Even her effort to remind everyone of Lytton's neglect, taunting him over the abandonment of the estate's ancient customs, had proved a dismal failure. Who would have guessed that Lytton would take up the challenge and the reviving of the fête would draw him closer to Kate than ever?
With Kate's help, the fête would be a success. Wasn't that how things had always gone for Lytton? No matter how undeserving he was, her reckless cousin bore a charmed existence, always emerging the winner. But then he was a man, Julia thought bitterly, able to have whatever he had wanted from life, education, travel, the freedom to do whatever he pleased.
Now Lytton would have the bishop's daughter as well, while Julia remained buried alive to the end of her days in Lytton's Dene with her fool of a brother.
Kate would eventually be sorry. Lytton might be a pattern card of behavior now, letting her arrange the fete to her satisfaction, with her proper list of guests, but wait a month or two. The earl's disreputable companions would once more overrun Mapleshade and—
Yet why did it have to take a month or two? A sudden notion caused Julia to suck in her breath, a wicked notion that should never have occurred to a vicar's sister or to any other lady.
But Julia Thorpe was a most desperate woman. She glanced away from Kate, fearing that her guilty intentions must show upon her face, but Kate had gone back to her work with the invitations and was not even looking at Julia.
Concealing her nervousness, Julia sidled toward the desk.
"I suppose I must leave you to your task. If I linger here too long, Adolphus will be wondering where I am. The poor man cannot even order up his own dinner without me."
As she leaned over the writing table to make her farewells, she quickly palmed several of the blank invitation cards and hid them in the folds of her skirts. She held her breath, but Kate did not notice a thing. Too anxious and relieved to be rid of me, Julia thought with a stab of anger and unexpected hurt.
"After all your hard work," she said to Kate with a glinting smile as she let herself out, "I do trust this fête proves a roaring success."
Safely on the other side of the door, she stuffed the stolen cards into her reticule, her mouth pinching with a hard determination.
"Aye, a great success," she muttered "But not if I can help it."
Chapter Ten
The day of the fête, Kate peeked out the cottage door and cast an anxious glance toward the skies. But after a week of intermittent rain, it appeared as though the heavens themselves had decided to cooperate. The deep blue soaring above Kate's head looked as though it had been splashed by a painter's brush, the cottony wisps of clouds placed by an artist's hand. The noontide sun warmed her cheeks, promising one of those delicious days when summer seemed to have strayed back into the midst of autumn.
A perfect day . . . what could possibly go wrong? Unfortunately Kate could think of half a dozen things. The chef could burn the sauce for the ducklings, the fiddlers for the dance could forget to come, the fieldhands could consume too much ale and begin a drunken brawl, Lady Lytton could take to her bed with a megrim and not even be there to act as Harry's hostess.
Kate fretted her lip, wishing she could be at his side. But that would have been improper in the extreme, giving rise to even more gossip. All she could do was to take her place among the guests, attempt to smile, while inwardly she would be on pins and needles of apprehension.
Kate had to content herself with arriving at Mapleshade as early as possible. With this view in mind, she ducked back into the house to urge her mother and grandmother to make haste.
Despite the warmth of the day, Kate insisted upon seeing her mother bundled into a woolen shawl.
"I am not a hothouse flower," Mrs. Towers protested, then gave a gentle laugh when Kate foisted a parasol upon her as well to keep off the sun.
"You are not used to being so much out of doors, Mama," Kate said. "But if it becomes too much for you, I daresay you can rest in one of the parlors." She gave her mother's hand a reassuring squeeze. "And you need not fret about the company. I know you are shy of greeting a parcel of strangers. But you are acquainted with the squire's wife and, with his lordship's permission, I invited some of the people from Chillingsworth. Your friend Mrs. Prangle and her daughters will be present."
Mrs. Towers winced and for a moment looked so ill, Kate feared that Mama might not be able to attend after all. But she recovered herself and thanked Kate in a tremulous voice.
