Free The Bishop's Daughter by Susan Carroll

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.
     

     
     
Chapter Five
    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