The Kiss of a Stranger (22 page)

“How do we convince them?” Catherine’s heart beat harder as Crispin stepped closer.

“To begin with, you could smile.” Crispin matched his expression to his suggestion. “Much better. No point convincing them we’re quarreling.”

“We couldn’t be quarreling—there’s no fountain,” Catherine replied.

Crispin cupped her chin with his hand and kissed the tip of her nose. She would never survive another onslaught. “If there
were
a fountain . . . ?” He let the phrase dangle.

“You wouldn’t be afraid to let the ton see you in a tizzy?”

“I don’t have tizzies, Catherine.”

“Really?” She arched an eyebrow at him, grateful for the return of his teasing tone.

“Now that is a look I cannot possibly be expected to resist.”

What did he mean by that?

In the next moment, Crispin kissed her. He kissed her in his box at the Theatre Royal in front of three thousand people. It was not merely an obligatory peck, but a thorough, more-than-a-few-mere-seconds’-long kiss. Warmth spread through her entire body as his arms wrapped around her.

Catherine touched his face with her hands, memorizing the feel of him. He could not possibly kiss her so deeply and not mean anything by it. She poured her heart into returning the kiss, praying he would feel just how much she needed him, that he would want her to stay with him.

“If we leave now,” he whispered against her mouth, “the gossips will be entirely convinced.”

The gossips.
He had kissed her for appearance’s sake?

Her heart dropped. His performance as the doting and affectionate husband would certainly convince the gossip-hungry members of society. For a moment,
she
had actually believed he cared for her.

Chapter Twenty-four

The cold night air outside the Theatre Royal went a long way to cool Crispin’s thoughts. He’d told himself, even as he leaned forward to kiss Catherine, that he was doing so merely to convince any interested onlooker that he and Catherine were not at odds with each other. Somehow that motivation had all but disappeared the moment his lips had touched hers.

Blast! He wasn’t a schoolboy who couldn’t keep himself in check. Yet he found it absolutely necessary to sit opposite Catherine during the carriage ride home instead of beside her. What kind of spell had Catherine cast over him that he couldn’t trust himself to keep a proper distance now that they weren’t putting a spoke in the wheels of the gossip wagon?

The situation had grown nearly unbearable. Only one more week. One week. She’d be gone and he could breathe again. Lud, that wasn’t at all comforting.

Why, by George, did he feel like his mind couldn’t quite keep up? Perhaps the champagne hadn’t been a good idea, after all.

He was not foxed—descending from the carriage and taking the steps into Permount House was easy enough. His surroundings were holding still and his eyes were focusing just fine. He wasn’t completely inebriated, and yet . . .

Crispin rubbed his face as he stood in the doorway of the sitting room. He generally avoided alcohol. He was not one of those gentlemen who could spend a night in his cups and still remain unaffected. It had been a source of endless taunting in his Cambridge days.

“Are you all right, Crispin?”

Catherine’s voice pulled him back to the present. She was watching him from just past the sitting room doors. He did his best to look unaffected.

“Fine.”

“You look a little unwell.”

“I’m not ill.”

Her unwavering gaze proved decidedly uncomfortable.

“The champagne?” she asked, her voice a little lower, her forehead wrinkled with knowing concern.

He was not jug-bitten. His pride suffered a severe blow at the idea that she thought he would get roaring drunk while escorting her. Gads, he was responsible for her safety, her well-being. He wouldn’t allow himself to become cup-shot.

“You never drink more than a few sips of wine with dinner. I simply assumed you do not care for spirits.” Catherine crossed to where he was standing, eyeing him quite penetratingly. “Do you need to sit down? Shall I ring for coffee?”

“I am far from foxed, Catherine, just a little—”

“Light-headed?” she finished for him. “Come, sit down.” Catherine motioned toward a chair not far off in the sitting room.

“I am fine. Really. I think I’m more tired than anything else.”

“Then perhaps you should lie down,” Catherine said.

He shook his head. Catherine took gentle hold of his arm. As it had earlier at the theater, her touch shook him to the core. He stepped back, needing a little space and time to clear his foggy mind. Foggy enough, in fact, that he backed directly into a hall table and managed to topple a flower-filled vase. He barely managed to right it in time.

“I really think you should at least sit down, Crispin.” Catherine led him by the hand toward the stairs. “You will feel better if you do.”

He followed mutely, unsure where they were headed but enjoying the touch of her ungloved hand in his too much to ask or object. A moment later—a very short moment later—she released him. He sat in an armchair beside the fireplace in the library, pondering just how he could convince her to hold his hand again. Low embers cast a soft glow around the room but not a lot of warmth.

