Her ladyship's features had remained noncommittal during his account. She said slowly, "Kate is not an unreasonable girl, but I am not sure it will make much difference whether she believes you or not."
"But she loves me. She could not hide that from me yesterday." Unable to ever keep still for long, Harry rose and leaned upon the back of his chair. "She fainted in my arms, kissed me, gave me a clout upon the ears that was like to take my head off."
"That sounds like a young woman in love," Lady Dane said dryly. "But that doesn't alter the fact that you and my granddaughter are a strangely mismatched pair. I should have never thought to put the two of you in harness together."
A brief laugh escaped Harry. "I wouldn't have either. I must have passed Kate at least a dozen times upon the streets of Chillingsworth and never particularly noticed her. And then one winter evening . . ." Harry stalked restlessly toward the chamber's tall windows and stared out at the sun-washed morning. Over the tops of the trees in his park, one could just make out the distant spire of St. Benedict's. But the greenery of summer blurred before Harry's eyes, and he was once more seeing a world blanketed in white, Kate settled before the fire, her dark curls spilling about her face as she bent over his garrick, her eyes shining with a soft light as though all the serenity of the world was to be found centered there.
He had felt like a weary traveler, descending from the wind-blasted heights of some mountain peak and coming across a quiet vale whose stillness had touched his heart.
"As I sat watching her," Harry murmured, "it slowly came to me that she was beautiful. I think it must have been at that precise moment that I fell in love with her, that I knew my life was never going to mean anything without her."
Harry did not realize he voiced his thoughts aloud until Lady Dane asked, "And so, sir. Did you ever explain all this to her?"
He forced a smile, and shrugged. "Not in so many words."
Her ladyship nodded with understanding. "Aye, I know. My husband was never a one for making pretty speeches either. But women, foolish creatures that we are, occasionally like to hear them."
"Do you think that pretty speeches would win me Kate?"
"Frankly, no. Is that how you are planning to go about it?"
Harry didn't answer. His chief plan of campaign was to gather up Kate in his arms, capture her lips ruthlessly until she responded in kind, melting against him, but he could not confess that to her grandmother.
He didn't have to. The old lady was too shrewd by half.
"That won't answer either, attempting to make love to her all day long," she said, raking him with her keen gaze. "Though I imagine you could make quite a satisfactory job of it. But it will always come down to this. Kate possesses a rock-hard bottom of sobriety. She gets it from her father, though where he came by it, the Lord only knows."
Harry heaved a frustrated sigh. "Then what do you suggest I do? I don't intend to let her slip away from me this time."
"Your only hope, young man, is to acquire an image of respectability. That absurd memorial out there can be put to some use. Let it commemorate the demise of Hellfire Harry."
"Hellfire Harry has been dead for some time," he said. "Do you think I would have ever presumed to ask Kate to marry me if I had not meant to put my wild days behind me?"
"Apparently you failed to convince her of that." Leaning on her cane, her ladyship rose majestically to her feet. "You may begin this morning by making your appearance in St. Benedict's."
"St. Benedict's!"
"It is a church, my lord, not a debtor's prison."
"I know but—but to try to make Kate believe I have turned into some sort of psalm singer! It seems the worst sort of hypocrisy."
"Not a psalm singer, but a man who understands his duty to God and sets a good example for his people. You cannot expect a bishop's daughter to marry an irreligious dog."
"I would do anything for Kate," Harry said, "slay any dragon but—"
"She doesn't need any dragons slain. She will be more impressed by the sight of you cracking open a prayer book."
Harry opened his mouth to voice another protest, but he felt caught on the crest of a wave, propelling him irresistibly forward. Before he knew where he was at, her ladyship had pulled the bell and summoned his valet to help him dress.
"You have not much time. Services begin in twenty minutes," Lady Dane said, gliding toward the door.
Harry made one last effort to save himself from what he anticipated was going to be an embarrassing and likely futile ordeal. He called after Lady Dane, "You know there is a belief in the village that if Hellfire Harry sets foot inside St. Benedict's, the roof will come tumbling down."
