.

  She couldn’t fight the impulse that seized her in that moment. Catherine closed the distance between them, rose up on her toes and kissed his cheek. She paused only a moment to take in the scent of him before stepping back once more. She felt a blush creep up her cheeks but did not regret the gesture.

  “Do you usually kiss gentlemen after threatening to toss them in a fountain?” Crispin seemed to be attempting a light tone, but the intensity in his gaze had increased.

  “I’ve never kissed anyone but you.” She hadn’t intended to make such a personal confession. Catherine bit down on her lip, waiting for his reaction.

  His eyes returned to her mouth, though he pulled his gaze away almost immediately. Crispin closed his eyes a moment.

  Catherine’s heart pounded hard in her chest. She still couldn’t seem to pull in a full breath.

  “Catherine.” He didn’t open his eyes.

  “Crispin?”

  He almost looked in pain. Crispin ran his hand across his face, a tense breath breaking the silence between them.

  “Crispin?”

  He finally looked at her again, something like worry creasing his brow. “What are you doing to me?” His words were muttered, barely discernible.

  “I . . . don’t understand.”

  Crispin laughed humorlessly and opened his eyes once more. “Neither do I.” He shook his head and looked evermore frustrated. “Perhaps we should go down to dinner.”

  Had she upset him? Only a moment earlier he’d seemed pleased with her company. Why must he be so confusing?

  Crispin slipped her arm through his and led her out of his rooms. His demeanor hadn’t become cold, precisely, but distant. “I wish you had told me you were ill,” Crispin said as they made their way down the corridor.

  “I didn’t want to bother you.”And she’d been afraid he wouldn’t care. She could not have endured more rejection.

  “For future reference”—He seemed to pull her arm more snugly inside his own—“I do not consider your well-being a bother.”

  The comment surprised her enough to glance up at him. His expression was closed and unreadable, but she could have sworn he walked a little closer to her than he had a moment earlier.

  How she wished she knew him well enough to understand how to interpret his contradictory actions. Even more, she wished he planned to keep her around long enough for her to figure him out.

  Chapter Nineteen

  He was losing his mind. The fairy cakes and accompanying note had been meant as a peace offering, nothing more. Then Catherine had stepped inside his rooms, and an alarming sense that she belonged there had swept over him. They were in the midst of an annulment. Only a few days earlier she had been noticeably determined to map out her future without him. Still he’d stood there like a greenhorn mooning over her.

  He’d managed to get his confusing reaction to her presence under control. Then Catherine had touched her lips and he’d barely stopped himself before kissing her again. A man couldn’t go around lavishing kisses on a lady who fully intended to walk out on him and, if Lizzie’s ridiculous plan played out, directly into the arms of his best friend. He had every right to be on edge.

  “Is Lord Lampton a good friend?” Catherine’s question brought him back to the present.

  “So far.” His grumbled reply understandably confused her.

  “Have you two had a falling out?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Does he . . . know about . . .” Catherine bit down on her lip—Crispin had to look away. She was too tempting for her own good—for his own good.

  “He knows the circumstances of our marriage.” A straightforward, factual approach seemed best. “He and I are close enough I’d have mentioned a fiancée, or a lady to whom I intended to propose. It was better to simply tell him the truth.”

  Catherine mouthed “Oh,” but her look had grown more concerned even as her eyes looked more withdrawn.

  “Rally your courage, dear.” When had he started using that endearment? It wasn’t at all like him. “You’ve faced worse than this—the Glaffords come to mind.”

  Catherine seemed to lighten a little. “For that battle I was armed with a cream pitcher.” Catherine spoke quietly, but a spark of mischief returned to her eyes.

  Crispin far preferred seeing her look less burdened. “You plan to poison my oldest friend?”

  “Do I need to?”

  If Philip had any intention of going along with Lizzie’s harebrained scheme, Crispin would poison the scoundrel himself.

  “Crispin?” She sounded nervous again. She looked petrified.

  “If you adulterate his tea, I would most likely find it necessary to toss you into the fountain.”

  A smile of relief lit her face. Crispin pulled her hand to his lips and, without taking his eyes off her bewitching smile, kissed her fingers, smiling with amazement at how she continually made his heart pound with only a look. Why was it she wanted so badly to be rid of him?

  “I do believe I am decidedly de trop this evening.” Someone chuckled from the doorway just behind Crispin. “No unattached hearts beyond this point, I’m discovering.”

  Philip. Despite several days’ worth of very un-Christian thoughts directed toward a man he’d known nearly all his life, Crispin found himself smiling. Catherine’s fingers tighten around his as he turned around. He gently squeezed her hand. “I see you managed to evade Hancock.”