As if reading his thoughts, Catherine snatched a throw from the nearby sofa and draped it over Crispin’s lap.

“I am not in my dotage, Catherine,” Crispin objected, feeling like an octogenarian. “Nor am I in my cups.”

“Uncle never could stop drinking before becoming thoroughly foxed.” She ignored his objection. “He never was one to exercise restraint.” She stepped away to stoke the fire, bringing a little more life to the barely glowing coals.

Restraint! Did Catherine have any idea the Herculean effort required to exercise restraint in her company, especially with her hair quite enchantingly escaping its knot and her perfume filling the room? He doubted it. In fact, he knew she didn’t. Catherine wanted nothing to do with him. Catherine was walking out in a week.

“Was your father that way?” Catherine took a seat opposite him, wrapping a second blanket around her shoulders.

What way? What had she been talking about? Ah, yes. Drunkards. “He was not particularly susceptible to alcohol.”

She shook her head. “I meant, was he willing to accept his limits? An exerciser of self-control?”

Did Catherine view
him
that way? Was a man of restraint her ideal, or did she equate it with weakness? And why, he demanded of himself, did he care so blasted much? Somewhere along the way he’d become sentimental and maudlin. Caring about people never did any good.

“I suppose,” was all Crispin managed to offer.

Catherine gave him the oddest look, as if searching his very soul for some bit of crucial character-evaluating information. Perfect! Sketch his character while he was three sheets to the wind. Or at least a sheet and a half. Calculating the exact sheet percentage of one’s drunkenness was particularly hard when one was just a touch cut.

Where were they? Ah, yes. Catherine was evaluating him and, apparently, his father.

“My father was a good man,” Crispin said. “He was a fair landlord and an attentive father and a devoted husband.” His father had not been a fool, wearing his heart on his sleeve or pining after a lady who wanted nothing to do with him.

“Did your parents love each other, then?”

“They rubbed along well. And I think they were fond of each other.”

“But they weren’t in love?”

“Of course not.”

“Why ‘of course’? Love between married couples isn’t such an outrageous occurrence.”

It was proving more “outrageous” all the time. He’d gone his entire life with a reasonable and logical view of relationships and attachments. A few weeks of Catherine’s company and he’d gone soft. He didn’t need a clear head to see the result of that egregious miscalculation. “Love is the invention of poets, Catherine.” Malevolent, vicious poets.

If her gaze had been searching before, by the end of his declaration it look turned positively dissecting. “I knew you sometimes gravitated toward cynicism, but I hadn’t realized you espoused skepticism, as well. To dismiss an emotion so entirely . . .” Was that disapproval in her eyes? Or simply confusion?

He was feeling a little muddled himself.

“That is a rather bleak assessment,” Catherine said, her brows knit in concentration. “You cannot truly say you do not love your sister.”

Lud, his head was far too foggy for such a philosophical discussion. “It is not the same thing.”

“Love is love, Crispin.”

“All families love each other, in that familial sort of way.” He leaned his head back against the chair. “You were referring to love between spouses.”
Ironically enough.
“Men and women. Romantic love. That . . . nonsense.”

“First of all, not
all
families love each other. And secondly, I don’t believe the love between a man and a woman is nonsense.”

Was Catherine glowering? She seldom looked anywhere near upset—disappointed at times, borderline annoyed. But glaring at him?

Why in heaven’s name was he discussing this with her in the first place? He never spoke to anyone about his frustrations with the hypocrisy in the world. He’d seen too many unhappy marriages, been pursued by too many avaricious young ladies to have much faith in the promise of love. Catherine hadn’t particularly helped in that regard. She had dropped him like a hot rock.

“I daresay you don’t understand.” There. Let Catherine glower over that. Even with a clear head he found the topic confusing at best. He refused to have this discussion with his wits dulled and unreliable.

“I understand quite well that you discount an emotion I have believed in all my life.” Lud, she really did sound upset. “What I do not understand is why. You were loved by your parents. You are loved by your sister. You are loved by . . . by
others.
Yet you are willing to dismiss the emotion so entirely.”

“And you are willing to argue about it incessantly.”

“Perhaps you dismiss it because you have always been loved. If you had ever felt its absence, maybe you would more willingly acknowledge its existence and value its role in your life.”

“Love plays absolutely no role in my life, Catherine.” He wouldn’t allow it to. Caring for . . .
people
hadn’t turned out well. He would be indifferent. Unaffected. “Outside of my parents and sister I have never known a single person who inspired in me anything more than detached notice or annoyance. At the moment, you are tending toward the latter.”

Even in his mild stupor Crispin recognized his mistake immediately. Catherine’s face instantly drained of all color and her gaze dropped.

