The Kiss of a Stranger Read online

  How utterly ridiculous. To force an engagement over one kiss, and one with virtually no witnesses. Society would never require such a thing. Yet Crispin couldn’t honorably refuse, not when Miss Thorndale’s own uncle considered her reputation tarnished.

  Miss Thorndale appeared as shocked as Crispin felt. She would never insist he go through with her uncle’s demands. A brief and entirely foundationless engagement ought to allow the man time to cool off and regain his head. Crispin could endure a day or so of absurdity. He and Philip could laugh about it after the fact.

  Crispin bowed and bit back an exasperated sigh. With as much grace as he could muster, he said, “If she will have me.”

  Chapter Two

  Have him? Catherine didn’t even know him!

  He was apparently titled and probably wealthy. She’d certainly noticed his copper-brown hair and broad shoulders and the second and third glances he’d received from every female in the garden. More likely than not, Lord Cavratt was a complete cad. Just thinking of his kiss made her face burn hot again.

  “Of course the chit’ll take you,” Uncle sneered. “Even she is not that brainless.”

  Catherine let her hand drop to her chest, trying to regain control of her breathing. There had to be a way out of this. Lord Cavratt was looking at her, quite intensely, actually. Did he expect her to say something? Thank him for the offer, perhaps? Declare herself fortunate or pleased? Cry off, was more like it.

  Uncle could not force the poor gentleman’s hand in this way. It was unconscionable.

  “Uncle, you mustn’t—”

  Another resounding blow interrupted her plea. He hit her with enough force to split her lip. The radiating pain wasn’t new, but it never hurt any less. How many times in the last eight years had she prayed for a means of escape from this tyrant?

  “Maybe your husband will teach you to mind your place,” Uncle growled.

  Catherine held her hand tight to her face, trying to keep the blood off her dress. If she remained very still and remembered not to speak to her uncle, he might not strike again. No one should ever have to learn those sort of life lessons.

  “That will be quite enough, Mr. Thorndale.” Lord Cavratt stepped between her and Uncle, offering her a clean linen handkerchief and a look of obvious concern. Catherine lowered her eyes, uncomfortable with the pity she saw in this stranger’s face.

  Uncle ignored Lord Cavratt’s reprimand and walked toward the door. “I’ll go seek out the vicar.”

  Vicar?

  “Vicar?” Lord Cavratt sputtered, sounding as shocked as Catherine felt.

  “We’ll have this mess settled tonight.” Uncle gave Lord Cavratt the once-over. “Then you can’t run.”

  “I haven’t a Special License.” Lord Cavratt stepped toward Uncle. She didn’t realize until he’d left her side how much calmer she’d felt with him there.

  “I have one,” Uncle said.

  He had a Special License? In his possession?

  “You anticipated this sort of entanglement?” One of Lord Cavratt’s eyebrows rose. He gave Catherine a questioning look.

  Did he think she frequently found herself in the arms of complete strangers? She tried to look as dignified as possible with his now-bloody handkerchief pressed to her mouth. She had her faults, certainly, but she was no light-skirt.

  “I would never have allowed an opportunity to rid myself of that brat to slip through my fingers.” Uncle yanked open the door. “I’ll bring back the vicar.”

  “Perfect,” Lord Cavratt muttered.

  “Keep an eye on the dandy,” Uncle growled at the maid and sent her scurrying back inside the sitting area. She hung near the door and kept her eyes obligingly on the dingy window.

  “Dandy?” Lord Cavratt said to no one in particular. “I am as much a dandy as that man is a saint.”

  Catherine had a sudden fleeting urge to smile at Lord Cavratt’s jab. But smiling was unladylike. Uncle had told her so countless times.

  “I cannot begin to apologize enough for all of this,” Lord Cavratt said.

  “Try,” Catherine said under her breath.

  Lord Cavratt obviously heard her remark. His brow raised in surprise as he regarded her searchingly. Catherine’s heart raced as it did every time she’d managed to ruffle Uncle’s feathers, which was alarmingly often. Please don’t let him be angry, she silently pleaded.

