The Kiss of a Stranger (17 page)

“You waltz very well.” Crispin sounded more disgruntled than complimentary.

She’d spent the entire set fighting off Finley’s unwanted advances and had hoped to find some respite, some comfort in Crispin’s company. He kept his eyes glued straight ahead at the dancers. He hadn’t yet looked at her and she felt the wall between them thicken. She felt bereft, disappointed.

“Lord Cavratt, how pleasant to see you again,” a syrup-sweet voice said into the icy silence.

“Mrs. Bower.” Crispin sketched a civil bow.

Catherine glanced at the woman who stood next to Crispin. She was small and plump with eyes far too penetrating to bode well for anyone who dared cross her. The last name alone told Catherine this woman was the enemy.

Crispin undertook the proper introductions. “May I introduce you to my wife. Lady Cavratt, this is Mrs. Bower.”

Catherine attempted to affect a dignified countenance despite her growing displeasure with the evening and the company. Mrs. Bower glanced down her overly long nose at Catherine and gave a barely audible sniff. She stepped across Crispin and stood directly in front of Catherine.

“Not a very pretty thing, are you?” she said under her breath. She tipped Catherine’s chin with her index finger and looked her over with a scrutiny that would not have been out of place at Tattersall’s. “A shame.”

Catherine stepped back as far as the crowded nature of the ballroom would allow and kept her chin as high as she could manage, unwilling to show Mrs. Bower that her pride had been nettled by the unflattering assessment.

“You don’t mind, do you, my lord, if I introduce your dear wife to a few friends?” Mrs. Bower asked, turning back toward Crispin with an air of complete delight. “There are so many anxious to meet the new Lady Cavratt.”

“Of course not,” Crispin replied dismissively.

In the blink of an eye Catherine was whisked none too gently to the far side of the room directly in front of a group of seated matrons. They looked her over unabashedly, one particularly fearsome woman even producing a quizzing glass as if she were the most dandified of gentlemen. A few cackled, several clicked their tongues in disapproval.

“
This
is the great specimen of womanhood who finally captured the illusive Lord Cavratt?” the woman with the quizzing glass sputtered. “The rumors must be true, then—Cavratt was bullied into it.”

“On the contrary, Lady Genevieve,” a second, less frightening woman countered. “I think she is perfectly lovely. Perhaps the rumor to be believed is that theirs is, indeed, a love match.”

A few unladlylike snorts escaped the group and a low-voiced, heated debate ensued. Catherine could see no means of escape. Crispin was somewhere amidst the crush, though Catherine wasn’t entirely convinced he would come to her rescue—he’d been so decidedly distant. Several of the matrons were actually circling her in order to glean more details for their criticism.

“Too short,” one declared, retaking her seat.

“She has a pretty face, though,” another chimed in.

“Painted, I daresay.” With the help of her ever-ready quizzing glass, Lady Genevieve had discovered that Catherine’s cheek was, in part, benefiting from the use of lightly applied cosmetics. Catherine felt herself blush. The paints had been necessary—the bruise from Uncle’s fit of temper was still marginally visible on her face.

“Forgive me, ladies.” The deep, rumbling bass sent unwelcome shivers up Catherine’s spine. Her uncle had come to the ball. “I would have a word with this young lady.”

A hand gripped Catherine’s arm, and her blood turned to ice. Uncle never attended ton entertainments. What could he possibly be doing at the Littletons’ ball? Catherine frantically searched the crowd for Crispin.

Fighting against Uncle’s pull would only cause a scene, so Catherine allowed herself to be led through the open terrace doors and a short distance into the formal knot garden. Uncle’s fingers wrapped around the precise part of her arm they had gripped only a few days earlier. The first bruises had not entirely healed, and the new injury stung more than Catherine would admit.

Far enough from the house for the noise of the ball to be little more than background din, Uncle spun Catherine around to face him. She steeled herself against the glint of anger in his eyes.

“Making a spectacle of yourself, I see,” Uncle snapped. “You certainly gave those tabbies plenty to meow about back there. Parading your shortcomings to the world. I’ll not have the Thorndale name dragged through the mud!”

Catherine stood as dignified and unshaken as she could manage, though inside she was terrified.

“You received my letter?” Thorndale demanded.

“I did.” She took courage in the unexpected steadiness of her own voice.

“And didn’t have the decency to send a reply?” A tint of purple framed Uncle’s features.

