Stephanie Laurens - B 6 Beyond Seduction

by Stephanie Laurens

  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.

  “Yes, that’s Robert.” Madeline watched for a moment; it was almost as if a small cloud had appeared to mar the otherwise glorious day, and was hanging over Robert Hardesty’s head. His expression was not blank but undecided, as if he were unsure what feelings to express, yet…“He doesn’t look happy.” He looked like a dejected, rejected puppy.

  “Certainly not an advertisement for the joys of matrimony,” Gervase dryly remarked.

  Madeline grimaced. “No, indeed.”

  Although neat and well dressed by country standards, set against his wife’s sophistication and the transparently polished appearance and address of her court, Robert looked like the youthful country-bred baronet he was; he couldn’t, and likely n
ever would, hold a candle to his wife’s admirers.

  More importantly, Lady Hardesty was making not the smallest effort to suggest she had even the most perfunctory interest in him.

  Lips thinning, Madeline eyed the spectacle for a moment longer, then looked around, noting numerous others—Mr. Maple and his sister, the Juliards, the Caterhams—who were likewise viewing the small scene. A vignette among many, yet it spoke so clearly—and, did she but know it, would assure Lady Hardesty of no fond welcome in local social circles.

  “From which performance I deduce”—Gervase turned her away, steering her toward the east wall—“that her ladyship harbors no ambition to be accepted into local drawing rooms other than on sufferance.”

  Madeline raised her brows. “So it would appear.”

  They didn’t speak again of Robert Hardesty, but that vision of him, of the demonstrated unequalness of his marriage and the unhappiness that flowed from that, hovered at the back of her mind—the small dark cloud in her otherwise glorious firmament.

  “Your brothers seem uncommonly interested in what my father would have termed ‘female geegaws.’” Gervase nodded to where Harry and Edmond, with Ben darting ahead or pushing between, seemed absorbed in ribbons and lace doilies.

  Madeline grinned; tugging on Gervase’s arm, she drew him away.

  He would have led her to them; arching a brow, he fell in with her wishes.

  Smiling, she looked ahead. “It’s my birthday in a few days. I invariably receive trinkets and furbelows chosen from the festival stalls.”

  “Ah.” After a moment, he said, “I suppose, down here, there aren’t all that many alternative sources of inspiration.”

  “Actually”—leaning close, she confessed—“I always find myself examining the items displayed and cataloguing any that I might find myself unwrapping in a few days. It’s become something of a game to see if I can identify what will catch their eye when they think of me.”

  He glanced at her. “And do you guess correctly?’

  “Occasionally. Strangely it’s Ben who seems to most accurately guess what I’ll like best.”

  “Perception untainted by rational thought,” Gervase declared. “Unfortunately, as soon as a male grows old enough to grasp the essential difference between male and female, the ability is lost.”

  He sounded perfectly matter-of-fact; Madeline laughed and they strolled on.

  Chapter 12

  The Peninsula Summer Festival of 1816 was a resounding success. Later that evening, in the carriage with Muriel and her brothers on their way back to the castle for the celebratory dinner Sybil was hosting for the committee and their families, Madeline reflected on the day.

  Unbeknown to any but the castle staff, Gervase had arranged a stunningly unique end to the event—a three-cannon salute by the big guns that had throughout the long years of the wars stood at emplacements along the castle’s seaward wall, keeping watch over the cove. Gathering Mr. Maple, towing Madeline in his wake as he had all the day, he’d climbed the castle steps, collected the attention of the crowd still milling in the forecourt, thanked them, then given the order for the salute to be fired in honor of them all.

  The first boom had shaken the crowd, but even before the echoes had died people were exclaiming, cheering and clapping, children rushing to the ramparts to watch the next firing.

  Madeline remembered the moment with a smile. A golden end to a glorious day.

  Their carriage was the last to rock to a halt before the castle steps. The castle staff and many local volunteers had worked swiftly and efficiently to restore the forecourt to its normal spacious state; the fading light hid the depredations visited on the lawns and ramparts. A sense of relief and satisfied accomplishment had enveloped both place and people; the members of the committee were all smiles, with gratified congratulations passed all around.

  The dinner went well. Madeline was unsurprised to find herself seated beside Gervase. In reality there was no one else who could more appropriately be seated there; her position didn’t mean, and wouldn’t be seen as indicating, anything more.

  After a relaxed meal during which formality was dispensed with in favor of the less rigid rules usually applied to family gatherings, the gentlemen elected to rise with the ladies and accompany them to the drawing room, there to continue sharing the various tales and anecdotes gleaned from the day.

  Lady Hardesty and her guests had been observed by many; listening to the comments, Madeline noted that none referred directly to her ladyship, focusing instead on the manners of her friends. It was a subtle, polite, yet pointed rebuke, no less real for being unspoken. Lady Hardesty was on notice; everyone seemed agreed on that.