Suffused with a warm glow of having done her mother a tremendous kindness, Kate bustled off to see what was keeping Lady Dane. But her ladyship was not to be hurried.
She declared, "I have never been so vulgar as to arrive first at any function, and I do not intend to begin at this time of my life."
There was nothing Kate could do for the next half hour but pace the front hall in frustration, alternately straightening the brim of her straw hat with its flowing ribbons, and smoothing the folds of her lavender gown, the starch in her white lace tucker already going a little limp.
It was past one of the clock when they finally left the house and mounted into Lady Dane's regal carriage. Kate was in a fever of impatience by the time the coach straggled through the park gates, lumbering down the sweeping drive that led to Mapleshade.
The sun glowed warm off the hall's red brick, the wings of the magnificent old house seeming to extend like welcoming arms. Kate drew some comfort from the fact that others appeared to be fashionably late as well. She could just see the Prangles vanishing into the house to make their curtsies to their host, while liveried footmen sprang to assist the Gresham family from their carriage.
Being nearest to the door, Kate was the first of her own party to alight. As she turned to make certain Mama descended in safety with the footman's aid, Kate caught sight of a startling apparition. An urchin darted past, so small he was not yet in breeches, his stubby legs protruding from beneath his frock. The child's head was all but lost beneath a man's high-crowned beaver hat, the brim of which sagged over his pudgy nose.
Yet somehow the lad found his way across the drive to where a group of other children were shrieking and gleefully clambering over the massive stone lions that graced the forecourt, their fierce dignity somewhat diminished by being ridden like donkeys.
Kate had no difficulty recognizing the sandy colored hair and freckles of the numerous Huddleston progeny. She had no difficulty recognizing the tall figure in their midst either.
There was no need for any of the guests to hasten within to greet their host, Kate thought wryly, for the lord of the manor stood at this moment, laughingly scooping up the same imp who had purloined his hat.
The dark strands of his hair tumbled appealingly across his brow; Harry whirled the small boy in a circle, heeding neither possible damage to his immaculate tan breeches nor the sapphire blue frock coat straining across his shoulders. His glossy black beaver hat flew from the child's head, spinning across the lawn.
"Harry," Kate murmured ruefully. She stalked toward him, retrieving the hat and brushing its brim. But how did one begin to scold a man bringing such happiness to a chubby-cheeked babe, the little one's shrill giggles blending with the deep boom of Harry's laughter.
"My lord," she began with mock severity.
"Kate!" Harry set the child down at once. His eyes warmed at the sight of her. "Little deserter! There you are at last. How dare you leave me so long at the mercy of these hordes of brigands."
The children shrieked with delight at this description, immediately beginning to brandish all sorts of imaginary weapons.
"This is scarcely a proper way to greet your guests," Kate said, her voice unsteadied by an unwilling ripple of amusement.
"Indeed it is not." His voice dropped to a husky murmur. "But if I greeted you the way I think I should, your grandmama would whack me with her cane."
Harry captured Kate's hand and raised it to his lips, the warmth of his mouth caressing her wrist in such a fashion any lady might be pardoned for dealing
him a sharp rap. How could Harry make even a kiss upon the hand so wonderfully improper?
Yet Kate had no thought of rebuking him. Her heart thudded out a reckless beat, but she managed to say, "These children should be shooed around to the back. They might hurt themselves and—"
"Nonsense. I always played upon these lions as a boy. I think the old fellows must have got rather lonely over the years. They should have children romping over them."
Despite herself, Kate was beset by a most appealing image of curly-haired moppets, their ringlets Harry's midnight hue, their eyes, his laughing green.
"Half a dozen at least," she murmured and then realizing what she had said, felt herself flush scarlet to the roots of her hair.
Harry merely smiled. Their eyes met, and a current seemed to rush between them. Harry started to speak, but little could be said with the children all eager ears and yet another coach arriving down the drive.
Harry tucked her arm beneath his, and they headed toward the house. As they walked up the stairs, beneath the ivy-twined pillars, Kate was astonished at how familiar it already seemed to her. It was like being a weary traveler who had at last come home.
