The talk turned to the craft, produce and art contests; Madeline let the chatter wash over her as a potential danger took shape in her mind. She waited until all Mrs. Entwhistle’s points had been discussed to say, “One item we haven’t considered-the venue.”

Everyone looked at her, the surprise on their faces quickly replaced by faint embarrassment as they all realized they’d taken it for granted that she would host the festival at Treleaver Park as she had for the past four years.

Glancing around the circle, she smiled reassuringly. “As you know, the Park has hosted the festival since the late earl was taken ill, but the home of the festival is here, at the castle. Its roots-which are ancient and sunk in our collective pasts-lie at the castle, not at the Park.” She turned her gaze on Gervase. “Now the castle once again has an earl in residence, then perhaps it’s time for the festival to return to its true home.”

Most were nodding; all looked expectantly at Gervase.

His slow, easy smile curved his lips. He inclined his head to them all, his gaze coming to rest on her. “Thank you-I’m sure I speak for Sybil and my sisters, as well as our staff, in saying we’d be delighted to welcome the festival back within the castle grounds.”

Murmurs of approval and appreciation rose around them. Holding the festival at the castle would ensure an even better turnout than holding it at the Park, as many in the district were still curious about the castle’s most recent acquisition-the earl.

Madeline smiled. Had the festival been held at the Park, organizing various entertainments would have given Gervase an excellent excuse to be forever visiting and getting under her feet. And under her skin.

Feeling smug, she met his eyes, only to see-was that unholy amusement?-lurking in the amberish-tigerish-depths.

He knew why she’d so graciously handed back the festival, but he’d seen some advantage in that for him.

Damn! She managed to keep the word from her lips, managed to keep the linked expression from her face, but her mind raced.

To no avail. She would have to wait and see what he did-how he capitalized on her first offensive move.

Sybil rang for the tea trolley; Madeline set aside her pondering-too dangerous with him so close-and set her wits to avoiding him and his attentions for the rest of the meeting, until she could escape.


She learned how Gervase planned to capitalize on her action the next day; in the early afternoon, Milsom knocked on her office door to announce his lordship, the Earl of Crowhurst.

Surprised, Madeline stared as Gervase entered. After one glance at her he turned his gaze on the room, taking in the many bookshelves filled with ledgers, the huge map of the estate on the wall, the brass lamp poised to shed light over the polished surface of the enormous desk so she could work on papers and accounts at night.

The door closed behind Milsom. Gervase’s eyes rose from the open ledger before her to her face. “So this is where you hide.”

Where you hide the real you; the insinuation was clear in his tone, in his acute gaze.

She deflected that disconcerting gaze with a bland smile. “Good afternoon, my lord. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” She waved him to an armchair angled before the desk.

He smiled, quite genuinely, and sat. “You owe my presence to your suggestion to shift the festival back to the castle, of course.” Sitting back, he met her gaze. “I’ve come to pick your brains over the details involved.”

She kept her all-business smile on her lips. “I’m afraid I know nothing about how the festival was hosted at the castle. My experience only relates to the four years it’s been held at the Park.”

“Indeed. However, as you no doubt are aware, many of the staff at the castle retired when my uncle died. The current staff have little idea of the logistics involved. I fear that without guidance we’ll be hopelessly unprepared.”

“Ah.” She looked into his eyes, and saw no way out. She’d saddled the castle with the festival; it was only fair that she explain what they’d have to accommodate. “I see. What do you need to know?”

“While Mrs. Entwhistle has supplied a detailed list of the types of entertainments and amusements involved, she was regrettably unspecific about quantities. How many booths, tents and enclosures will we need to set up for the various activities, how many for the produce displays and for the visiting peddlers and dealers?”

She held up a hand. “One moment.” Rising, she went to a nearby cupboard. Setting the door wide, she searched through the numerous papers stacked within; finding the packet she sought, she extracted it-or tried to, but the whole two-foot-high stack started to tip.

“Oh!” She tried to hold it back-and would have failed, but suddenly Gervase was there, his shoulder brushing hers as he reached past her; his big hands spanning so much more than hers, he first steadied the stack, then gripped the packets above the one her fingers had closed around.

