The Kiss of a Stranger (6 page)

She seemed only minimally appeased. “Catherine is quiet, but when she does speak, she is well spoken. With proper clothing and attention to her hair, I do believe she will prove herself an unparalleled beauty, which, as you know, goes a long way toward obtaining the ton’s approval.”

“Do you not think you’re doing it a bit brown? Catherine is quite pretty, I grant you that. But—”

“You don’t believe me.” Lizzie’s other fist took its place on her other hip.

“Now you’re in for it,” Edward muttered.

“I always believe every word you say, beloved sister.” Crispin bowed for good measure.

“Mark my words.” Lizzie waved her finger in warning. “When I have finished with dear Catherine, she will be the toast of the ton and every gentleman in London will be desperate to know where you’ve been hiding her.”

“‘Dear Catherine,’ is it?” Crispin shook his head in amused disbelief. “I hope that you are absolutely correct and that Catherine will mesmerize all of society. In fact, if you can accomplish precisely that, I will buy you that ridiculous excuse for a bonnet you’ve been attempting to convince your husband to buy you for weeks.”

Edward chuckled.

Lizzie squealed. “Agreed!”

Crispin would buy Lizzie the entire millinery if she could help Catherine in any way.

“Do you really mean to take her out amongst the ton?” Edward asked.

“I don’t imagine I can avoid it.”

“You most certainly could, which makes me wonder just what conclusion you’ve come to. If you were firmly set on tossing her out, I suspect you would have sent her to rusticate someplace inconspicuous.”

“Oh, Crispin!” Lizzie looked very nearly giddy. “Have you decided to keep her?”

“You make her sound like an abandoned puppy. And no. I haven’t decided anything yet.”

There were too many complications. Regaining his freedom seemed to require sacrificing Catherine’s future. But Lizzie’s declaration earlier that day—that she couldn’t be happy in a marriage she was forced into—made him wonder if ending the marriage might not be best, after all. What good was saving Catherine’s reputation if she spent the rest of her life miserable? Maybe she would be miserable either way.

No, he hadn’t decided anything yet.

Chapter Six

The day of the Hardfords’ dinner party dawned without a hint of Madame LaCroix’s gowns. Crispin did not generally spend hours on end watching the streets for a delivery, yet he’d been practically glued to the front windows all day. His agitation, though, was nothing compared with what he saw in Catherine.

She tiptoed around the house, avoiding everyone, including the servants, and wrung her hands in almost constant agitation. Her lips were pulled tightly together, her eyes constantly darting to the clock. A man felt like a failure seeing his wife so ill at ease in their home.

He’d done everything he could think of to lessen her anxiety. Lizzie made daily appearances, spending hours on end discussing what Catherine should expect at the dinner, topics of conversation, who would be in attendance—everything Lizzie could think of. The effort didn’t seem to help.

Catherine looked more nervous with each passing day. If she could just make it through the dinner without crumbling, Crispin would consider the night a success. But they didn’t stand a chance if Catherine had nothing decent to wear. A lady ought not feel self-conscious about her appearance at her first society function.

“Several packages have just arrived, my lord,” Hancock said from the doorway. “Where would you like them placed?”

An entire day staring out the windows and he’d missed the delivery? “Bring them in here, and please send for Lady Cavratt.”

Crispin laid aside his book, a pointless distraction after all. Three of the footmen entered, heavily laden with long white boxes and smaller parcels of red and blue. Crispin rose, relief seeping through him as he recognized Madame LaCroix’s seal on the larger boxes. The dressmaker had cut the delivery time awfully close.

He counted four gown-sized boxes. Madam LaCroix’s staff had been busy. The smaller boxes were most likely wraps or accessories. Lizzie’s acquisitions had arrived the day before and she’d obviously enjoyed spending her brother’s blunt. Catherine’s abigail had placed it all out of sight, certain her lady would “swoon for days on end” if faced with so much finery at once.

Until she came into his life, he hadn’t known more than a handful of ladies who did not have an insatiable thirst for all things fashionable and expensive. He liked that about her but wondered how quickly society would change her.

A moment later, Catherine appeared in the doorway, still bedecked in her brown-gray gunnysack, looking at him the way a child would look at a parent about to dole out a harsh punishment.

“I promise you are quite safe,” Crispin said. “I have already eaten.”

She slowly inched inside the doorway, her gaze flitting between Crispin and the pile of parcels. Crispin waited for her reaction, for a look of avarice to enter those bewitching eyes. Catherine stood completely still and obviously confused. She kept her gaze firmly on the floor.

“Have I done something wrong?” she asked after what seemed like ages.

“Wrong?”

“Hancock said you wanted me to come down here.” Her voice shook a little as she spoke.

“To show you this.” Crispin motioned at the enormous pile she couldn’t help but have noticed.