  “I am afraid we will have to marry.” Lord Cavratt began a slow pace around the room. “I hope you don’t object to a dandified gentleman.” The caustic tone with which he spoke added an unexpectedly humorous quality to his words. He, obviously, objected to Uncle’s evaluation of him. “But, I will see my solicitor in London and this will be cleared up quickly enough.”

  “I don’t understand.” Catherine’s voice seemed minuscule contrasted with his rich baritone.

  “We will annul the marriage,” Lord Cavratt said, as though any peahen should have thought of as much.

  So he thought her morals and her intellect were questionable—not the most promising evaluation from one’s future husband. Husband? Good heavens, how very ridiculous!

  “That sounded far more condescending than I intended. Forgive me.”

  Catherine nodded, feeling slightly appeased.

  “The license cannot possibly be legal,” he said, “which should make the marriage easily annulled. I think.”

  Catherine could easily believe her uncle had undertaken something illegal. Catherine dabbed at her lip. The bleeding had slowed, but the throbbing had not. She knew very little about annulments.

  “I will secure you a room for the night.” Lord Cavratt looked more than a little harried. “We’ll be in London tomorrow and have everything settled day after next.”

  He had walked a perfect oval around the sitting area, talking as much to himself as to Catherine. Strangely, his words were calming. Their absurd situation could be rectified.

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “That will never do.” Lord Cavratt shook his head at her and even smiled a little. “If we’re going to be married—even for only two days—I’d like you to call me Crispin.”

  “I don’t think I can.” Catherine had been lectured on the rules of propriety more times than she could count.

  “It is not a difficult name.” He shrugged. “Two syllables. Fairly straightforward. Except my sister couldn’t say it. She called me ‘Crispy’ for years, although that is a rather undignified chapter of my past I would rather forget.”

  “Understandably so.” She had the oddest recurring desire to smile in Lord Cavratt’s company. Crispin’s, she corrected herself.

  “And do I have permission to use your given name?” He looked oddly amused. The hint of a smile on his lips changed his entire face, rendering him a little less intimidating, though only a very little.

  Catherine could feel herself blush as she nodded her agreement. A temporary wife ought to allow such a small familiarity, she supposed.

  “Then would you mind telling me what it is? Or shall I wait to see it written out on the marriage license? Better yet, I’ll guess.” He made a face clearly intended to indicate deep pondering.

  “Catherine.”

  “That would have been my first guess.”

  “Really?” She didn’t believe a word of it.

  Crispin looked surprised but amused. She really needed to rein in her tongue before she pushed him too far. Uncle rarely put up with cheek—she doubted Crispin would, either.

  The door flew open, and Uncle marched in with the dyspeptic-looking vicar at his side. Two other men, obviously of the local gentry, followed close on their heels. Catherine lowered her eyes back to the floor. She heard the sound of paper being slapped onto the desk.

  “I’d prefer to dispense with the ceremony and just sign the bloody thing.” Uncle really was going to force them to do this.

  Catherine repeated Crispin’s reassurances. The marriage would be annulled, whatever that entailed. Everything would be set to r
ights. She would be back under Uncle’s thumb—not as reassuring a thought as she might have hoped for.

  “’Twouldn’t be legal without the ceremony.” The whiny voice could only be the vicar’s.

  “Very well,” Uncle spat.

  Crispin didn’t offer any verbal agreement nor argument. Catherine heard the scratching of a quill on parchment.

  “Miss Thorndale, you sign here,” the vicar said.

  Catherine summoned what dignity she could and strode to the desk. The vicar’s bony finger indicated the spot where her signature belonged. She took the quill in hand and steadied her breath. She felt an inexplicable need to look at Crispin, to see some kind of reassurance in his face. Any expression short of complete disgust or utter panic would be more than welcome.

  She glanced as covertly as possible. Their eyes met and she knew somehow that he understood her hesitation. He nodded calmly.

  “Sign,” Uncle snapped.