“You did not indicate you were expecting a reply,” Catherine said, willing her legs not to shake beneath her. She had stood up to her uncle once already. She could do so again. “You posed no question to which I could assume you awaited an answer.”

“The time I should expect you at Hill Street, that is what I was expecting!” Uncle’s patience had grown noticeably thin. “You are returning to Yandell House before you disgrace the both of us.”

“No, I am not.” She far preferred Crispin’s sudden indifference to Uncle’s violent temper.

“Serpent!” Uncle hissed back at her. “Ungrateful whelp!”

“My place is with my husband.”
For as long as he is my husband.
Catherine did not allow her doubts to show.

Uncle’s lips tightened until they nearly disappeared. Catherine knew that look. Anger. Absolute, unrestrained anger. She pulled back, her instinctive need to protect herself outweighing her determination to not be cowed.

“You will not embarrass me.” Uncle leaned closer, his grip tightening painfully.

“Let go of me.”

His eyes narrowed. “You little—”

“Catherine!” a woman’s voice called out from not far behind.

Uncle’s grip was unrelenting. Catherine couldn’t turn in any direction.

“We wondered where you’d gone.” Catherine now recognized the voice as Lizzie’s.

“Is that you, Mr. Thorndale?” Edward was with her.

Catherine breathed a sigh of grateful relief. She pulled back once more and found Uncle’s grip relaxed just enough to allow her to escape. She turned toward Lizzie and Edward.

“Dear Catherine, we were quite lonely without your company,” Lizzie said.

Uncle harrumphed in an obvious display of disbelief.

“You will come back inside with us, won’t you, Catherine?” Lizzie asked, seizing Catherine’s hand in her own and turning her toward the house.

“Gladly,” Catherine answered.

“I was not finished speaking with my niece.” Uncle grabbed Catherine’s arm once more. She winced at the strength of his grip. Lizzie and Uncle tugged her in opposite directions.

“Mr. Thorndale.” Edward stepped closer.

Uncle leaned over and hissed into Catherine’s ear. “You will come to Hill Street in the morning.”

“I will not.”

“You will come in the morning or you will arrive later in disgrace,” Uncle snapped back. “I will not have you—”

“—embarrass you further,” Catherine finished for him. “You’ve said so several times.”

His grip tightened, his brows compressing deeper in a scowl. “Do not talk back to me, girl!”

“Lady Cavratt,” yet another voice, deep and confident, entered the conversation. “I do believe this is the dance you promised me.”

The Earl of Lampton stood mere inches from Uncle. Catherine had hoped to see Crispin come to her rescue. But Lord Lampton’s presence had the decidedly happy effect of loosening Uncle’s grip and, apparently, his determination to intimidate her.

“Certainly you would not deny me the opportunity to flaunt my remarkable ability to execute the quadrille.” Lampton spoke with an air of arrogance Catherine knew to be feigned. She had realized within moments of meeting him that the image he projected and the man he was underneath were decidedly different.

“Puffed-up dandy,” Uncle grumbled under his breath, releasing Catherine’s arm.

“Come, my lady.” Lord Lampton offered his arm, which Catherine gladly took. “The ballroom awaits.”

“Thank you,” Catherine whispered the moment they’d stepped away from Uncle.

“Ladies do tend to be overcome with gratitude when asked to dance with me.”

Catherine almost smiled, his exaggerated tone breaking through the panic Uncle had very nearly brought to the surface.

“That was the infamous Mr. Thorndale, then?” Lord Lampton asked, glancing over his shoulder, the affected airs having vanished instantaneously.

“I wasn’t expecting him here tonight.” Catherine let out a tense breath. “If Lizzie and Edward hadn’t found me . . . or you, for that matter . . .” Tears prickled at the back of her eyes.

“Now, now,” Lord Lampton said mock-scoldingly, “tears are not permitted at a ball.”

“I am sorry. It has been a difficult night.”

“Dry your eyes,” he instructed kindly, handing her a handkerchief. “Your husband will have my neck if he thinks I’ve upset you.”

“I haven’t seen Crispin all night.” Her emotions hovered precariously near the surface. “I think he must be upset with me. Or . . . ashamed . . .” Uncle’s words came rushing back, pricking at her already tender emotions.

