The Bishop's Daughter (4 page)

"You don't think it'd be considered too forward, do you, Sophy," he mumbled, "if I was just to drop a word in Lady Lytton's ear? There's a couple of prime hunters of Harry's I've always had my eye on and I wouldn't want anyone else stealing a march on me."

"I doubt it would do you a particle of good, Squire," said Mrs. Gresham. "Those horses would rightfully be the property of the new earl, his to dispose of."

"That dour cousin of Harry's from up north?" the squire growled. "A penny pinching Scot who will drive a hard bargain. Rot the luck!"

Her heart firing with indignation, Kate moved back so she did not have to hear anymore. She had scolded Harry herself for his preoccupation with his horses, but somehow the squire scheming over Harry's grave to have his favorite hunters inspired Kate with a most unchristian desire to break her parasol over Gresham's head.

It was a relief when Reverend Thorpe commanded everyone to silence and began his speech. After the first few words, Kate blotted out the sound of his voice. She did not want to her the vicar damning Harry with faint praise.

Her head thumped unpleasantly as she brushed her damp brow with the back of her glove. It was so hot. Was it only her fancy or had the breezes here been much more warm and gentle when Harry had been alive?

She could not say. She had only been to this hillside the one time before, and that had been spring. Harry had driven her out here to ask her to be his bride. If her answer had been different, she, too, would be wearing black, but she would have had nearly two years with Harry. If she had married him, perhaps he would never have gone away. She would have dissuaded him from rushing off to fight Bonaparte. Harry might still be—

Kate squeezed her eyes tight. No, she could not think such things as that. She had given Harry the only possible answer she could. Never could she have married him. If she had ever been the least unsure, matters had been made clear to her that morning Papa had called her into his study.

The bishop's silvery halo of hair had been bent over his desk, as ever spread with pages of some scholarly text he was working upon. His stern eyes softened as he invited Kate to be seated.

He came directly to the point. Lord Lytton was being most particular in his attentions to Kate. Papa trusted that even such a reckless young man as he would not trifle with the daughter of a bishop.

"Oh, no, Papa," Kate said. Harry, after his own fashion, had ever behaved like a gentleman.

"You have developed a preference for this young man?" The bishop asked.

Kate blushed. "I—I enjoy his company." It had been a mild way to express the whirlwind effect that Harry frequently had upon her heart.

But even that admission was enough to bring a worried frown to Papa's brow, which Kate hated to see. The bishop had looked tired and ill so much of late.

Papa settled back in his chair, trying to suspend his judgment, waiting for Kate to explain what qualifications Harry possessed to make him suitable as a husband.

Kate knew her father well enough to realize he did not mean worldly possessions such as title or fortune. She stared down at the floor, embarrassed. What could she say, that Harry was like rays of sun streaking through a gray sky, that he could always make her laugh, that being with him was like waltzing through a world that was all holiday. Such fanciful considerations would not weigh with Papa, even as Kate knew she must not allow them to weigh with herself.

When she remained silent, her father began to patiently point out his own reservations. The bishop was never one to visit the sins of the father upon the child, but it was well known that old Lord Lytton, Harry's father, had been a man of great wickedness, steeped in vice. He had led his son down the same path, gaming, hard drinking and indulging every wild sport while all duty had been set aside.

But Papa said nothing that Kate's own sensible mind had not already told her. Indeed, Lord Harry was too irresponsible and too reckless to make a proper mate for a bishop's daughter. She and Harry were too unlike, coming from two very different worlds.

To have accepted Harry would have been to disappoint and worry her father, at a time when he was already seriously ill. She had tried to explain all that to Harry, but he would not understand. His comprehension was limited to one question. Did she love him or not?

Kate had made up her mind that she could not possibly love Harry, but she never realized what self-possession it would take to look him in the eye and tell him so.

I don't love you, my lord.

Could she have ever pronounced those words if she had not distanced herself from him by using his title? Even now Kate was not sure. Harry had not noticed her avoidance of his name. There had only been a flicker of something in his eyes. Disappointment? A deeper pain?

He had not behaved as though his heart was broken. If anything he had been more talkative, more teasing than ever escorting her back to the carriage. It had been the last time she had ever seen him. Perhaps Harry had been relieved himself by her refusal, finally realizing how wise she had been.

Then why didn't she feel wise? Kate thought bleakly, standing here on Harry's hillside, waiting for his memorial to be unveiled and her throat burning with unshed tears.

She took little notice when a tall man shouldered his way past her. The sound of the vicar's voice droned on as though from a great distance. Would Adolphus Thorpe never make an end? Kate swayed on her feet, only wanting this ordeal to be over before she utterly disgraced herself.

When the memorial was unveiled at last, Kate spared the statue one brief glance. A hot blush stole into her cheeks as she averted her gaze. What an outrage! What an affront to Harry's memory.

But suddenly, so clearly in her mind, she could hear the echo of Harry's teasing voice, almost feel him chucking her playfully under the chin as he had been wont to do. "Come, Kate, smile. You take things much too seriously."

The recollection was so vivid, it nearly brought the tears spilling over at last. The statue was horrid. But how Harry would have laughed! She could almost hear him. . . .

It took Kate a few seconds to realize the deep booming sound was not a product of her mind. Someone actually was roaring with laughing.  It was the tall man who had brushed past her earlier. Kate turned to gaze up at him reproachfully. She froze, encountering a pair of twinkling green eyes, the roguish smile that had haunted her dreams.

"Kate," Harry said, his smile fading.

She stared at him, her heart racing, the blood thundering in her ears. Her head swam as her eyes tried to convince her stubborn mind that the man standing before her was no chimera, no figment of her overwrought imagination.