  Willing her hand to not shake, she wrote neatly across the line Catherine Adelaide Thorndale. She couldn’t even make out Crispin’s signature. That seemed the way with men—indiscernible on so many levels.

  “Get on with it, Vicar,” Uncle ordered.

  The ceremony, though everything that was legally required, proved quick, cold, and unfeeling. If Catherine hadn’t listened closely, she might have entirely missed the fact that she and Crispin had just been pronounced man and wife.

  Temporarily, she told herself.

  Uncle waved over the maid, still loyally stationed at the window. She arrived in a swish of drab, colorless skirts, not unlike the ones Catherine herself wore. “Have Lady Cavratt’s trunk brought from her previous room.”

  The woman looked thoroughly bemused. “Whose?” she asked.

  Uncle flicked his hand in Catherine’s direction. “Lady Cavratt.”

  Realization struck. She was Lady Cavratt. Catherine stole a look at Crispin, who stood in private conversation with the vicar. When the sour-faced man took his leave and Crispin turned to face her and Uncle, his eyes snapped with barely controlled temper. Catherine instinctively shrunk back.

  “Now, Cavratt.” Uncle addressed him in his usual self-assured manner. “I’d like a few moments with my niece.”

  Crispin offered a half bow and turned to go. Catherine felt her legs begin to tremble beneath her. She always avoided being alone with her uncle, especially when his mood was antagonistic.

  “I am certain I don’t need to remind you that your niece is now my wife.”

  Uncle nodded, though he looked a bit confused.

  “Whatever you wish to say to her, you can say in my presence. I will stand across the room if you wish for greater privacy, but I will not leave her alone with you.”

  “You wish to eavesdrop on a private conversation?”

  “I wish to make perfectly sure she comes to no further harm at your hands.”

  Catherine stared in shock. Was he protecting her? Why? She’d been anticipating a thorough lashing for this mess.

  “Of course.” Uncle’s voice dripped with annoyance.

  Crispin crossed the room and leaned against the wall, his eyes watching Uncle.

  Uncle turned a venomous glare on Catherine. “Well, you’ve captured a title, which was no doubt your intention,” he growled in a voice little louder than a whisper.

  Catherine knew better than to attempt an explanation. Logic and Uncle were not particularly well acquainted.

  “Two minutes in your company and he’ll leave you in a ditch.” Uncle eyed her with his usual dissatisfaction. “But—”

  Catherine could feel her breath catch. Uncle’s voice had taken on that tone of foreboding which always seemed to precede one disaster or another.

  “—know this. Should he manage to unshackle himself, you will never be welcomed back to Yandell Hall.” Uncle grimaced in obvious disgust. “I’ll not have a good-for-nothing wench sullying my lands. Am I understood?”

  Catherine nodded. Uncle did not make idle threats, meaning she’d just lost the only home she’d ever known. Since her parents’ death, that home had held little but pain and unhappiness. Yet those familiar rooms had once been a place of peace.

  Without a good-bye or a parting look, Uncle tromped from the room. His footsteps echoed down the hall and faded away. She never appreciated Uncle as much as she did when he left a room.

  Catherine pressed the bloodied handkerchief to her mouth once more, though the bleeding had stopped. Uncle had washed his hands of her. Not such a terrible thing in light of what life with him had been like. Considering Uncle’s temper, she’d come out of the mess less painfully than she’d expected. Crispin had even been thoughtful enough to protect her from the last moments of Uncle’s anger.

  Crispin stepped away from the wall and closer to her. “He is not the most tenderhearted of fellows, is he?”

  Catherine shook her head.

  “Well, no need to worry about him now. I sent a maid to prepare your room—I imagine it is ready for you by now.”

  “Thank you,” Catherine said.

  Crispin eyed her a moment. “Are you certain you are well? Do you need an apothecary, perhaps a tonic?”

  She hadn’t been expecting kindness. In all honesty, he’d shown her a great deal of kindness. “I am well, thank you.”

  He nodded and indicated she should make her way to the corridor. They walked in awkward silence down the narrow passage and up another flight of stairs. She could hear the voices of guests gathering in the public rooms below. They passed closed doors; no doubt the rooms beyond were occupied by yet more guests of the very busy inn.

