The Bishop's Daughter (8 page)

This mad prank of Harry's, pretending to be dead, only served to reinforce Kate's own doubts about him. She required a more serious turn of mind in the man she would deem suitable as a husband. No, she was as resolved as ever. She and Harry would not suit.

Yet in making this resolution, Kate knew she was not reckoning with one powerful force. Harry, himself. That wretched kiss! Whatever had possessed her? She had just been coming out of a swoon. She hadn't in the least known what she was doing, but she would never be able to convince Harry of that. Never would he give her any peace.

She could refuse to see him as she had threatened, but she knew Harry far too well. He would not be turned away by a tale of her not being at home. He was perfectly capable of coming round at two in the morning and chucking pebbles at her window.

She would have to see him again, but where would she find the composure to do so? Seeking strength, she turned to the one source she had been taught to trust since a child.

Dropping to her knees by the bed, she folded her hands and raised her eyes earnestly to the chamber's scrolled ceiling.

"Dear Father in Heaven," she prayed, "give me the wisdom to deal with Harry. Help me to keep him at arm's length."

But even God did not seem to be heeding Kate today. Instead of any comforting feeling of assurance, she was visited by an image of Harry so strong her breath snagged in her throat. Not the Harry of the wicked grin, but the way he looked those sweet, rare times, his eye darkening in that fashion that made her heart pound harder, his lips curving so tenderly.

Kate sighed. Somehow her prayer for deliverance turned into a grateful flow of thanksgiving at finding Harry so very much alive.

And that prayer, she had the strangest notion, God had heard.

Kate's own resolves about Lord Harry notwithstanding, her future conduct to the earl of Lytton was already being decided upon by her formidable grandmother.

From her throne in the parlor, Lady Dane sipped her lemonade and informed Mrs. Towers, "This entirely changes everything. The purpose of my visit here was to persuade you to allow me to take Kate abroad, try to restore some life back into the girl. With the young man dead, this is the worst place she could be, but with Lytton alive . . . ah, that is entirely another matter. She must stay put until the marriage is all arranged."

Mrs. Towers thought her mother-in-law was marching a deal too fast. "But you heard what Kate said—"

"I heard." Her ladyship's mouth hooked into a fleeting smile.

"Even before Lord Lytton's outrageous prank," Mrs. Towers said, "Kate would not have thought of marrying him. The bishop never approved of him."

"That doesn't surprise me," her ladyship sniffed. She stared up at the three-quarter length portrait of her son mounted above the mantel. A most handsome man garbed in the full glory of the robes of his divine calling, it should have been a sight calculated to bring pride to any mother's heart. That it did not find great favor with Lady Dane did not surprise Mrs. Towers. Her late husband and his mother had never dealt well together. It was something she had never understood—how without shouting, never once raising their well-modulated voices, the pair of them could make the tension in a room thicker than the puddings served with the Sunday beef. Even with her son dead, Lady Dane made no odds about her feelings.

"Dylan was never my favorite child. Too stiff-necked by half. I always feared that Kate was cut from the same cloth. But when I saw her with Lord Harry that last winter, the girl had become almost human. I should have taken a hand in the matter then. But I am determined to rectify my negligence now. Kate is going to marry the Earl of Lytton."

Mrs. Towers heard this pronouncement with dismay, fearing her ladyship's interference was only bound to make the situation worse. Although she knew trying to turn Lady Dane aside from her determined course would be like attempting to stop a tidal wave, Mrs. Towers made one last desperate appeal.

"I fear it won't do, my lady. In many ways, Kate is like her papa. She is a most serious-minded girl. Charming as Lord Lytton is, I fear he will never be respectable enough for her.

"He shall be made respectable enough," Lady Dane announced. "I shall see to it."

Mrs. Towers was hard pressed to stifle a groan. Her heart filled with dread, foreseeing that the peace of their days at Lytton Dene were coming to an end. Much as she, too, wished to see Kate happily wed, she felt a pang of sympathy for Lord Lytton, who could have no notion of the storm about to descend upon him. Mrs. Towers had a strong desire to send a note of warning to that unfortunate young man.