“Packages?” Catherine’s eyes suddenly seemed to register understanding. “Madame LaCroix,” she whispered. Her eyes jumped around at all the parcels, her face growing more panic-stricken each second. “All of these are for me?”

“A couple of the gowns may be for Hancock.” Crispin shrugged. “The Cavratt livery just isn’t very becoming with his coloring.”

“Really?” Was that a hint of sarcasm he heard in her voice? The thought made Crispin smile.

“The rest are for you.”

Catherine looked up and stared at him, shaking her head. She looked unhappy. How could she possibly be unhappy with an entire new wardrobe? Buying things for Lizzie had never failed to improve her mood.

“This is too much.” Catherine looked very nearly miserable. “I can’t possibly accept all of this.”

Crispin chided himself for what must have been the hundredth time that week. He’d assumed she was scoffing at his generosity when she’d simply been overwhelmed. She never seemed to act the way he expected her to. A wife really ought to be easily understood, oughtn’t she? Surely other husbands did not find themselves so frequently and thoroughly confused by the ladies they’d married.

“I refuse to send any of it back, so you’ll simply have to accept it.” Crispin tried for a lighter tone.

Catherine turned those pleading eyes on him. “I’ve been such a burden already.”

“Nonsense.” Her look tugged at his heart in an increasingly familiar way. Something about those eyes of hers haunted him. “Consider it a thank-you for not scratching out my eyes during the past week.”

Catherine turned toward the stacked boxes. “May I open one?” she asked, her voice so quiet Crispin hardly registered the hesitant question.

“Open them all if you’d like.”

Her eagerness, though subdued, was refreshing. Catherine lifted a long white box from the pile. She knelt beside it, slowly raised the lid, and set it cautiously on the floor. Her long, slender fingers carefully peeled back a layer of thin paper. Then another.

Crispin stepped closer, glancing over her shoulder at the box. Madame LaCroix had promised him a miracle, and he wanted to see if she’d kept her word. The box Catherine had selected contained a cream-colored morning dress, its three-quarter-length sleeves edged in delicate lace. A thick ribbon of deep maroon edged the bodice and neckline.

Catherine stood, pulling the dress out as she did, the skirt falling gracefully to full length. Looking closer, Crispin spied hair-thin stripes of shimmering maroon interwoven in the delicate fabric. A pretty dress, to own the truth, but hardly the eye-catching creation Crispin had been expecting.

“That is not one of Hancock’s.” Perhaps a bit of humor would head off the disappointment Catherine must have been feeling.

She turned to face him, her eyes threateningly red-edged, her lips pressed together in an obvious attempt to steady them. She really was disappointed, Crispin thought.

“I’ve never owned anything so beautiful,” Catherine whispered with inarguable sincerity.

Beautiful?
The dress was very plain by society’s standards, certainly nothing he’d expect a lady to become emotional about. At least not
pleasantly
emotional.

“Oh, I’m obviously already making a cake of myself.” Catherine clutched the gown closer to her, watching him with growing concern. “I will try not to embarrass you tonight, Crispin. I promise.” She’d moved to where Crispin stood evaluating the confusing scene unfolding before him. “I’m only . . . so overwhelmed . . . by your generosity. Thank—”

“That is not necessary,” Crispin interrupted, taken aback by her sudden talkativeness.

“You must allow me to thank you for this.” Catherine’s eyes grew misty. Her chin quivered almost indiscernibly. “Please.”

Gads, she was going to cry. He had no idea what to do with a watery female.

“I suppose. Though you risk puffing me up like a peacock.” He folded his arms across his chest in an attempt to look unaffected.

Catherine stepped closer to him. She smelled of roses, he noticed. She had that day in the garden, as well. Gown still clutched tightly in her hand, Catherine kissed his cheek. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Catherine offered a quiet thank-you and slipped back to the mountain of parcels, eyeing the collection with obvious awe.

Crispin stood in stunned confusion. It was certainly not the first kiss he’d received from a woman. His own sister had kissed him in precisely the same way. So why did Catherine’s simple kiss make his breath catch and his mind momentarily empty?

He simply hadn’t expected it, he told himself. That was all. Catherine’s reaching out to anyone would be understandably shocking. She’d spent the days since their arrival slipping around the house, obviously trying to go unseen, hardly speaking to a soul.

So where had her sudden boldness come from? With any other society lady, the kiss would have been a calculated attempt to garner his sympathies.

Catherine knelt beside the open box once more and painstakingly refolded the simple gown, laying it carefully back inside.

A slight smile edged its way across his face as he watched her. She fingered the packages like a child at Christmastime.

