Madeline smiled. “I’ll help.” The role of overseer was usually hers.

“No, that’s not sensible,” Sybil declared. “You know everyone better than anyone-you’re the logical person to assist Gervase. The other committee members will soon be here to help me.”

Madeline blinked. She glanced at the girls. “But surely the girls would rather enjoy the stalls?”

“Oh, we’ve been around already,” Belinda assured her. “And there’ll be time to go around later, once everything settles down.”

“We’ve already bought yards of lace,” Annabel said. “And the glovemaker is keeping three pairs aside for us.”

“I see.” Madeline didn’t, not really.

As she glanced at Gervase, Muriel said, “You’d best get going, the pair of you. Madeline, you can keep an eye out for your brothers while you’re wandering-they’ve already disappeared.”

Gervase took her arm. “Don’t try to argue. I ceded to Sybil hours ago.”

With an inward shrug, Madeline allowed herself to be led down the steps and into the crowd.

The next hour went in smiling and greeting people-farmers, their wives, laborers and workers from the nearby towns. The Summer Festival was always well attended and drew visitors from as far afield as Falmouth as well as the majority of people from Helston. But it was first and foremost a local festival.

On Gervase’s arm, she scanned the milling throng. “Literally everyone who lives on the Lizard Peninsula will be here today.”

He covered her hand where it rested on his sleeve. “That’s why your presence by my side is so crucial. While I know my own workers, and can even name most of their wives, I’ve yet to place the majority of others. I might have stayed here every summer through my youth, and attended numerous festivals, but as I never imagined I’d inherit the title I put little effort into fixing other people in my mind.”

She glanced at him. “You’re doing well enough.”

“With your brain to pick, I’m sure I’ll manage.”

She meant to humph at his presumption, but laughed instead. The truth was she was enjoying herself more than at previous festivals; on his arm, with no more onerous responsibility than to whisper identities to him, she was largely free to drink in the gay atmosphere, listen to the laughter, the excited chatter of children, the occasional shrieks punctuating the never-ceasing babble of conversations.

There were few true strangers present; even the peddlers and traveling merchants were regulars, familiar faces. She introduced Gervase to them, too. They circled the forecourt; as they neared the base of the steps once more, they saw the vicar, Mr. Maple, beaming and chatting with Sybil and Mrs. Entwhistle on the porch.

Gervase glanced at the clock on the stable arch. “Nearly time to do the honors.”

Together they ascended the steps. The other members of the committee gathered around, all pleased that everything had thus far gone as planned, then Mr. Maple, in stentorian tones polished by years of speaking from his pulpit, exhorted all those in the forecourt to gather around.

“My friends!” He beamed down upon them. “I’m delighted to welcome you to our annual Summer Festival. As is customary, I’m here to give thanks to all who contribute to our day, and to render the thanks of the parish and our church for the bounty that will flow from your activities this day. And so…”

Gervase had moved to stand beside and a little behind the vicar; he would speak next. Realizing, Madeline inched her arm from his, intending to step back to stand with the other committee members, but Gervase lowered his arm and caught her hand.

She glanced at him, but he was looking at Mr. Maple as that worthy intoned a prayer, invoking God’s blessing on their day. Gervase’s hold was too firm for her to slip her fingers free, but if she tugged, it might seem as if he were forcing her…

“And now I’ll pass the stage to our new earl, Lord Crowhurst.” Beaming, Mr. Maple turned to Gervase, stepping back so Gervase stood front and center of their little group-with Madeline by his side.

She could do nothing but smile amiably, her attention shifting to Gervase as he smoothly and with transparent sincerity welcomed the crowd to the castle, then briefly outlined the schedule of events, remembering to note the numerous new additions. He named the members of the committee to grateful applause, then concluded with his own wishes that everyone enjoy their day and the efforts of their fellows displayed on the trestles, booths and tents filling the forecourt.

He then declared the festival officially open, to which the crowd responded with a rousing cheer.

The crowd dispersed, fanning out to fill the aisles between the booths and stalls. Turning to her and the other committee members, Gervase smiled, clearly pleased and at ease. He complimented Mrs. Entwhistle, who looked thoroughly relieved now her planning had come to fruition; Mrs. Juliard and Mrs. Caterham exchanged quick encouraging words, then hurried off to supervise the judging of the first competitions.

