The Bishop's Daughter (19 page)

But he was doomed to disappointment. He had not gone far when he was cornered by Lady Dane.

"Well?" she demanded.

Harry regarded her questioningly in turn, widening his eyes to the fullest extent of innocence. "Well what, my lady?"

"Do not be pert with me, sir. You have had my granddaughter outside beneath the moon long enough, you had best be prepared to give me tidings of your engagement."

Harry grimaced. He might have known nothing would escape her ladyship's eagle eyes.

"Alas, I have no good tidings to give you as yet. But soon, I feel, very soon." He could not refrain from looking a little smug, remembering Kate's response to his kiss. "And I must tell your ladyship, I find that my methods are far more effective than yours."

"Wicked rogue!" Lady Dane gave him a sharp dig with her cane, but she was smiling.

Harry turned to look for Kate, but to his disappointment, she had already finished with Julia. Kate was taking her place opposite some callow youth for the next dance. She looked as proper as ever, but the color glowed high in her cheeks.

A wry smile escaped Harry. She had not accepted his proposal yet, but this time she had not refused him either. Decidedly this was progress. It put him in such a cheerful frame of mind that he was able to watch with equanimity as Kate made her way through a succession of dancing partners.

While Lieutenant Porter at last had his dance with her, Harry made his way toward the punch bowl, nearly walking into the Reverend Thorpe.

Adolphus flattened himself against the wall in an effort to stay out of Harry's path. "My lord, I beg your pardon."

"Cousin Harry," Harry gently chided him and then walked on, leaving the poor man thoroughly dumbfounded and bewildered.

As Harry sipped his punch, he was astonished to discover that more than one of his neighboring landowners had remarked on the improvements he had begun making upon his estates. He found himself the center of a great deal of attention and approval, which rendered him somewhat uncomfortable. He was not at all accustomed to being lauded for virtuous behavior.

"Mapleshade has always been a grand estate," Squire Gresham remarked. "I'd stake it against any other in England."

The other men chorused hearty agreement.

"Perhaps Mapleshade once was worthy of such praise." A chill female voice cut through the masculine ones. Harry glanced down to find Julia unexpectedly at his side. Her disposition was as soured as if she had been drinking lemonade instead of punch. What had Kate said to her? Harry would have given the last of his horses to know.

She continued with a sneer, "There certainly were times far more glorious at Mapleshade than the present. The harvests were much more prosperous, the old fête day the event of the season."

"Ah, well, I am not quite as old as you, Julia," Harry drawled. "I don't remember any of that."

As the men chuckled, Julia turned quite red. "Nor does anyone else. Most of Mapleshade's revered and time-honored customs appear to have ended with your father."

Harry knew he should let this spiteful remark go unchallenged. But damn, it was a jab at the governor as well as himself.

"It so happens," he announced loftily. "That I have every intention of reviving the old fête day."

His statement produced a hubbub of excitement and the squire fairly wrung his hand by way of congratulations. The news spread round the room, and Kate regarded him through eyes glowing with pride.

Harry could not resist raising his punch cup in a mocking salute to his discomfited cousin. That was one in the eye for Julia. It was not until he downed the sticky sweet liquid that a daunting thought hit him, nigh causing him to choke.

Harry did not have the damnedest notion what the ancient fête day was.

What on earth had he done? Harry thought the following morning as he lay flat on his back, staring up at the canopy of the bed looming above him. He could not believe he had permitted Julia to goad him into such an undertaking—a revival of the old harvest fete. Great heavens, what did he know about playing lord of the manor?

As he reviewed that disastrous moment at the assembly, when he had grandly made his announcement, he still didn't know what had come over him. He couldn't blame it upon that watery punch. Perhaps it had been the far more heady draught of Kate's sweet eyes trained upon him, so expectant. How could he have disappointed her?

And, he admitted as he stretched, locking his arms behind his head, it had been worth it, the way her face had suffused with delight, her glow of pride in him. He had always wondered why those dashed fool knights had rigged themselves out in all that armor, letting some other dolt take a run at them with a lance, risking being knocked head over ears. Such recklessness could only have been inspired by a lady.

Tilting, however, seemed a plagued sight easier than what he had undertaken. Upon his return home last night, he had asked Grayshaw exactly what the deuce was supposed to take place at this fête. The elderly retainer had explained the holiday had always taken place after the harvest, consisting of a dinner for the laborers, the tenants and the local gentry, to say nothing of the games and the ball held early in the evening. Harry had far rather Grayshaw had said nothing of those.

Harry didn't have the damnedest notion of how to arrange any sort of ball or games, at least not respectable ones. And he was not such a mutton head as to believe Sybil was going to be the least use to him. The event was going to turn out an utter shambles. He would undoubtedly make a fool of himself before most of the countryside. Worse still, he would diminish himself in Kate's eyes just as she was ready to fall into his arms.

With a low groan, Harry rolled over when he heard a discreet knock at the door. He barked a curt command to enter and within moments, Grayshaw stood framed in the bedcurtain openings.

"My lord, Lady Dane is belowstairs," the butler began in long suffering accents, "and she—"

"I am just rising." Harry sat bolt upright in alarm, groping for the sheet. "Tell her ladyship I shall be down directly!"

"Very good, my lord."

Harry could not quite be certain, but he thought his redoubtable manservant heaved a sigh of relief as he quit the room. Fully acquainted with her ladyship's impatience and her methods, Harry wasted no time in repairing to his dressing room.

He shaved and garbed himself in haste, which in nowise disconcerted his valet. Bardle, by this time, was quite used to the young master's fits and starts. Harry was never as inclined to linger over his toilet as that dapper little man would have liked.