Her lips attempted to form his name. Harry . . . Harry still alive, standing so close she had but to reach out and touch him, the answer to a prayer kept so silent, so deep within her heart, she had not even been aware of making it.

She took a faltering step toward Lord Lytton. For the first time in her life, the self-possessed Miss Kathryn Towers sank down into a swoon.

The world in which Kate floated was cool, dark, and soothing. She wanted to linger there as long as she could, but part of her strained toward the faraway sound of a voice calling her name.

"Kate? Kate . . . can you not hear me? Grayshaw! Hasn't anyone located those blasted smelling salts? What? Hurry up, man. Hand them over."

The next instant, Kate's peace-filled darkness was disrupted by something strong and pungent being shoved beneath her nose. Moaning softly, she rolled her head to one side, trying to escape the vile odor.

"Thank God. She's coming round. Kate!" The voice came sharper, more insistent this time. Strong fingers ruthlessly chafed her wrists. "Grayshaw, go see if Sam has left to fetch the doctor. And for God's sake, keep that flock of clucking women out of here."

The voice faded as Kate’s eyes fluttered open. Her first feeling was one of bewilderment. She had the vague notion that she had been napping and expected to find herself in the tiny parlor of the cottage. She blinked, her dazed eyes instead taking in the dimensions of a lofty room with tall French windows, the chamber's rich oak paneling bestrewn with paintings of the hunt. She was stretched out upon a sofa of rich brocade, a mound of cushions beneath her head.

Before she could begin to fathom where she might be, her view of the room was cut off when a tall, masculine figure loomed over her. It was Harry. Kate had an idea that she should have been surprised to see him, yet all she felt was an unspeakable happiness at his presence.

"Kate? Are you all right?" he asked, laying his hand against her brow.

Kate experienced a feeling of disappointment that his lips were not quirked in that familiar smile she so longed to see. His eyes were somber with concern, an element of fear lurking in them. His face had an unnatural pallor beneath his layering of tan. An absurd thought flitted through Kate's mind. He could have been a ghost.

Could have been? He should have been. Harry was supposed to be dead. Remembrance slapped Kate like an icy wave, dashing way the remnants of confusion as the recent scene on the hillside came back to her. Harry's monument had just been unveiled. She had heard someone laughing and turned to rebuke him only to find . . . Harry. Alive!

She still could not believe it. As he knelt down beside the sofa, she touched his cheek. He immediately caught her hand, encasing it in the warm strength of his own.

"Kate, darling, you will unman me if you look at me that way," he murmured. He turned her hand and pressed a kiss against her palm. "I assure you I am not some dread specter come back to haunt you."

"Harry?" she whispered. "You are alive? Truly?"

"So I have always believed, my love, but I have never been so glad of it as at this moment."

Kate choked on a joyful sob and struggled to rise, her head yet reeling.

"Gently, Kate." Harry slipped one arm behind her shoulders to support her. With the other hand, he produced a tumbler of brandy that had been resting nearby on a tripod table.

But such nearness to the man she had thought dead, lost forever, was having a strange effect on Kate. Impelled by a rush of feeling such as she had never known, she startled Harry by flinging her arms about his neck, dashing the crystal glass to the floor.

Harry made a weak attempt to remonstrate, to ease her back among the cushions. He cradled her in his arms, brushing a reverent kiss upon her brow. But in the delirium of her joy, Kate quite forgot that she was a bishop's daughter. She tipped back her head, eagerly seeking his lips. Harry's eyes widened, but his noble resistance lasted no more than a second.

The warmth of Harry's lips against her own was a novel sensation to Kate. She had never kissed a man before, never daring as much even in her dreams.

She felt as though her heart stood quite still and raced madly all at the same time. She tightened her arms about him, passionately melding her mouth to his, the fire spreading more quickly through her veins than any brandy could have accomplished.

It was Harry who broke the contact, easing her away with a long, shuddering sigh.

"Damn!" He breathed, and gave a shaky laugh. "If I had any notion this was the sort of reception awaiting me, I would have defeated the French Army and come back much sooner."

A tender light came into his eyes, as he stroked a stray curl back from her brow. "But what a fright you gave me, Kate, collapsing in my arms that way."

A chuckle escaped Kate. What a fright she had given him! What about the way he had sprung up from nowhere after all those tormenting days when she had believed him dead? It was only now that she could acknowledge to herself exactly how much she had grieved, how much she had longed to hear the delightful peal of Harry's laughter.

Harry's laugher . . . the thought disturbed her glow of happiness like a pebble breaking the serene surface of a pond. Yes, Harry had been laughing, while she had been near to bursting into tears.

Kate's smile slowly faded.

Harry failed to note the change in her expression. He was trying to reconcile his memory of the prim girl who had turned down his marriage proposal with this woman who had cast herself so passionately into his arms. He did not waste too much effort in doing so. There was no surer way to destroy a miracle than to question it too closely.

If he was dreaming, he thought, leaning over Kate for another kiss, he did not want to be awakened. Too late did he see the unaccustomed flash of fire in her eyes, the blur of her hand as she struck out, soundly boxing his ears.

He had been bending over Kate in such a manner that the blow knocked him off balance and sent him sprawling back onto the carpet. Harry gaped up at the wrathful goddess who staggered to her feet, towering over him, her dark hair tumbling about her shoulders, her eyes the hue of a summer storm. If she had had any lightning bolts at her disposal, Harry thought that he would have been done for.

"You—you heartless beast," Kate cried. "You unfeeling monster."

There was no doubt these bewildering epithets were directed at him. She doubled up her fists as though she would fly at him again. Harry braced himself, but she flounced past him and took to pacing before the windows with short, furious steps, drawing in deep breaths as though trying to regain her self-control.