The master bedchamber at Mapleshade Hall stretched out with the vastness of a ballroom, the walls hung with sixteenth century Flemish tapestries, the massive fireplace carved of white marble. The chamber had originally been designed by the first Earl of Lytton for the entertainment of his king, the monogram of Charles Stuart still to be found upon the elaborately carved ceiling.

After the death of the Merry Monarch and the succession of his dour brother, James, royalty ceased to visit Mapleshade, and the next generation of Arundels gradually appropriated the magnificent chamber for their own use.

To the present earl, tucked away behind the heavy gold damask bedcurtains, the chamber spoke not of any glorious past or imposing grandeur. Lord Harry was conscious only of how good it felt to be back in his own bed.

As fatigued as he had been, the night passed in a deep sleep of oblivion. Only as the hours of morning began to sift by, did dreams overtake him.

"Kate," he murmured, caught in that pleasing state between dozing and waking. Nestling his face deeper among the pillows, he imagined her removing her bonnet, shaking loose her fall of dusky curls, the tresses tumbling all silken over his fingers. Her eyes were shy and inviting, her mouth warm and eager.

He heaved a contented sight at the vision he had conjured. Somehow he had always known that beneath the prim facade of the bishop's daughter beat the heart of a most passionate woman. With a muzzy smile, he clutched at his pillow, recalling the sensation of Kate in his arms, all soft and yielding.

His fantasy was rudely disrupted by a sharp rap upon the bedchamber door. Harry ignored the brisk summons. It had to be a mistake. His servants knew better than to disturb him at this hour of a Sunday.

He tried to drift back into his dream, concentrating on the carnelian outline of Kate's lips. But his imagined kiss was again interrupted by a second knock, louder than the first. Harry responded with a snarl.

The fool in the hall beyond must have taken it for encouragement to enter. Harry heard the door creaking open.

"My lord?"

"He's not here," Harry mumbled and then as someone drew open the bedcurtains a crack, allowing a sliver of light to fall across his face. "What the devil—"

Harry focused on the upright form of his butler. Grayshaw's face was screwed up into the most peculiar expression. It took Harry a full minute to realize that the impassive manservant was actually in a state of some agitation and it had to be because of something dire or Grayshaw would have sent one of the footmen or Harry’s valet to rouse him.

Harry regarded him through bleary eyes. "Whatever has happened, this time I am not responsible."

"Oh, my lord. There—there is this woman below-stairs."

"Miss Towers?" Harry shot up onto one elbow, the absurd hope stirring him more fully awake.

"No, my lord. She says she—"

"Then send the wench packing," Harry said, losing interest. He rolled over, drawing the coverlet up to his ears, adding with a yawn, "In the future send away all applicants for my hand. Tell them the post has been filled."

"My lord!" Grayshaw persisted, "It is an elderly female. She says—"

"She must be here to see Sybil. Direct her to my stepmother and leave me in peace."

Harry put an end to the conversation by stuffing his head under the pillow. As though from a great distance, he heard Grayshaw's despairing, "Very good, my lord," and then the muffled sound of the door closing again.

Harry emerged from beneath the pillow, believing he had heard the last of the incident. He had just succeeded in recapturing his drowsy state, embarking upon another delicious dream of Kate, when the chamber door slammed open again, this time accompanied by the sound of bickering voices, the stentorian tones of his butler and the militant accent of some unknown female.

"My lady, I beg you. His lordship does not receive callers—"

"Stand out of my way, you gibbering fool."

"My lady, this is most unseemly."

"Idiot. I am old enough to be his grandmother."

 "But my lady," Grayshaw implored. "Think of your own reputation."

"At my time of life," came the tart reply, "if there be any who think scandal of my being in a young man's bedchamber, the more fool they."