  “An old trick, as you well know.” Philip smiled that bright grin that had broken so many hearts in their younger days. He held his hand out, and Crispin shook it enthusiastically. “Slipping in unnoticed allows for more discovery.” Philip gave him a look far too full of amusement, which Crispin chose to ignore.

  “Philip, this is my wife
, Lady Cavratt.” Catherine’s grip on Crispin’s hand had grown remarkably tight. “Catherine, this is Philip Jonquil, the Earl of Lampton.”

  After offering the appropriate curtsy, Catherine clung to Crispin’s hand once more. Some of the ton’s tabbies would disapprove of Catherine’s reticence and what they would see as her neglect as a hostess, but Crispin found her nearness and her touch endearing.

  “Lady Cavratt.” Philip smiled at Catherine. Her fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around Crispin’s. “I feel I need to confess that I came here tonight solely for the purpose of speaking with you.”

  Crispin tensed.

  “With me?” Catherine’s tiny voice replied.

  “Ever since I received Crispin’s, uh, rather informative letter, I’ve felt an almost desperate need to thank you.”

  Crispin recognized the teasing glint in Philip’s eye, and he relaxed a fraction. The Earl of Lampton had a reputation for absurdity. While Crispin knew he could be serious enough when circumstances warranted it, Philip appeared to most of the world as little more than a court jester.

  “You wanted to thank me for your friend’s rather unenviable situation?” Catherine asked, her eyes smiling a little. She seemed to have taken Philip’s measure quickly.

  “I’ve anxiously perused the Times daily anticipating an announcement of Crispin’s untimely demise.” Philip shook his head in mock sadness.

  “Indeed?” Catherine’s eyes twinkled, her grip slackening.

  “I would not have blamed you in the least if you’d murdered him in his sleep.” Philip managed to look entirely serious.

  Crispin bent closer to Catherine, intending to explain Philip’s odd sense of humor but realized in an instant he didn’t need to. She was on the verge of a smile, something Crispin seldom saw. He didn’t at all like seeing her smile at another man.

  “I have been sorely tempted to poison his tea,” Catherine said.

  “Which brings us back to my profuse gratitude,” Philip said, “for sparing the life of my unfeeling friend.” Philip bowed to her and Crispin heard Catherine laugh lightly. She laughed! Catherine almost never laughed.

  The smile that had lit Crispin’s face when Philip arrived disappeared in an instant. Catherine was smiling at the man and laughing with him. He didn’t like it. With a little creativity he could probably manage to throw Philip out without being obvious about it. It was a shame Philip couldn’t be done in with a bit of cream in his tea.

  Dinner passed uneventfully, filled with lighthearted conversation and less than charitable thoughts on Crispin’s part. Catherine seemed more at ease during the course of the night than he ever remembered seeing her in company. Lizzie watched Philip and Catherine interact without bothering to disguise her look of triumph. As Catherine’s mood lightened, Crispin’s darkened.

  Catherine didn’t cling to him as she had early in the evening. While he was infinitely grateful to see her happy and unafraid, he missed her nearness. She’d come to him earlier, in his bedchamber, practically begging to be kissed, and had remained by his side throughout the evening. He had rather enjoyed that, and Philip was ruining everything.

  Later in the evening, his jaw tightened at the sound of one of Catherine’s rare laughs escaping from where she stood on the far side of the room beside Philip. Crispin cut across the music room and planted himself at Catherine’s side.

  Philip was laughing. “And she was convinced that Crispin had written the poem.”

  “Poor Crispin,” Catherine replied, fully smiling. “To be so smitten with Lady Garner’s eyebrows!”

  “Smitten, indeed.”

  Crispin felt himself redden. Lady Garner. That had been a mess. Philip wrote that infamous poem as a jibe against poetry in general and love poetry specifically. It was Finley who had delivered it to Lady Garner rather heavily hinting that Crispin had been its author and Lady Garner its inspiration. If not for Lord Garner’s distrust of Finley and Philip and Crispin’s insistence that they had been victimized in the entire ordeal, Crispin might very well have been called out. Lord Garner was a notoriously jealous husband.

  “I see you’re enjoying yourselves at my expense.” Crispin attempted a light tone he didn’t quite achieve.

  “Lord Lampton is attempting to make me jealous.” Catherine smiled brightly at Crispin.

  Her look had the dual affect of calming his affronted sensibilities and further igniting his own jealousy. Must Philip be so blasted friendly with her?

  “Don’t tell me Crispin has never written an ode to your eyebrows.” Philip managed to sound and look shocked.

  “Not once,” Catherine replied laughingly.