Harry escorted Kate, her mother, and Lady Dane into Mapleshade's massive dining chamber where Lady Lytton was stationed to receive guests. Besides affording immediate access to the south lawn where the marquee was erected, the room was one of the most magnificent in the manor, a relic of the original house, the walls hung with priceless seventeenth-century tapestries woven in Belgium.
Lady Lytton made an odd contrast, very modern in her Grecian-style gown, banded so high and tight that it plumped her bosom to a most alarming state of fullness. Her cheeks were rouged, her curls as brassy as ever, but she greeted each new arrival graciously enough, only occasionally wincing at voices shrill with merriment.
As Kate made her curtsy, Lady Lytton wrung her hand and cast her a conspiratorial glance that rendered Kate acutely uncomfortable. Under the cover of all the bright chatter, her ladyship managed to whisper, "You still have not spoken to Harcourt?"
"No," Kate murmured. "But I promise I will attempt it today."
"I do hope so, my dear for Lucillus grows quite impatient, and I feel ready to perish with longing myself. If we do not obtain Harcourt's consent soon, we will be forced to do something quite drastic."
By this time, Kate was accustomed to her ladyship's dramatic utterances. All the same she felt relieved to move on, surrendering her place to the next arrival. Kate yet doubted the wisdom of attempting to interfere on Lady Lytton's behalf, but she had to admit that, today, if any day, Harry might be approachable.
He sparkled with more than his customary good humor as he circulated the crowded room, herding people out onto the lawn, with a quick smile here, a bit of banter there. Harry might be slow to notice a collapsing roof unless his attention was drawn to it, but he seemed to never forgot a name or a face even among the least of his tenants, nor the smallest details of their existence such as who had recently recovered from a bout of ague, or whose child was due to be christened soon.
It was people, not things, that mattered to Harry, and that, Kate was rapidly coming to realize, was one of his most endearing traits. Her heart swelling with pride and love, she could scarce tear her gaze from him, her spirits remaining unruffled even when Julia Thorpe entered the room.
She bid good day to the icy blonde with equanimity, although she did fear Julia would attach herself to her side as usual. Julia, however, seemed uncommonly distracted herself, her eyes turning so often to the door even Squire Gresham was provoked into commenting upon it.
"Hah, Miss Thorpe, what handsome beau are you expecting?"
Kate rather expected Julia to give the poor man a look of chilling disdain, but instead a faint guilty color stole into her cheeks. It was the first time Kate had ever seen Miss Thorpe blush. She wondered if, amazingly enough, the squire's jest might be true, but Julia recovered herself quickly.
"I am merely breathless with anticipation," she drawled. "I have never attended a party given by my cousin before, and Lord Lytton is always so full of surprises."
"I doubt there will be any today," Kate was quick to snap.
"You may be right." Julia shot one more glance at the door, her mouth drawing down into an expression of disgust and disappointment. She turned abruptly and made her way out onto the lawn.
Kate had little time to wonder at Julia's odd behavior, for she soon exited from the dining chamber herself. Mama, she thought, was looking a little lost, so Kate made sure she found Mrs. Prangle. Kate settled her mother upon a bench beneath one of the towering maples and left her to enjoy the company of her old friend.
Of course, Kate had no need to see to Lady Dane's comfort. Lady Dane strolled across the lawn like a visiting dignitary, inspiring young Becky Gresham and the Misses Prangle to curtsy so low, their muslin frocks seemed in imminent peril of grass stains. With the others of her party suitably entertained, it was herself Kate found at a loss.
She paced the grounds anxiously, but Harry's household staff had executed all her careful plans with great efficiency. Two colorful silk tents had been erected upon the lawn, the smaller one a place for the ladies to retire out of the heat, the larger set up with baize-covered benches for the tenants to dine.