“I see a diversion is in order.” Lord Lampton stopped their trek just short of the terrace doors and directed her, instead, to a quiet alcove away from the prying eyes of the guests. “Dab a few more times and take a few deep breaths. You’ll put yourself to rights soon enough.”

“I am sorry for this.” Catherine took a shaky breath, sitting on an obliging bench. “First my uncle and then—”

“—your inattentive husband.” Lord Lampton nodded sympathetically. “You have earned a few tears, I suppose. Though my skills at the quadrille have been known to leave sensible women weeping.”

“Perhaps I should keep your handkerchief, then.” Catherine managed a smile as she dabbed at what she hoped was a final tear. “You have said you intend to inflict your quadrille on me.”

“Your feet may well be inflicted upon,” Lord Lampton admitted with a shrug. “The splendor of my attire tends to distract those around me, making grace on the dance floor a difficult commodity to come by.”

“Promise you don’t have wandering hands, and you will be an infinite improvement over Mr. Finley.” She grimaced at the memory.

Lord Lampton sat on the low wall of the terrace. “What did Crispin have to say about Mr. Finley’s hands?”

“Crispin hasn’t . . . I don’t know that he noticed.”

“Oh, I imagine he did. Crispin, I think, has been feeling a little confused lately.”

“Confused?”

Lord Lampton spoke more quietly and quite a bit more seriously. “He is torn between the way he thinks he ought to feel about you and the way he actually does.”

Catherine searched Lord Lampton’s face, unsure what he meant. Did Crispin hate her but felt he shouldn’t? Or—Catherine’s heart fluttered inside her ribs at the sudden, unexpected thought—did he feel even an inkling of the affection she felt? That image did not precisely match the indifference she’d seen in him the last few days. Still, the idea planted a seed of hope in her bruised heart.

“This is cozy.”

Crispin!
Catherine’s stomach leaped to her throat at the sound of his voice. He had come to find her after all. She turned to look at him, framed by the terrace doors.

“Afraid your wife will fall desperately under the spell of my not insignificant charms?” Lord Lampton said.

“Hardly. But Lizzie seemed to think Catherine was about to find herself in significant peril.” Crispin seemed to scrutinize Catherine’s and Lord Lampton’s every move.

“Not at my hands, I assure you.” Lord Lampton held up those hands in a gesture of innocence. “And, now that you have arrived on the scene, I relinquish her into your care.”

“Thank you for your company,” Catherine said quietly, returning his handkerchief. “And for your obliging linen.”

“Happy to be of assistance, my lady.” Lord Lampton bowed. “Now I shall go grace the assembly with the splendor of my new jacket.” He smoothed his mulberry-colored sleeves. “If you need me, I will be at the center of the admiring throng.”

Catherine allowed a shadow of a smile to cross her face as Lord Lampton disappeared into the ballroom beyond. His humor was a welcome diversion from her ever-growing problems.

“You and Philip seem to have become fast friends.” Crispin didn’t sound particularly pleased. “You are bound to be the talk of society by morning at the rate your friendship is blossoming.”

“That is what Mr. Finley said,” Catherine mumbled.

“So you’ve developed a friendship with him as well, have you?”

“No, I—”

“And whom were you in the gardens with for so long?”

Why did Catherine suddenly feel as though she were being scrutinized by a very suspicious governess? She had done nothing wrong, yet his tone was entirely accusatory.

“Several people noticed your prolonged absence.” Crispin circled back to where she stood. “I was at a loss to explain why my wife, whom I have made every effort to convince society I wed for love, was so obviously not at my side. The gossip that this will create . . .”

A strange ache radiated around Catherine’s heart.
Tears are not permitted at a ball,
she reminded herself. So why did she feel like weeping? Why did she so desperately wish Crispin had wrapped her in his arms instead of lecturing her? She needed the gentle, tender Crispin back.

“Would it have been so difficult for you to stand up with your husband?” Crispin grumbled.

“Would it have been so difficult for you to have
asked me
to stand up with you?” Catherine turned on her heels, not wanting to show the pain in her eyes. She was so tired of trying to trust this man who seemed so determined to push her away.

“Catherine.” Crispin spoke more gently, but she hurt too much to trust that tone.

“I’m not feeling well, Crispin. Excuse me, please.”

Catherine hurried back into the ballroom. She pushed past dozens of nameless faces, doing her utmost to maintain an even composure. Lizzie stood at the far end of the room. In less than a minute’s time, Catherine had reached her side.