  Crispin paused at a thick wooden door. “Right in here.” He motioned her inside.

  She opened the door to a simply furnished room that smelled quite appetizingly of beef and potatoes. Candelabras were lit around the room, barely relieving the dimness. Nightfall must have come without her noticing. Jane smiled at her from across the room.

  Bless Jane, Catherine thought. She’d been the only source of consolation in Catherine’s life since her father had died. Had it really been eight years?

  She glanced back at Crispin, uncertain of what she ought to say.

  He spoke first. “Do not fret, Catherine. This will all be put to rights soon enough.” He smiled and bowed before slipping out of sight down the corridor.

  “’Is Lordship ordered a tray for your supper,” Jane said, motioning to the table once Catherine closed the door. “Seems you went and got married.”

  Catherine recognized the curiosity in Jane’s face. She wanted to offer some explanation, but her embarrassment tied her tongue. To own the truth, she wasn’t entirely sure of the details herself.

  “Mr. Thorndale forced the both of ya, di’n’t he?” As usual, Jane knew more than she ought.

  Catherine nodded as she changed into her several-years-old night rail. Jane obviously expected more information. “Uncle happened upon Lord Cavratt as he was . . . kissing me.”

  Jane whistled, bringing the blush to Catherine’s face in an instant. “Why’d ’is Lordship go’n do that?”

  “Honestly, Jane, I haven’t the slightest idea.”

  Chapter Three

  The journey to London required eight hours. Though they had covered only half the distance to the metropolis, Crispin felt as though three days had passed since they’d left the inn that morning. Self-castigation did not make time pass swiftly.

  He discovered very little about his wife during the first half of their journey beyond the fact that she didn’t have very much to say and blushed every time he spoke or looked at her or moved. Despite the obvious drawbacks to a reticent traveling companion, he found he liked her company far more than Miss Bower’s.

  Catherine had nodded off within thirty minutes of retaking the road after stopping for lunch. She was a wisp of a thing, really. No obvious fuss had been made over her appearance. His servants had ascertained from the Thorndale servants that Catherine’s uncle inherited an estate and a siza
ble fortune upon the death of his older brother, Catherine’s father. Yet her dress and unobtrusive mannerisms would lead anyone to mistake her for a servant.

  An intelligent, thinking, logical gentleman could reasonably make that exact misinterpretation. He kept telling himself that. The mistake had been understandable and excruciatingly unfortunate and, when it came down to it, rather idiotic.

  Crispin’s eyes settled on her bruised cheek. Her lady’s maid had certainly applied some plaster or another to the bruise and fat lip—it looked much better than it would have otherwise. He didn’t think Thorndale had hit her again, not after the first two times.

  To hit a woman. Twice. Crispin shook his head in disgust. The man’s own niece, even. And, worse, she hadn’t been at all surprised by her uncle’s actions. What kind of life had Catherine known? Not that Crispin’s role in her life had been particularly ideal thus far, accosting her with unasked for and unwelcome attentions.

  “You are a cad,” he told himself. “A cur. A bounder. A scoundrel. A . . . human thesaurus.”

  The countryside flew past as the carriage rolled on toward London. Catherine slept on despite the jarring of the carriage on the rutted and ill-maintained roads. The sleep of the innocent escaped Crispin, however. The guilty, apparently, don’t sleep at all.

  That kiss. An unexpected smile began to cross his face. He hadn’t expected the kiss to affect him at all. It was, after all, merely a display of his “talents,” as he’d called them. And yet he’d spent half the night trying to pull his thoughts away from his ill-timed talent show. He’d never before held a woman who felt so perfect in his arms. Nor shared a kiss that left him unable to think.

  The hinted-at smile disappeared, however, the moment he looked across the carriage at Catherine sleeping. Her bruised and swollen face was the price of that kiss. And neither of their reputations would emerge intact after an annulment.

  “You are a cad,” he whispered to himself and forced his gaze out the window.