"I am prepared to take the risk," said Lady Dane, calmly closing the door behind her.
The bell in St. Benedict's tower had long since rung its final warning knell as Harry sprinted up the steps. He paused beneath the eight-column portico to catch his breath, leaning one gloved hand up against the church's mottled stonework.
"Hang it all," Harry muttered. Nothing had ever looked more forbidding than the set of massive wooden doors closed in his face. He whipped off his high-crowned beaver hat and brushed back the dark strands of hair from his brow in frustration.
Now what the deuce was he supposed to do? His father had opened many doors to him in his life, the exclusive gaming club at White's, Gentleman Jackson's prize fighting salon, the discreet chambers of many lovely opera dancers. But the governor had never seen fit to initiate Harry as to the doings behind St. Benedict's mysterious portals.
He guessed that those inside must already be deep into the service. Harry grimaced. He would cause enough of a stir simply by entering St. Benedict's without creeping in late as well. Despite what his cousin Julia might think, Harry did not enjoy setting the world by the ears.
He was tempted to turn and slip quietly away again, only held back by a single thought . . . Kate. She was behind that barrier, her face likely stilled into solemn lines as she prayed. For him? Harry doubted it, remembering how they had parted yesterday, the cruel trick she believed he had played. Lady Dane was right. Kisses alone would not be enough to erase such bad impressions.
Harry sighed and took one last self-conscious inventory of his appearance. He was immaculately (and to him, most uncomfortably) attired in biscuit¬colored breeches that clung to the outline of his muscular thighs, the forest green coat straining across his shoulders, unbuttoned to reveal the shirt frills peeking beneath a striped waistcoat. The starched cravat with all its intricate folds felt like it was choking him.
Drawing in a deep breath, Harry eased one of the church doors open a crack, enough to peer inside, his eyes adjusting to the dark stone of the interior. The lancet windows let in not so much as a whisper of breeze on this hot, summer morning. The scent of the flowers adorning the altar hung in the still air like a heavy perfume, the rise and fall of the vicar's voice as sonorous as the drone of bees outside the window.
The benches and pews, scarred and venerable with age, held most of the citizens of Lytton's Dene, some of Harry's servants from the hall, and the gentry from the surrounding countryside, like Squire Gresham's boisterous family.
Adolphus made an impressive sight in his vestments, mounted high above the congregation upon the elaborately carved pulpit Harry had heard acclaimed as the pride of St. Benedict's. Harry craned his neck, scanning the pews, but he could not see Kate.
Easing the door open further to slip inside, Harry winced. The ancient hinges groaned so loudly that all the coffins in the graveyard might well have been creaking open to offer up their dead.
No matter how careful Harry tried to be, the door banged closed beneath him with a loud thud. Those on the rear benches were already shifting to see what sinner dared to sneak in after the service had begun. The inevitable astonished whispers followed, and Harry could see some of the good folk actually casting anxious glances toward the roof.
At any other time he might have been amused, but his sense of
humor seemed to fail him. Giving a nervous tug to his cravat, he started forward, but no matter how quietly he attempted to walk, his shoes clattered on the stone floor. Those in the front were now also turning to stare, including his cousin Julia, who cast him a look of blistering reproach.
Harry was beginning to feel like the devil invading the sanctuary of some holy shrine when he spied Kate. She sat three rows from the front, near the aisle, by her mother and Lady Dane. Kate alone appeared unaware of any disturbance although by this time the astounded Adolphus had floundered, losing his place in the text.
Serenely bent over her prayer book, Kate was wearing one of those old-fashioned gowns that became her so well, white muslin embroidered with dainty flowers. A cluster of ebony curls peeked from beneath a bonnet trimmed with pink rosettes and a satin ribbon was tied in a demure bow beneath the delicate curve of her chin. Never, Harry thought wistfully, had she looked more like an angel.