Harry had the feeling that Grayshaw was getting the worst of this exchange, a notion that was reinforced when he detected the rustle of skirts advancing upon the bed. The next Harry knew his bedcurtains were wrenched open. He winced at the sudden flaring of light.

"My lady!" He heard Grayshaw huff.

Harry struggled to a sitting position, flinging one hand across his eyes. "Grayshaw. What the deuce!"

"My lord. I tried to keep her out," Grayshaw moaned. "But it was impossible short of offering her ladyship bodily harm."

"It would have been worse for you, my man, if you had tried it." The apparition standing over Harry's bed pounded a cane against the floor. Harry's dazed eyes took in the figure of a most regal lady with a countenance stern enough to have daunted the entire French line.

"Off with you, sirrah," this strange woman commanded Grayshaw. "Fetch Lord Lytton his breakfast."

Grayshaw glanced at Harry, clearly appealing for his intervention. Harry shoved back the strands of hair tumbling into his eyes, trying to convince himself that he was awake and not strayed into the midst of some mad nightmare.

"Begging your pardon, madam," he said, "but I think you must be in the wrong house. I don't believe I have had the pleasure—"

"I am Lady Dane," the woman rapped out.

Harry, who slept in the state nature intended, dragged the counterpane higher across the dark hairs matting his bared chest. "I trust your ladyship will forgive me if I don't make you my leg, but—"

"Impertinent rogue! I am Kathryn's grandmother."

Harry's jaw dropped open. Kate's grandma? Oh, Lord! The reason for this rather unorthodox morning call became abundantly clear to him. His gaze skated uneasily to the rigid form of his butler.

"Perhaps you had better go, Grayshaw."

"Very good, my lord," Grayshaw said at his most wooden. It was his pride that under his reign as butler, no unbidden guest had ever been permitted to enter the house, let alone the master's bedchamber. With a crestfallen air, he retired from the field.

Harry's attention swept back to the woman who had bested his indomitable butler. Lady Dane's stance was unyielding as iron, and Harry took to the defensive.

"I don't know all that Kate might have told you about yesterday. I expect you have every right to be angry with me, but I don't intend to apologize for that kiss. It was the first time I have ever been that bold with Kate and—"

"Hold a moment, sir." The first hint of amusement crossed Lady Dane's stern features. "You don't know Kate very well if you imagine she came tale-bearing to me. The girl didn't get all that color in her face just from the sun. But if you think that I am here to scold you, my lord, you are far off the mark."

"Then why are you here?" Harry asked.

"I shall tell you when you are more suitably attired to receive a lady."

Turning away from him, she stalked down the length of the room, flinging back over her shoulder, "And don't dawdle."

Harry stared after her a moment in a dumbfounded silence. But curiosity soon roused him to action. Obviously Lady Dane hadn't come to rip up at him over some fancied insult toward Kate. So what did she want of him?

Pushing the bed covers aside, Harry scrambled for the door that led to the adjoining dressing room. Without even waiting to summon his valet, he shrugged into a pair of breeches and white shirt and then donned a satin dressing gown, belting it with a sash. Pausing to peek in the mirror, he ran his hand thoughtfully over his jaw, but he sensed that her ladyship was not the sort to take offense at the sight of an unshaven male. She was more likely to be annoyed if he kept her waiting. Swiftly combing his hair, he dashed some water on his face and returned to the bedchamber.

A footman had just entered, bearing the tray with the breakfast Lady Dane had ordered for Harry. She directed the butler to place it upon a table before the empty fireplace, the hearth swept clean for the summer. The footman was then dismissed. He exited from the room. The young man barely able to conceal his curiosity.

Harry watched as Lady Dane settled herself into the depths of a wing-back chair and proceeded to pour out the coffee. His lips twitched. He had small experience of grandmothers, but he suspected that her ladyship was not of the usual variety. She behaved as though it were an everyday occurrence to invade a man's bedchamber, which for her, perhaps it was. Harry had a notion the lady did as she damned well pleased.