“Catherine—”

“I hope you sleep well,” Catherine cut across him. She rose from her chair. “Black coffee in the morning may be helpful as well.”

“Catherine, please.” He rose to follow her, knowing he owed her quite an apology. She was gone before he’d uttered another word. Down the corridor and around the corner he heard a door close—her door, no doubt.

Crispin rubbed his eyes and ran his fingers through his hair. What had possessed him to say those things to Catherine? Annoyance? At what? Her concern? Her solicitous attentions while he was less than himself? The fact that she could speak so passionately of love and feel nothing for him?

He’d lashed out, protected himself by implying that he felt little more than a detached awareness of her presence. Heaven help him, his awareness of her lately had been far from
detached
! That, in fact, had been the heart of the problem. Catherine had become ingrained in his life, in his very being, and he had no idea what to do about it. He’d never cared about anyone the way he cared about her. Those unrequited feelings ate away at him, left him empty and bitter. So he’d reverted to his usual self and offered a cynical and entirely undeserved put-down.

He couldn’t really blame her for wanting to leave him and this chapter in her life far behind her. For the briefest moment, while he’d kissed her in his box at the theater, he’d actually contemplated trying to convince her to reconsider. But hearing his own harsh words repeat in his mind and remembering the look of pain he’d brought to her face, he wondered if, for her, a life without him might be best after all.

Chapter Twenty-five

A particularly plaintive tune filled Permount House late the next morning. Crispin stood outside the closed doors of the music room, debating what he ought to do. He remembered enough of his conduct the night before to feel like a complete cad. Catherine’s pale, disappointed face came unbidden into his thoughts. He ought to apologize but wasn’t sure she wanted to hear it.

A clean break was best, he told himself. She would leave in a few days and his cynicism and sharp words wouldn’t hurt her again. But he ought to do something to make amends.

He left the house without a word to his wife. Crispin rode the short distance to Philip’s house on Park Lane. He owed Catherine some kind of apologetic gesture. Philip would know which one, surely.

“Come to extol the perfection of my Mathematical, no doubt,” Philip said when Crispin joined him in his book room. “My valet swears he never tied a better looking knot. What a shame the Beau is not here to fawn on me.”

“I believe Brummell favors the Waterfall,” Crispin answered dryly, dropping into a chair beside Philip.

“Only because he has never seen such a fine Mathematical.”

“Can you not be serious for a moment or two, Philip?”

“Did your man nick you with the razor this morning?” Philip eyed him quizzically.

“I need your advice on a . . . personal matter.” Lud, it was difficult admitting that.

“I always have been a source of wisdom.” Philip smiled a touch arrogantly but with enough of a laugh in his eyes to make the expression humorous.

Crispin, however, was not particularly in the mood to be entertained. “I said something thoughtless to Catherine last night.”

“Finally told her how you feel?”

“I guess I was—What did you say?”

“Never mind.” Philip shrugged as if it didn’t matter much.

“What do you mean ‘how I feel’?”

“We’ve known each other since we were thirteen years old, Crispin. I’ve seen the way you look at her.”

“You know full well the nature of mine and Catherine’s connection.”

Philip lounged lazily in his chair, watching Crispin with obvious amusement. “Fustian! I
know
how it started. I
know
about the annulment proceedings. And I
know
you were ready to toss Finley—and, I half suspected, myself—from your box to his very disreputable death last night.”

“We weren’t discussing Finley!”

“No, we were discussing Catherine.”

“And what possessed you to ask for leave to use her Christian name? Do you have designs on my—” Crispin bit back the rest of his lecture.

“Your wife?” Philip pressed. “Or ‘
your Catherine,
’ perhaps?”

Blast Philip!

“Face facts, old friend. You’ve committed the most inexcusable offense known to Polite Society.”

Crispin truly hated when Philip added dramatics to his already affected demeanor. “What would that be?” As if he needed to ask to get an answer.

“You’ve fallen in love with your wife.”

“You know perfectly I don’t put a great deal of confidence in love and all that.”

“I knew a Crispin Handle once who did.” Philip’s right leg, draped elegantly over his left, swung lazily. “Then he inherited a fortune and an ancient title and found himself thrown into the company of the hypocritical ton—mercenaries and liars the lot. Deuced messy way to lose faith in humanity.”

“Thank you for that glimpse into my past.” Why had he even come? Philip was no help at all.

“You didn’t actually drink the champagne you brought into your box last night, did you?”

“What does that have to do with—?”

“You, my friend, grow exceptionally morose when in your cups.”

“I was
not
drunk.” Catherine had jumped to the same conclusion.