She did not glance up until his shadow fell across the pages of her book. Kate emitted a tiny gasp, the volume tumbling from her grasp to land at his feet. Harry bent to retrieve it, handing it back to her with a rueful smile. Two bright spots of color appeared in her cheeks as Harry edged himself beside her on the pew.
"You are in the wrong seat, my lord," she whispered, staring rigidly toward the altar.
Harry spared a glance toward the pew at the very front reserved for the Arundel family, the coat of arms carved on the end. It was unoccupied this morning, for as usual his stepmother had one of her megrims.
"It looks too lonely over there," Harry murmured.
Kate said nothing more, diving behind the protection of her prayer book. Much to Harry's relief, the commotion he had caused died away, all eyes turned back to the front as Adolphus coughed and then shuffled the pages, resuming his place in the service.
But Harry continued to be aware of the stiffness in Kate's frame, noticing how she shrank from brushing up against him. Lady Dane had been wrong, Harry thought. His coming here today had only caused Kate unhappiness and embarrassment.
For her part, Kate could concentrate neither on the pages of her book nor upon what Reverend Thorpe was saying. St. Benedict's was the one place she felt safe from Harry's pursuit. Whatever was he doing here? She knew she had threatened not to be at home when he would call, but surely not even he would seek to foist his attention upon her in church.
She risked one indignant glance at him and was startled to note he appeared as ill at ease as she. Perhaps more so. She tried to remember she had resolved to harden her heart against this man, keep him at a distance. But it touched something deep inside her to see Harry, so strong, so self-assured, looking humbled like an outcast in the very church his ancestors had built.
She nudged his arm. With a mute gesture, she offered to share her prayer book. He flashed a grateful smile that tugged at her heart, although she blushed more deeply when he removed the book from her grasp and gently returned it to her, right side up.
With Harry's sun-bronzed features bent so close to her own, it put an end to any prospect of her deriving benefit from the vicar's sermon. She caught but one word in ten, her gaze straying to the way Harry's dark lashes shadowed his eyes, the sweet, sensitive curve of his mouth, the square, wholly masculine line of his jaw. She felt her pulse quicken. Would she ever be able to study Harry's face again without being drawn to his lips, the memory of his kiss?
Kate flushed with shame, scandalized by the direction she had allowed her thoughts to take—and in church of all places! When the last amen sounded, she echoed it with relief, feeling the need to put some distance between herself and Harry.
Harry stepped back to allow her to pass by him into the aisle. She was aware of his low-murmured greeting to her mother and grandmother, but Kate kept walking, following the other parishioners crowding toward the door.
Only when she had stepped out into the sunlight of the churchyard did she pause to take a steadying breath. She knew Harry would be hard on her heels, and she turned over in her mind the speeches she had lain awake half the night rehearsing.
My lord, I must insist that we be no more than mere acquaintances. It will be the better for both of us.
Kate nodded. That had a noble ring to it, kind but firm. My lord . . . she repeated to herself again, certain that Harry would be joining her at any moment.
But as she glanced back to the church doors, she saw that Harry had been cut off from her by a sea of people. The squire was clapping him on the back and roaring out that St. Benedict's had not known such excitement since the invasion of the Roundhead army. Others, mostly ladies, Kate noted with a frown, were wringing Harry's hand and exclaiming over him.
Of course Kate had always been aware how attractive Harry was, so handsome in the raffish way most women adored, his smile so winning. But not until that moment did she realize that ever since the night he had crashed into her garden, she was accustomed to his attention being fixed solely upon her.
Not that she was in the least jealous. No, how absurd, she thought, nearly ruining the toe of her sandal by digging it into the dirt. She didn't even have the right to be jealous, having so thoroughly thrust Harry out of her life. And in fact—she crushed several blades of grass beneath her foot—she was relieved Harry was too preoccupied to rush to her side.
Turning her back upon him, she stalked up the steps of the church portico to where Reverend Thorpe lingered. The poor man looked a little forlorn, being accustomed after the service to have most of his flock gathered about him.
"Today's sermon was most enlightening," Kate said, wincing a little at this polite lie, unable to recall one word of the discourse.
