The Bishop's Daughter (20 page)

Harry edged closer, ostensibly to peer over her shoulder at the list she was compiling, his dark head drawing near her own.

"Of course, the Greshams and the Thorpes will be invited." Kate heard her own voice rise a shade higher. "And your stepmama asked me to be sure Mr. Crosbie's name is included."

She felt Harry freeze. Although he moved not a muscle, she sensed the tension that coursed through him.

"Completely out of the question," he said harshly.

Kate glanced up, astonished at the forbidding expression darkening the countenance that had been smiling only a moment before.

"But what shall I say to Lady Lytton?" Kate asked.

"I shall deal with her. She should have known better than to suggest such a thing to you. Sybil is well aware how I feel about Mr. Crosbie. He is either a fortune hunter or a fool, I care not which. I won't have him hanging about my stepmother. My father left me the responsibility of looking after her, and that is exactly what I intend to do."

Harry snatched the quill from Kate and scratched out Crosbie's name with such energy, he tore the parchment. Noting the hard determination in Harry's face, Kate did not even think of challenging him upon Lady Lytton's behalf. If Mr. Crosbie was indeed that bad, then she believed Harry's feelings did him credit. But it did rather astonish her to see that he could look as stern as her own papa ever had.

Harry relaxed again as Kate moved on down the list. "The Porters, the Truetts." He nodded with disinterested approval at this recital of the names of the most prominent families in the shire.

When Kate had come to the end, she said, "Is there no one whom I have left off—some particular friend you would wish invited?"

Even as she asked, Kate caught herself hesitating, the memory of Mr. Ffolliot not far from her mind, although both she and Harry, as though by mutual agreement, had ever refrained from mentioning that gentleman's name.

"I have complete faith in your judgment, Kate. Ask whomever you think proper."

Kate knew she should not accept this carte blanche, but could not help feeling a little relieved. Harry had a perfect right to receive Mr. Ffolliot if he chose, yet Kate did not know if she could have endured that disreputable man's presence.

She had been focusing so hard upon the list, she did not realize that Harry had stolen the opportunity to inch closer. She started, becoming aware that his arm rested behind her along the sofa, those strong tanned fingers dangling tantalizingly near her shoulder.

Kate trembled at the temptation. She knew she would have to but lean back and offer her lips to him. Quickly she shot to her feet. "I had better ring for Grayshaw. He will best be able to help us with planning the dining arrangements."

She feared Harry might tug her back down beside him, but she managed to dart round the desk and cross the room in safety. She tugged vigorously at the bellpull. When she dared glance at Harry, she saw that he had not made one move to intercept her, his eyes glimmering with amusement and impatience.

"Very well. Have it your own way, Miss Towers. But once we have done with this wretched fête, I assure you it will take far more than a butler to come to your rescue."

The threat sounded only part in jest, but Kate could not blame Harry for coming to the end of his forbearance. She had been much more fair to him when she had flatly told him no, kept him at a distance.

Her current state of indecision and confusion filled her with shame. She could not deny any longer that she loved Harry, not even to herself. Then what kept holding her back? Only one thing—the whisper of a memory of her father. She could still hear the bishop's voice warning her to proceed with care.

By the time Grayshaw answered her summons, Kate managed to recover her composure. But she avoided the sofa, settling herself primly upon one of the Hepplewhite chairs. Looking rather disgruntled, Harry crossed his arms over his chest. Stretching out his long legs, he propped his boots upon the writing desk, evincing little interest in the arrangements being made for his guests.

Grayshaw however entered into the discussion with all the earnest consideration it deserved. Tables would be set up in the fields for the farmhands, a tent provided for the tenants, while the more distinguished guests would be entertained in the hall's magnificent dining room. The difficulty arose with classifying certain individuals such as the Strattons. Although simple farmers the same as the Huddlestons, Mrs. Stratton now kept a carriage and sent her daughter to an exclusive boarding school.