  They’d only been back in the drawing room for ten minutes when Muriel touched Madeline’s arm.

  “No—don’t get up.” Muriel leaned down to speak quietly to her where she sat relaxed in a large armchair. “You were on your feet all day. As were the boys.” She nodded to where the trio were gathered on a bench, all but nodding, valiantly trying to stay awake, as were Gervase’s sisters, the Caterham girls and the Juliards’ younger son. “I’ll take our lot home—I’m ready to leave myself—but you should stay awhile.”

  Before Madeline could react, Muriel looked beyond her to where Gervase sat in the chair alongside. “I’m sure his lordship will be happy to drive you home later. No need for you to cut short your evening. You deserve to have some fun.”

  “Oh, but—” Caught totally off-guard, Madeline glanced at Gervase.

  To find him smiling—entirely too sweetly—at Muriel. He rose and bowed. “His lordship will be only too delighted. I’ll drive Madeline back to Treleaver Park after the party breaks up.”

  Muriel beamed at him. “Excellent.”

  Madeline stared at her aunt. Muriel wasn’t exactly a man-hater—she was a widow after all—but she had little time for personable gentlemen, deeming most not worth her time.

  Gervase, clearly, fell into a different category.

  “I…” She glanced up at Gervase.

  He arched a polite brow. “We’ve only just started recounting all those little things that might have gone better—it would be useful if you would stay.”

  But it was no longer her responsibility to run the festival; after today, certainly once he married, that role would fall to his countess.

  He studied her face, then simply said, “Please.”

  Her eyes on his, she drew in a breath, held it, then surrendered. “Very well.” She looked at Muriel. “If you’re sure…?”

  “Of course I am.” With a dismissive wave, Muriel headed off to extract the boys.

  They came to make their farewells, bowing politely to the company before exiting quietly in Muriel’s wake.

  “They look asleep on their feet.” Mrs. Caterham leaned closer to speak to Madeline. “As do our two, but now your boys are gone I daresay they’ll curl up there with Sybil’s girls.” So saying, she turned back to listen to Squire Ridley expound on the comeuppance of two knaves who’d tried to make off with some horse brasses.

  “Never saw such brass in my life, heh?” Gerald chortled and slapped his thigh. “But we fixed them. Burnham set them to mucking out the stableyard—with so many horses in the lines there was plenty to do.”

  Several hours sped by in companionable sharing. Mrs. Entwhistle took notes, although there’d been no serious difficulties to record. Eventually, with a pervasive sense of satisfaction enfolding them, the guests rose and took their leave of a tired but delighted Sybil.

  In the front hall, Madeline hung back beside Sybil while Gervase walked out to the porch, chatting with Mr. Maple.

  Sybil delicately stifled a yawn, then grinned at Madeline and put a hand on her sleeve. “Thank you. I know you don’t think you did very much, but indeed, having you beside him made Gervase’s day a great deal easier.”

  Sybil glanced at the door, confirming Gervase was still occupied. “It’s easier for you, having grown up here knowing your place. I
t’s not as difficult even for me, because I’ve had time to grow accustomed. But I’ve worried how he will cope—not because he won’t but because he hasn’t had much time to gather all the background knowledge he needs.” Again she smiled at Madeline. “That’s what you give him, dear—solid ground on which to stand.”

  Gently squeezing Madeline’s arm, Sybil released her. “I know he appreciates your help—I just wanted you to know I do, too.”

  Madeline smiled; she would have disclaimed, but doing so would have made light of Sybil’s thanks, and she was too fond of Sybil to hurt her feelings.

  Then Gervase reappeared, striding toward them. He met Madeline’s eye. “Burnham’s bringing my curricle around.”

  “In that case,” Sybil said to Madeline, “I’ll leave you to Gervase’s care, dear. Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  Gervase nodded to Sybil. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Indeed, dear.” With a benedictory wave, she drifted toward the stairs.

  “Come.” Gervase offered his arm.

  Madeline took it and let him lead her out to his curricle.

  Within minutes they were bowling through the castle gates, then east on the lane along the cliffs. The light was poor, but Madeline felt completely relaxed, completely confident of Gervase’s ability to manage the powerful blacks he had harnessed between the shafts.

  The moon shone fitfully, weak and waning, screened by high clouds, yet there remained sufficient light for her, leaning back against the curricle’s seat, to study his profile. To consider what she saw there, cast like a Roman coin against the dark backdrop of the sea.

  The events of the day scrolled through her mind. He needed a wife, a fact no one could question. But what sort of wife? Until today, she hadn’t dwelled on the point; no cogitations had been required to know that whatever the specifications she wouldn’t fit. But after today, especially after viewing Lady Hardesty with poor Robert in tow, the question had grown more important, more insistent.