"Thank you," the vicar said, "You are most kind, Miss Towers—"
He was interrupted by Julia bustling up to join them, in time to hear these last remarks. "The sermon would have gone much better without the disturbance," she said, her lovely face marred by a peevish expression. "Whatever possessed Lytton to come here this morning?"
As Julia asked the question, her eyes seemed to bore into Kate. Kate felt her color heighten.
"He likely came to pray," Kate said, struggling to keep the acid tones out of her own voice. "Surely there is nothing so remarkable in that."
"For Lytton, it would be," Julia said flatly.
Reverend Thorpe hastened to interpose. "I was most gratified that Lord Harry came. It seems our cousin has taken heed of my admonishments at last."
Julia shot her brother such a look, Kate half feared she meant to call the vicar a fool. But she merely grated, "You are much too good, Adolphus."
Kate had always thought so herself, that the vicar was virtuous to the point of being a little priggish. But she had been much ashamed of herself for harboring such an unbecoming opinion. As a bishop's daughter, she should have taken more pleasure in the worthy Mr. Thorpe's company. Yet she felt nothing but dismay when Julia extended an invitation for her to dine at the parsonage.
"We could spend a nice quiet afternoon together, just you, I, and Adolphus—"
"Oh, thank you," Kate said, but made haste to stammer out her excuses. She had so many pressing duties, with her grandmama arrived but yesterday. Her mother would be wanting her. Indeed she should have not kept Mama standing about in the heat even this long. Murmuring her farewells, Kate bolted back down the steps. She all but blundered into the squire's hoydenish daughter, Becky.
"Isn't it grand, Miss Towers, having Lord Harry back?" the girl cried happily. "He's such a great gun."
Kate resisted the impulse to glance to where Harry was surrounded by an admiring throng. "It is most pleasant," she agreed with Becky. "But I doubt your mama would care to hear you use such unladylike expressions."
Becky ignored the reproof. The lively redhead had a knack for hearing only what she wished. She chattered on, "Lord Harry looks ever so smart today. I am glad for he appeared terribly blue-deviled yesterday when he realized his friend must be dead."
"I beg your pardon?" Kate asked.
>
"His friend, Charles Masters. You know, the one his lordship lent his sword to during the battle. That's why everyone thought Lord Harry had been killed, and here the poor fellow himself knew nothing about it."
"What—" Kate began hoarsely. She forced Becky to go through the entire story over again, not an easy task for the girl expected herself to be immediately understood even though she never related any tale in logical sequence.
By the time Becky sauntered off to greet another acquaintance, Kate had pieced enough of the facts together to feel herself go pale. So Harry had not been responsible for the rumor of his own death. He had been as much a victim of the grievous error as anyone else.
And to think how horridly she had treated him . . . Kate pressed one hand to her cheek. But why hadn't Harry told her the truth at once? He tried to. You wouldn't listen, her merciless conscience replied.
She should go to Harry, apologize to him at once. But if Kate had one failing, her Papa had often admonished her, it was her pride. The bishop had always been understanding because he bore the same sin himself. It was most difficult to admit when one had been wrong.
She stole a glance toward Harry. He had managed to escape the flock of females but had fallen into the squire's clutches. Gresham was obviously badgering his lordship about selling those hunters. Harry was laughing but firmly shaking his head.
Kate flushed with shame. Overcome with remorse, she felt she could not face Harry at that moment. Quickening her steps, she hastened to where her mother already waited by the gig drawn up in the lane by their sole male servant, John.
To her dismay, Kate discovered that a problem had arisen regarding their transportation. Her grandmother, who had come to church on her own after some mysterious errand, had imperiously dismissed her coach back to the stables.
Lady Dane raised strenuous objections to riding crushed between Kate and her mother in the gig. "Far too crowded for three on a hot day," her ladyship declared.
Kate offered to walk. She truly did not mind, it being her favorite form of exercise, but Lady Dane also objected to that.
The Bishop's Daughter Page 7