"If you'll pardon my saying so, Miss Towers," Grayshaw remarked. "Mrs. Stratton is getting above herself. There will be a great deal of resentment if she is raised above her neighbors to the honor of dining room."

"That is very true." Kate frowned, thoughtfully whisking the end of the quill against her chin. She wanted no such bustle created. Harry's fête must be perfect, without even the shading of any ill will or spiteful gossip to spoil it,

She and Grayshaw continued to fret and speculate for several moments more upon the fate of the annoying Mrs. Stratton until Harry broke in, "For heaven's sake, I don't think Wellington gave such consideration to the deployment of his troops at Waterloo. Let everyone fill their plates and sit where they find room. I am sure I shouldn't complain even if I end up next to old Timothy Keegan."

Kate exchanged a pained look with Grayshaw. Harry, bearing so little regard for his own consequence, could not be expected to understand how those of lesser rank might be far more jealous of theirs. Kate removed Harry's feet from the desk and suggested he might want to consult with Mr. Warren to see how the construction of the marquee was coming.

"Trying to be rid of me, eh?" Harry chuckled. "What reward will I receive for taking myself off like a good boy?"

Ignoring this pointed question, Kate took him by the arm and escorted him firmly to the door. "And do make sure Mr. Warren remembers that we require another tent for the ladies to take tea."

Harry went without resisting, but at the threshold he paused to murmur, "I would gladly do all that you require, Kate, for one kiss."

"For one box on the ears, sir." She thrust him out, but Harry still managed to whisper several more wicked suggestions before she closed the door in his face.

Kate fought down a blush before turning to face Grayshaw, dreading lest he had noticed some of this byplay. She thought she detected a hint of a smile, but by the time she resumed her seat, the elderly butler had settled his face into lines of gravity.

Without further interruption from Harry, they were able to settle the matter of seating before teatime, the socially ambitious Mrs. Stratton firmly relegated to the tent where she belonged.

"The cards of invitation have arrived from the printers," Grayshaw said. "Shall I have them brought in?"

"Yes, but you need not rush." Kate pushed back from the desk, flexing her toes within her soft kid boots. "I am rather stiff from sitting so long and should like to take a turn about the garden."

"Very good, my lady." Grayshaw bowed himself out.

It was not until the door had closed behind him that the import of what the dignified manservant had said struck Kate.

My lady.

Kate pressed her hands to her cheeks in dismay. Whether it had been a slip of the tongue or the title used with deliberation hardly mattered. Either prospect was equally disconcerting. Her constant presence at Mapleshade had obviously given rise to expectations, even in the servant's quarters.

But were they expectations she intended to fulfill? Most earnestly did Kate seek to probe the depths of her heart. What answer would she give the next time Harry asked her to marry him, seriously asked?

She had to acknowledge how comfortable she had become these past days, even in her temporary role as mistress of Mapleshade. And its earl . . . how much more dependent she had become upon his presence for her happiness. Odd how the sharing of such simple domestic routines like teatime, dinner, working together on the details of the fête had drawn them into a greater intimacy than ever before. She had observed firsthand how hard Harry strove to be a good master, that combination of humor and firmness with which he treated his dependents.

"He's so different, Papa," Kate murmured, "so different from the wild heedless young man you believed him to be."

If only her father were there to realize it. If only the bishop were there to give his blessing. The thought brought with it a wave of melancholy. Kate did her best to shake it off. There was no sense repining for what could never be. The decision regarding Harry was as ever hers to make. Instead of moping here, she would do far better to go for her walk as she had planned. Perhaps the brisk air would clarify her thinking.

Scooping up her shawl, Kate let herself out through one of the French doors leading to Maple-shade's formal garden. She felt glad of the warm wool draped about her shoulders, the nip of September in the air, despite the sun glinting along the gravel pathways.