As Harry descended the front hall stairs two at a time, he wondered what brought her ladyship down upon him this time. Of all those present at the assembly, he believed that only she had sensed the unease beneath his smiling good humor after he had promised to revive the fête. She had probably come to tell him what an idiot he was, Harry thought with a wry grin. Her ladyship was most adept at that.

He discovered that Grayshaw had escorted her ladyship into the main salon, the most elaborate and formal in the house, well suited to Lady Dane, but not much favored by Harry. The massive chamber was too dark and solemn by half with the furniture done in mahogany, the marble fireplace overly ostentatious, and the draperies a most regal but forbidding gold-fringed purple.

As Harry entered the drawing room, he found her ladyship settled upon a heavily carved chair, and greatly to his astonishment on the settee opposite was Sybil. Not only fully dressed, but belowstairs before two of the clock. For once she was not reclining, but sitting erect like a schoolgirl in the presence of a stern governess, an expression of the most civil terror upon her plump features. Her smelling salts were at her elbow, but she appeared afraid to reach for them under Lady Dane's disapproving stare.

"There you are at last, Lytton," her ladyship said before he could so much as bow over her hand. "I have just been informing your stepmama of your plans to hold the harvest day fête."

"You must be quite mad, Harcourt." Sybil sneaked a quick sniff of her salts. "My precarious health will never permit—"

"I am fully aware of the delicate state of your health, madam." Lady Dane's obvious contempt reduced Sybil to quaking silence. "That is why we have ridden over this morning to offer you and Lord Lytton our help."

"We?" Harry asked.

Lady Dane nodded toward someone behind him, a quiet presence who had escaped his notice. Harry turned toward the tall windows, the morning light pouring through them dispelling the chamber's gloom.

But to Harry it was not the sun that accomplished this feat so much as the slight figure who stood outlined by its rays, a vision all soft muslin, lace, and ribbons of rose, her dark hair cascading from beneath a demure straw bonnet.

"Kate," Harry breathed.

When she gave him that half-shy smile, he felt as though he could conquer a dozen harvest fetes. Aye, and half the world as well.

Grandmama had presented her suggestion to Kate earlier that morning with her customary delicacy. Sybil Arundel had wool for brains, she said roundly, and Lord Harry was a mere man. Between the two of them, there was no hope that the fête could be a success until some more competent female took a hand. It was the only neighborly and Christian thing to do.

It sounded to Kate like a rather shocking piece of interference, but before she quite knew where she was at, she was hustled into her grandmother's carriage and on the way to Mapleshade.

The sight of Harry's genuine relief and gratitude at the offer served to end most of Kate's qualms. After the injustice she had done him, she was eager to join Lady Dane in coming to his aid. But in the busy days that ensued, Kate soon discovered Lady Dane gave the term ‘we’ its most royal usage. Her ladyship's notion of helping was to preside over tea in the parlor while commanding Kate and Harry not to dawdle.

As the Dowager Countess of Lytton took to her bed with a hastily acquired bout of influenza, Kate was obliged to take charge of the proceedings, Harry's household staff coming to her more and more for their instructions regarding the preparations.

Not that Kate minded. She had not been so happily occupied since the days she had played hostess for her father at the episcopal palace. She threw herself into the planning with a will, determined to arrange a fête that would do Harry credit and silence forever Julia Thorpe's criticisms of him.

The only aspect of it all that disturbed Kate was that Grandmama was astonishingly lax in her chaperonage, frequently leaving Kate alone in Harry's company. Of course Harry was supposed to be hard at work in his own study, but that room conveniently adjoined the Hunt parlor, which had been assigned to Kate for her use.

More often than not Harry lounged in the doorway, his gaze warmer than the fire crackling on the hearth to dispel the early autumn chill. Kate tried to concentrate on such weighty matters as the menu for the fête that Harry's cook had submitted for her approval. But it was difficult to ignore that much masculinity leaning against one's door jamb, the sleeves of Harry's linen shirt rolled up to expose the strength of his bronzed forearms.

"Shall I put another log on the fire?" he asked. "Are you quite warm enough, Kate?"

"Yes, my lord."

"If you want anything, you know you have but to say so."

"Yes, my lord."

The rogue-green eyes became bolder, the deep voice soft and suggestive. "We could simply forget all this fête nonsense and you could elope with me today."

"No, my lord."

Harry grinned, preparing to retreat. Kate who had been wishing him to leave her in peace, suddenly discovered she could not bear for him to do so.

"No, Harry. Wait . . ."

He paused questioningly.

"I—I do need you."

He beamed, taking an eager step forward.

"To help me go over the list of names for the invitations."

Harry came to an abrupt halt, his expectant expression fading to a rueful disappointment. But he straightened his waistcoat, rolling his sleeves down into a more decorous attitude. "I am entirely at your disposal, my lady."

The Hunt parlor boasted at least a half dozen of fine Hepplewhite chairs upholstered in striped silk, the legs and arms finely carved by the hand of a master craftsman. Yet it did not surprise Kate in the least that Harry ignored all those elegant creations and settled beside her on the sofa.

She stiffened with immediate wariness. Harry had behaved like a gentleman since that night of the assembly, but Kate oft detected a most disquieting gleam in his eye. She was not sure she entirely trusted him. Even less did she trust the propriety of her own response. The memory of his kisses had the power to fire her blood, urging her to fling sanity to the winds as she had in the dark shadows of the inn yard.

Feeling a quiver run through her at his nearness, Kate moved further into the corner of the sofa. She reached for the quill pen upon the small writing desk set before her.

"Naturally," she said, "all of your laborers and tenants will attend the fête. But you must decide which of your neighbors you mean to have."