“Take it now.”

She slid the packet out. She stepped back immediately, trying to calm her thudding heart-wondering if she could convince herself it was shock and not his nearness that was making her pulse race. Making her curiosity not just stir, but leap. She slapped it down, and decorously returned to the desk. Sitting once more, she nodded wordless thanks to him as he closed the cabinet, and came back to drop into the armchair.

“The number of booths and so on should be listed in here.” Untying the ribbon securing the packet, she rifled through the sheets. “Yes.” Pulling out one sheet, she glanced at it, then held it out. “The accommodations we provided last year.”

Gervase took the sheet; sitting back in the armchair, he studied it.

And thought of her.

She was too deeply entrenched as “her brothers’ keeper” in this room; not even his brushing against her, inadvertent though that had been, had seriously undermined her hold on her damned shield-it had slipped, but she’d recovered all but instantly. Neat figures marched down the page in his hand. How to get her out of here? “What areas are we looking at in total? What was the approximate square foot-age-or acreage-required?”

Looking up, he prayed she, like most females, had little ability to accurately estimate such things. The blank look on her face, and the frown that succeeded it, confirmed that beneath her shield, she was all female.

“I really couldn’t put a figure to it,” she admitted.

He met her gaze with unstudied innocence. “Perhaps you could show me the area used last year.” He brandished the list. “Together with this, that should give me enough to work with.”

She was suspicious; she searched his eyes, but he made very sure she would see nothing of his intent therein. Lips tightening, she pushed back from the desk. “Very well.”

Madeline led him out of the office, ridiculously conscious of him strolling with tigerish grace beside her. Quite aside from that novel and irritating sensitivity, there were few men who could make her feel…if not small, then at least not a physical match for them. Gervase Tregarth could make her feel vulnerable in a way few others could.

And he did.

On that one point, her instincts and her intellect were as one: He was dangerous. To her. Specifically her. Aside from all else, because he could make her feel so.

Unfortunately, instinct and intellect reacted completely differently to that conclusion.

Shoving her burgeoning curiosity back into a mental box, she swept down the corridor to the garden door. Pushing through-he reached over her shoulder and held the door back, making her nerves quake-she marched into the gardens and headed down the path through the roses. He fell into step beside her, his strides easily matching her mannishly long ones.

Recalling that he’d been overseas with the army for the past ten and more festivals, she waved ahead. “We staged the festival beyond the gardens, in the park itself, closer to the cliffs. People could reach the site by the cliff paths as well as through the estate.”

Gervase nodded, idly surveying the gardens she led him through. The further they got from the house, the more he sensed a certain tension rising in her. No matter how she tried to hide it, he affected her, although he was reasonably certain she viewed that effect more as an affliction. She was very conscious of being alone with him.

“Last year we had sixteen local merchants as well as thirteen itinerant vendors who set up booths. We don’t need to provide the booths for them-they bring their own-but we do need to set aside specific spaces, and mark each with a vendor’s name, or they’ll shed blood over the best positions.”

“You’ll need to give me some indication of who takes precedence.” The path they were on continued beyond the garden into the heavily treed park. Although the clifftops and downs were largely devoid of trees, there were pockets such as this where the old forests still held sway. She shivered lightly as the shadows fell over them. He glanced around. “I’d forgotten how densely the trees grow here.”

“Only for a little way in this direction.” She gestured ahead to a clearing. The path led to it; afternoon sunlight bathed the coarse grass as they stepped out from beneath the trees.

She spread both arms, encompassing the entire clearing. “We needed all this space, and last year we had to put some booths and tents right up against the trees.”

Halting in the center of the expanse, Gervase slowly turned, estimating. “I think…” He looked at Madeline. “With luck, we should manage with the area between the forecourt gate and the ramparts.”

Head tilting, she considered, then nodded. “Yes, that should do.”

She hesitated, eyes on him; any minute she would suggest they return to the house. He glanced around again, then pointed to another path that led further from the house. “The cliffs are that way?”