“What a sight this is!” Lizzie quite suddenly entered the sitting room trailed by her abigail carrying a box identical to the three large gown boxes currently on the sitting room floor. “I hope Catherine’s gown for tonight is among these.”

“Gown?” Crispin looked around as if in confusion. “Is Catherine expected to wear a
gown
tonight?”

“Very funny. I have the most delicious plan, Crispin.” Lizzie waved her servant upstairs. “My abigail, Mary, is a wonder with hair, and I want her to arrange Catherine’s for tonight.”

“And sacrifice your own? Lizzie, you are truly a martyr.” He knew full well Lizzie didn’t make a move in society without a proper coiffure.

“That is the reason I am here so early,” Lizzie said as if it should have been obvious. “I’ve brought my gown and everything I need. Mary can attend to us both and be done in plenty of time.”

Crispin raised an approving eyebrow. Enlisting his sister’s aid had proven an ingenious move, provided she didn’t overwhelm Catherine right into the swoon Jane had earlier predicted.

“Is not this the most spectacular plan, Catherine?” Lizzie crossed the room and clasped Catherine’s hands in her own. “You’ll be radiant, I’m certain of it!”

Catherine smiled, though Crispin could tell she didn’t believe a word of Lizzie’s declaration.

“Except we only have two hours!” Lizzie said.

“Would not two hours be sufficient?” Catherine asked.

“Hardly!” Lizzie dragged Catherine from the room. “We have ever so much to do!”

“But I need to clear these.” Catherine glanced back at the room and the pile of parcels left behind. “They’ll be in Crispin’s way.”

“Oh, hang Crispin! The footmen will have it cleared before he’s earned any right to be bothered by it.”

“Your thoughtfulness, sister, astounds me.”

“Oh, pish!”

Crispin chuckled as the ladies disappeared down the corridor. Lizzie, it seemed, had developed an instant liking for Catherine. Not that Lizzie could have helped herself—Catherine was inherently likeable. If she had turned out to be a shrew or a scheming harridan, he would have begun the annulment proceedings with hardly a hesitation. Instead, he had two stacks of papers awaiting his signature at his solicitor’s office—one to end their marriage, the other to make it ironclad. And he still had no idea which set he intended to sign.

* * *

A person could only endure so much poking, prodding, and pinning. Two hours far surpassed Catherine’s limit. Lizzie’s abigail arranged and rearranged Catherine’s hair. Jane, her own abigail, dressed her. Lizzie insisted on keeping Catherine as far from any obliging mirrors as possible. The surprise, she said, would be far too fun to see.

Catherine occupied her time scolding herself for acting like such a wigeon in the sitting room. She’d been so overcome, so unspeakably grateful, she’d actually kissed Crispin—a Peer of the realm, for heaven’s sake! A gentleman, she reminded herself, who was actively working on ending their marriage. Catherine knew so little of annulments. She could not even begin to guess how long the undertaking would require. Every time he spoke, she half expected to hear he’d finished whatever proceedings were required, the marriage was over, and her things were waiting for her on the curb.

Every stitch of clothing Jane dressed her in was new, from the silk stockings and unfathomably soft chemise to the exquisite gown. The color she couldn’t quite identify, a scrumptious blend of blue and green, of the softest satin embroidered with delicate flowers.

The two abigails stood back in admiration after the tiny pearl buttons had been closed and Catherine had stepped into a pair of slippers perfectly matched to the gown.

“Beautiful,” Jane whispered.

“The gown
is
quite beautiful.” Catherine glanced down, trying to convince herself she was truly dressed so exquisitely.

“She was not referring only to the gown, Catherine.”

Lizzie spun her around to face the gilded mirror atop her dressing table. Catherine gasped. She hardly recognized herself. Mary had pulled her honey-colored hair into an intricate twist, graceful curls framing her face. The pearl pendant Lizzie had insisted Catherine wear perfectly complemented the sprigs of baby’s breath Mary had placed in her hair.

Catherine studied her reflection. Much to her surprise, she had a figure. Somehow she still pictured herself with precisely the same proportions she’d had at twelve. She’d never been beautiful but had always wanted to be. Her uncle would have set her down quite drastically to hear her think something so vain.

“The gentlemen will take us to task for keeping them waiting so long,” Lizzie said with a laugh. “I suppose we shouldn’t torture them further.”

Catherine nodded mindlessly.

“You are nervous.” Lizzie smiled at her in the mirror.

“I am.” Excessively so.

Lizzie squeezed her shoulders reassuringly. “Now. Take a deep breath.”

Catherine obeyed.

“I do that whenever I feel nervous,” Lizzie confided. “It always helps.”

Catherine doubted the confident Lady Henley was ever very nervous. Three very deep breaths later, Catherine walked out of her rooms. She didn’t want to embarrass Crispin. She didn’t want him to regret her presence any more than he already did.