“It does not take much. Tell me, did you wax eloquent on the doomed future of the kingdom or, my personal favorite, the impossibility of love and happiness and anything remotely pleasant?”

“I did not come to discuss me.”

“But
you
are the problem.” A sudden flash of the knowing, intelligent Philip whom Crispin knew from years before emerged. “Admit defeat, Crispin. Your Catherine has completely destroyed your peace and undermined your determination to distrust and dislike anyone and everything you encounter.”

Crispin rubbed his weary eyes. “She’s all I think about,” he admitted, a man beaten. “I miss her after ridiculously short separations. She looks in another man’s direction and I’m jealous as a greenhorn. I’m willing to make a cake of myself just to see her smile or hear her laugh. It’s pathetic.”

“Sounds like love to me.”

“It’s torture.”

“Sweet torture.” Was that a smirk on Philip’s face? The brainless dandy Philip insisted on being returned in full force and Crispin knew he’d get no more advice from him.

The book room doors flew open and Jason rushed inside, looking anxious.

“Crispin. Glad you’re here.”

Philip swung his quizzing glass in a lazy circle. “What panic-inducing crisis has brought you here this time?”

Jason ignored his brother and spoke directly to Crispin. “Thorndale’s solicitor came by my office this morning. He’d had an unpleasant meeting with his client.”

“An unpleasant man took part in an unpleasant meeting?” Philip raised an eyebrow, his quizzing glass still going ’round. “This
is
an emergency.”

Crispin had no patience for theatrics when in the best of humors. In his current mood, the dramatics tempted him to land the both of them a facer and storm off.

“Thorndale has accepted that his legal challenge will not be heard before Lady Cavratt’s birthday,” Jason said.

“So you’ve come for a celebratory glass of champagne.” Philip’s comment earned him a less than amused glare from his brother.

“Thorndale has found a loophole—one that needs no ruling from any court. Knowing Thorndale for the dastard that he is, Clayton is afraid the man will take advantage of the technicality.”

“What’s the loophole?” Crispin’s head pounded anew. The introduction of another legal technicality brought the headache he’d been fighting all morning back with a vengeance.

“No stipulation was made regarding the disbursement of the Lady Cavratt’s inheritance should there be no one available to inherit it.”

What was Jason yammering about? Crispin’s head hurt, deuce take it. And he still hadn’t figured out a way back into Catherine’s good graces. Couldn’t they have a legal debate later?

“Pay attention, Crispin!” Jason’s patience had clearly gone. “She has to be twenty-one to inherit—”

“Which she will be in six days.” Must the man be so obtuse?

“Thorndale gets it all if Lady Cavratt can’t claim it.” Jason spoke slowly, as though Crispin were the biggest dunderhead.

Philip seemed to have caught on to whatever his brother found so crucial. He’d risen from his relaxed pose and was staring mouth agape at Jason.

Crispin rubbed his face. The ramshackle knight was tired, blast it.

Philip stepped directly in front of him and shook him by the shoulders. “Think, man!” he demanded, his look fierce. “The only way he gets the blunt is for her to forfeit. The only way for her to lose the inheritance is by default.” Philip shook him harder in rhythm with his words. “Not being alive to claim it.”

Crispin felt as though someone hit him just under his ribcage. “He wouldn’t . . . he wouldn’t really . . . kill her.”

“Thorndale’s man of business is afraid he might.”

“I’ll take her to Kinnley.” Crispin rushed to the door.

“Thorndale will know to look there, Crispin,” Philip said. “All your properties are easy targets.”

“I have to keep her away from him!” Crispin continued his mad rush to the stables.

Philip kept up with him. “Take her to any of the Lampton holdings. I’ll come around to Permount House shortly to help with any arrangements.”

Crispin nodded, mounting as quickly as possible.

His mind turned dozens of directions as he frantically maneuvered through the London traffic. Where should he take Catherine? Which destination would Thorndale be least likely to think of searching? What if he was watching Permount House? Perhaps Philip’s Scottish hunting box would serve. It sat further from London than the other Lampton properties, and few people knew of it.

Crispin burst unceremoniously through the back entrance of Permount House. A few steps inside, he encountered Hancock.

“Where is Lady Cavratt?” Crispin frantically looked inside each room he passed.

“I believe she is still in the music room. She has not yet rung for tea, though she seems to be finished with her practicing.”

“Have Jane pack a trunk for Lady Cavratt.” Crispin kept his voice low. “The necessities only. Have her pack for a cold climate. And have my man do the same for myself. They are to tell no one—not even any of the servants.”

Hancock bowed and disappeared up the staircase.