Most of the flowers had lost their bloom, the roses dying on the vine, yet Kate still reveled in the orderly layout of the beds, the neat rows of hedges all a delight to her tidy soul. She filled her lungs with the crisp air and wandered toward the summerhouse, a pagoda-like structure that stood at the hub of the garden.

She had no intention of going inside, merely skirting past it. But her plans were abruptly altered when an arm shot out of the shadowy depths and yanked her beneath the arched opening.

Kate let out a squeak of surprise. She could not imagine that it would be other than Harry perpetrating such mischief. It was on the tip of her tongue to scold him for giving her such a fright, when her gaze adjusted to the pagoda's gloom-filled interior. It was not Harry's green eyes that twinkled back at her, but those of a stranger, looking rather nervous and frightened himself.

His cherubic features framed by ridiculously high starched shirt points, the young man appeared harmless enough, but he did not relax his grasp upon her wrist.

Kate's lips parted to cry out.

"Oh, don't scream," a female voice shuddered. "It will go right through my head."

Kate's mouth closed. She glanced down with astonishment to discover Lady Lytton seated on a bench. Apparently she had made a remarkable recovery from her influenza. Despite the chill of the day, her gown sported a shockingly low decolletage. The gooseflesh forming beneath the dusting of pearl powder made an interesting effect, and the glow in her ladyship's cheeks for once owed to more than rouge.

"We didn't mean to alarm you, Miss Towers." The strange young man said. “It is only that we saw you passing by and could not allow such an opportunity for seeing you alone to escape us."

Lady Lytton beamed at him as though he had said something remarkably clever. "Indeed, Miss Towers. I was most desirous to have you make this gentleman's acquaintance. This is Mr. Lucillus Crosbie."

"Mr. Crosbie!" Kate gasped. She wrenched her hand away as though he had become a snake banding her wrist.
The
Lucillus Crosbie? The same one she had heard Harry denounce with such vehemence only an hour before? Kate backed nervously toward the arched opening.

"Indeed, sir. You should not be here—"

"Of course, he shouldn't," Lady Lytton interrupted petulantly. "Why do you think we are hiding in here?"

"If Lord Lytton discovers you . . ." Kate shuddered to think what Harry might do.

Mr. Crosbie visibly shared her sentiments. He paled, saying, "His lordship tossed me out twice, once into the pond, once out the window."

"Did he?" Kate's alarm grew, having no desire to witness Harry inspired to such violence. "Then I think your wisest course would be to leave at once, sir."

"But we must talk to you," her ladyship wailed.

"It will do no good. I already told Lord Harry about your wish that Mr. Crosbie attend the fête and he said—"

"Oh, plague take the fete," Mr. Crosbie exclaimed with great passion. He clasped Lady Lytton's hand to his heart. "Miss Towers, we can bear this separation no longer. We want to be married."

Kate's mouth gaped open and she had to force it closed. Gazing from the pink-cheeked young man to the lady nigh twice his age, she thought she had never been more shocked. She felt much like a swimmer already aware of being in dangerous shallows who suddenly plunges in over her head.

She sagged down onto a bench opposite the duo clutching each other in such dramatic fashion. "I doubt Harry will ever permit such a thing."

"I know that." Lady Lytton sniffed, groping for her handkerchief. "He has been behaving like . . . like a regular Capulet."

The image of Harry playing tyrannical parent to Lady Lytton's Juliet was a ludicrous one, but Kate did not feel in the least like laughing. She did not know what to say to this pair of ill-assorted lovers, but they apparently mistook her silence for encouragement and began to pour out their hopes and mutual devotion.

"Lord Lytton does not believe I love Sybil, but I do," Mr. Crosbie declared. "He cannot understand, Miss Towers, I have a mama and seven older sisters. Seven! Not a one of them has ever taken my ambition to be a sculptor seriously. They think I should join the army." He paused to direct a speaking glance at her ladyship. "Only Sybil has ever believed in me."