  “I have never penned an epitaph to anyone’s eyebrows,” Crispin quickly pointed out. “And that entertaining interlude nearly left me forever eating grass outside London.”

  “As you can see, my lady, poetry is still not an easy topic for our friend here.” Philip cast a knowing look in Catherine’s direction.

  “Then perhaps we should choose another topic of discussion.” Catherine looked far too entertained to be truly repentant. “We should ask him how he feels about fountains.”

  Philip gave her a momentary look of confusion, but, after looking at Crispin, he began laughing once more. Catherine quickly joined in.

  Crispin had suffered quite enough of the frivolity. He bent a curt bow and walked away, tensed from head to toe.

  Some moments later Philip announced his intention to depart, being expected to make an appearance elsewhere that night as well. Crispin was not at all disappointed to see the back of him. Philip had certainly made headway with his courtship of Catherine, meaning Lizzie had a great deal to answer for.

  * * *

  Catherine exhaled loudly and slowly. What a time to receive a letter from Uncle. Only a few minutes remained before they were to leave for the Littletons’ ball. To make matters worse, Crispin had been distant and strangely ill-tempered during the past few days.

  She scanned the missive once more, two particular sentences standing out to her.

  You will return to Yandell Hall before your folly further disgraces our family name . . . I am not an indulgent man and will not wait for your acquiescence.

  Catherine slipped her glasses off and laid them on the nearest table. She glanced out the windows of the sitting room. The vaguely threatening tone of Uncle’s letter worried her.

  She tucked the letter into her reticule. Her experiences with Uncle left no doubt of his willingness to use force to reach his goals. She still bore a faint bruise from her last encounter with him. Still, she had come away from that experience with greater determination to stand her ground. Uncle would not bully her into submission, though she knew he would try.

  “Are you ready, then?” Crispin’s rather brusque address startled Catherine.

  For a fleeting moment she considered telling him about Uncle’s note, asking his opinion. But his behavior of late had been so distant. He might very well resent the bother.

  I do not consider your well-being a bother. He’d said that the evening of Lord Lampton’s visit. At the time he seemed to mean what he said. Perhaps she should confide in him after all.

  They had passed several silent minutes in the carriage before she rallied her courage enough to broach the subject, though indirectly.

  “I received an unexpected note this afternoon.”

  “You have a correspondent in Town?” Crispin’s eyes never strayed from the darkened windows.

  Catherine pushed forward, despite his less than encouraging demeanor. “I had not expected him to write to me.”

  “He must have some reason for doing so.” His tone leaned more toward annoyance than concern.

  Why was Crispin being so surly? Had she done something to upset him?

  “I suppose he does,” she said, opting for the safety of silence. There was nothing comforting about a bothered husband.

  They arrived at the Littletons’ ball without either speaking another word. Catherine had nev
er seen a greater crush. Gowns of every imaginable design and in every color under the rainbow swirled about the ballroom. Her own dress seemed subdued in comparison. A deep blue precisely the color of her eyes with braided silver trim and no ruffles or bows to speak of, it had seemed extravagant to her at first. With palpable discomfort, she realized her mistake. Catherine felt ever more out of place.

  “Lady Cavratt.”

  She turned to see Mr. Finley smiling quite confidently back at her. He always made her skin crawl. She stepped closer to Crispin—despite his coldness of late, she knew he would not allow Mr. Finley to mistreat her.

  “So pleased to see you this evening,” Finley said with a bow. “I was hoping to stand up with you. The supper dance, perhaps.”

  “Mine is the supper dance.” Crispin looked daggers at Finley.

  “Then I’ll settle for this one.” Finley didn’t miss a beat. A waltz had only just begun.

  Surely Crispin would claim the waltz as well. He disliked Finley, probably even more than she did.

  Finley cupped his hand under her elbow and led her to the floor. Catherine looked back at Crispin, waiting for him to object, to interfere, but he had already turned away and appeared deep in conversation with none other than Miss Cynthia Bower.

  Crispin, she silently pleaded.

  “You look exceptionally beautiful this evening, my lady,” Finley said, his eyes not quite on her face. “I believe we will soon be the talk of the room, if not of the ton.”

  “That would be unfortunate.”

  “On the contrary,” Mr. Finley answered. “We make a fine couple. Even your husband seems to have noticed.”

  Catherine’s gaze sought out Crispin and found him glowering at them. His look of disapproval did not appear to be directed only at Mr. Finley. What in heaven’s name had she done to earn Crispin’s irritation of late?

  “I believe every man in the room wishes you were in his arms right now,” Finley whispered in her ear.

  Catherine attempted to step back from him, but he held her tight. She felt his hand push earnestly against the small of her back as he attempted to pull her ever closer.