“Don’t forget, my lord,” Mrs. Juliard called from halfway down the steps. “We’ll need you to present the knitting and embroidery prizes in half an hour.”

Gervase acknowledged the appointment with a nod. When, preparing to descend once more to the forecourt, he tucked her hand firmly back in the crook of his arm, Madeline told herself she was being overly sensitive-no one else seemed to see anything remotely noteworthy in him keeping her so blatantly by his side.

Just as well; he seemed determined not to let her go. Whether he viewed her in part as a crutch or a shield, she didn’t know, but he plainly believed her rightful position was beside him. She felt a touch wary; it should have been his countess on his arm-would people imagine she had designs on the title?

She watched the reactions of all, gentry and countrymen alike, yet when they joined Mrs. Juliard beside the displays of local knitting and embroidery, despite the many they’d encountered not one seemed to view her presence by Gervase’s side as in any way remarkable.

Passing along the display, watching Gervase pretend an interest no one imagined he truly had, she leaned closer and murmured, “You don’t have the first notion of the difference between petit point and gros point.”

“Not the first, second or any notion whatever.” He met her eyes. “Does it matter?”

She grinned and patted his arm. “Just take your cue from Mrs. Juliard.” She’d intended delivering him to that worthy and stepping back, but again, the instant she drew her hand from his sleeve, he captured it.

He kept her beside him-trapped between him and Mrs. Juliard-while he smiled, presented the prizes to the beaming ladies and shook their hands.

When they eventually moved on, her hand once more on his sleeve, she looked at him. “I can’t remain forever by your side.”

He raised his brows. “Why not?”

“Because…” Looking into his amber eyes, she realized there wasn’t any good answer-any answer he might accept.

Understanding her dilemma, he grinned. “This time, the organization isn’t your responsibility-indeed, the only responsibility you can lay claim to is to guide me through the local social shoals, and otherwise to enjoy yourself.”

She humphed. Muttered, “Enjoying myself can hardly be classed a responsibility.”

Yet as they circled the forecourt again, she found herself noticing and taking in-enjoying-a great deal more of the festival’s delights and its atmosphere than she ever had. The wares displayed in the booths and on the long trestles were fascinating and tempting, the produce arrayed on the various stalls impressive. She bought lace, two pairs of gloves and a long roll of ribbon. The lace and ribbon she tucked into the pockets of her apple-green walking dress; Gervase helpfully volunteered his coat pocket for her gloves.

The hours flew. Every so often they were summoned by one or other of the committee members so Gervase could announce the winners and award prizes for the various competitions. The one for the best local ale was clearly his favorite; having weathered the knitting and embroidery competitions, none of the other crafts presented any real challenge.

Everyone lunched on traditional local fare-pies, pasties and sandwiches-provided by the local bakers and pie-makers in conjunction with the taverns who had set up tents and benches to serve the hungry festival goers. Madeline sat on a bench in the sunshine beside Gervase, and neatly consumed a pastie while he devoured three pies. When he asked, she had to admit that she was indeed enjoying herself; she’d never felt so relaxed, not during a festival.

Whether it was the effect of the warm sunshine, or the relief that everything was running so smoothly, or the inevitable effect of being surrounded by so many people all enjoying such simple pleasures, as the afternoon wore on she started to feel she was viewing the world-a familiar yet different world-through rose-tinted spectacles.

Nothing seemed able or likely to dim her mood.

Not even sighting the Helston Grange party amid the crowd. They’d arrived in the early afternoon; one group of fashionable ladies gowned more appropriately for a stroll in Hyde Park were progressing down one aisle, eyeing the country wares with a disdainful air.

Noting the sniffs and dark looks aimed at their backs, Madeline hid a smile; if the ladies had glimpsed those reactions, they wouldn’t be feeling quite so superior.

“And that, I assume,” Gervase murmured from beside her, “is Robert Hardesty.”

Madeline followed his nod to where Lady Hardesty was strolling down another aisle on the arm of a handsome dark-haired gentleman Madeline hadn’t set eyes on before. The pair was closely attended by Mr. Courtland and two others she’d seen at the vicarage-with Robert Hardesty trailing in their wake.