Further into the park, tables had been placed for the laborers, along with a stand to hand out ale in decorous amounts. Space had been cleared for the games, with greased poles for climbing, an area marked off for footraces, a dais built for Harry to hand out the prizes, and a circle where pony rides had been arranged for the tenants' children, this last being Harry's notion.
All progressed as smoothly as though Mapleshade had been the sight of such revelry for years. Left with nothing to do, Kate wandered aimlessly toward the part of the lawn where targets had been mounted and bows and arrows provided. Becky Gresham was demonstrating her prowess at archery while flirting with some nattily dressed stripling in a manner that would have quite shocked her mama.
The sun climbed steadily toward the hottest part of the afternoon. Realizing she had forgotten her parasol, Kate prepared to retreat toward the tent when a hand took her by the elbow.
"Come now, Miss Towers," a teasing male voice scolded. "Wilting so soon? You cannot retire until you have had your turn at the targets."
She glanced up to find Harry smiling down at her. "Do allow me to give you a lesson with the bow."
She was more than glad to see him, but she eased away, demurring. "No, my lord. It would not be right. You should see to your guests."
"I have greeted every last one of them in the approved lordlike manner. Besides you are one of my guests. You may as well enjoy it, for next year . . ."
He left the suggestion unfinished, a challenge in his eye. He half expected Kate to poker up as she often did at such hints, but instead she acquiesced meekly, holding out her hand for the bow.
"Very well, my lord."
Harry's triumph in having achieved his object, being near to Kate, was only mildly diminished by the fact that he knew next to nothing about archery. The sport had always struck him as a little tame, but he managed to string a bow.
Next came the part he liked best, slipping his arms about Kate to help her take aim at the target. She was not in the least stiff, leaning trustingly against him as he arranged his hands over hers, fitting the arrow into place.
"Now take aim." He lowered his face until it was level with hers, the velvety soft curve of her cheek but a breath away, the wisps of her curls tickling his nose, the sweet, fresh scent of her more seductive than any perfume.
Would this accursed day never come to an end? Plague take the fête! He was beset with an urge to whisper to her right now all the things he had been longing to say, fairly confident of her answer.
He barely restrained himself. No, by God, this time he would do it right. Later when all the guests were gone, he would take her to. . . no, not the Hill this time. That had proved unlucky.
Kate released the bow, the shot going wild. It was only then Harry realized how flushed she was as she stepped out of the circle of his arms. They both glanced to where her arrow now lodged in the trunk of an ancient oak.
"I am sorry," Harry said. "Don't eat me, Kate. But I have a confession to make. I don't know a blamed thing about archery."
"No, but I do," Kate said softly. "I have done it frequently."
Harry could only stare at her, the reason for her deception as patently obvious as his own. She looked so adorably flustered and sheepish that Harry was on the verge of forgetting his guests and his carefully laid plans for the garden when he heard someone calling his name.
"I say, Lytton! Where the deuce are you?"
The amiable voice sounded damnably familiar, but it could not be. Harry turned slowly, then cursed under his breath at the sight of the slender young man approaching, twirling a cane, his hat tipped to a jaunty angle.
Folly! What the deuce was he doing here? And with Lord Erwin trailing in his wake. Harry's lips thinned at the sight of the peer noted chiefly for his doubtful linen and coarse manners. Erwin's bewhiskered jowls put one in mind of a pugnacious bull dog, the expression in his small, dark eyes equally as mean. Too confounded to react, Harry stood frozen until Folly spotted him and tripped over, beaming.
"Here we are at last, old boy. I almost forgot the right turning in the lane," he said, just as though he had been expected all along. Harry began to wonder if he was losing his mind.
Before he could say a word, Folly's face lit up and he swooped down upon Kate. "Ah, Miss Towers, you here? So delighted to see you again."
Kate had blanched, going rigid with shocked disapproval. But Folly, poor ass, would never be likely to notice that. He bowed over Kate's hand as if she were his oldest and dearest friend.
Erwin made not the slightest effort to greet anyone. He stared about him, scowling. "What the devil is all this, Lytton?"
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