Crispin reached the closed music room doors in record time. He flung them open, not waiting for the footman to do so. The sooner he got Catherine beyond Thorndale’s reach, the better.

He couldn’t help a sigh of relief when he spotted her, unharmed, leaning against the frame of the open French doors. She turned her gaze toward him as he closed the music room doors and crossed the room. Not surprisingly, she didn’t look particularly overjoyed to see him. He’d fix that problem later. Right then, he needed to get her someplace safe.

“Hello, Crispin.” Her eyes didn’t quite meet his.

“We have a problem, Catherine.” A direct approach seemed best—faster, at least. “With Thorndale.”

“Uncle?”

“It seems he’s figured out that he’ll receive your inheritance if you don’t claim it.” Crispin rushed through the explanation, afraid even the slightest delay would ruin everything. “As you stand between him and the inheritance, he sees you as an impediment. I believe your life may be in danger.”

Catherine’s eyes grew large, her face drained of color. Perhaps a direct approach had been a bad idea after all. “Pistols,” she said in a strangled whisper.

Crispin took hold of her hand. “You must be out of London as soon as possible.”

She nodded, her eyes still enormous with obvious trepidation, tears gathering on her lashes.

“There is no time for tears, darling. We must leave immediately.”

“
We
?” Catherine’s eyes jumped to his face. She looked alarmed. “Are you coming with me?”

“Of course.” Did she think he would simply abandon her? He was an imbecile at times, certainly, but he wasn’t heartless.

“But you would be in danger,” she protested. “I cannot allow you to—”

He placed the tips of his fingers against her lips and quite effectively cut off her words. “I will brook no arguments, Catherine.”

She stepped backward enough to free her mouth from his fingertips. “This is madness. If I go alone, you will be safe. We need not both be in danger.”

“Just how do you propose arriving at a destination I have not yet revealed to you?” Why was the infuriating woman arguing with him on this? They were running out of time!

“You can give the direction to the driver. Or did you intend on driving the coach as well?”

“You cannot travel unprotected, Catherine. Even without Thorndale’s threats, you would be in peril on a highway alone.”

“But you wouldn’t be in danger if you remained here.”

So Catherine had a stubborn streak, did she? Crispin, too, could be unflinching in his resolve. “I am accompanying you, Catherine, and I will hear no more arguments about it.”

“I will not place you in danger.” Catherine attempted to tug her hand free of his. A futile effort, to be sure. He had no intention of releasing her hand until she was at least six counties removed from London. Perhaps not even then.

“Confound it, Catherine! We do not have time to quibble about this.”

“But there is no reason for you to come with me.”

“There is every reason,” Crispin countered. “Please, Catherine.” He wasn’t above begging. “The sooner we are out of London, the better.”

Crispin tugged her by the hand toward the music room doors. If he had to drag her kicking and screaming all the way to Philip’s hunting box, he would do just that.

“But I don’t understand.”

“That you’re in danger?” Crispin’s anxiety and frustration began to boil over.

“Why you are making this your concern.”

Pushing down an exasperated growl, Crispin took gentle hold of her chin so she would be forced to see the determination he knew must be obvious in his face. “I am not going to sit back and let some madman threaten you, Catherine. And I will not send you off alone. Not now. Not ever.” Why in heaven’s name was she not moving more willingly? A violent man was after her—she ought to be running!

“But why?”

“Because I love you, blast it!”

“You said you didn’t believe in love.”

“I know!” Crispin pulled away and threw his free hand up in the air, allowing his bewilderment and frustration to show in his action and tone. “Apparently I am losing my mind along with my temper.”

“Crispin?” Catherine’s voice was suddenly so small and uncertain.

Somehow he had to convince her to come with him. She
had
to listen to him. They
had
to get away from there. “I know I’m not making any sense. I don’t understand it myself. But I need you to do this. I need you to just come. Where you will be safe. And I
need
to be there, too. I need to know that you’re safe. I . . .” Crispin felt himself shake with the frustration and confusion of it all. “I can’t explain it. I just—”

Catherine’s fingers pressed to his lips the same way his had moments earlier to hers. “I love you, too,” she whispered.

Crispin’s shock muted any reply he might have produced. She loved him? Truly? He shook his head. He’d sort all that out later. First matter of business: safety.

“So you’ll come?” he asked.

Catherine nodded and smiled. Crispin allowed a sigh of relief. He pressed a quick, affectionate kiss to her lips and another to her forehead. “We have to hurry,” he whispered. With every ounce of determination—for the temptation to stay there and kiss her far more thoroughly was quite strong—he turned toward the door, her hand still firmly held in his own, and reached for the handle.