Chapter 15
FREDERICK
Frederick’s ride the other day—and his encounter with Lady Radcliffe—had proven that all was not lost. Lady Radcliffe was not engaged, which meant the result of the election was not decided. Or at least not irrevocably.
Why, then, did he feel so rudderless?
He did not know what to do with himself. He should be taking advantage of every moment to progress toward his goal, but he was no longer certain what the progress should look like.
Lady Radcliffe was still the key to his success; he simply no longer knew precisely whether the success he sought could be counted in votes or vows.
Was the relief and hope he felt to know she was not engaged primarily due to what it meant for the election? Or was it because he had a chance to win her heart?
Or did he?
Surely, it was every bit as foolish of him to assume he could win her love as it was to assume he could win the election. She was a beautiful, intelligent, capable baroness and he a fourth son with barely enough land to stand for election in a pocket borough—much less win that election.
She was above him in every way.
And he wanted her all the more for it. He was too selfish to surrender all thought of her simply because she deserved better. He would fight, tooth and nail, if there was any chance at all of winning her.
It made the Parliament seat all the more desirable, for it seemed the best way to narrow the gap between them. To marry a fourth son would be considered a waste, but a Member of Parliament? Less so, at least.
And yet, how was he to persuade her he was deserving of both her heart and her votes?
That was a question he could not find an answer to.
The only thing he did know was that he wished to see her.
He had taken the same route on yesterday’s ride with that very hope, but the attempt had been in vain.
Today, however, was Friday, which meant she would make her usual call upon Mrs. Penrose.
It was convenient that Frederick had also been meaning to pay a call to the widow to ensure she had seen and been able to make use of the stile.
His heart leapt at the sight of Lady Radcliffe ahead of him on the lane, and he signaled Flint to a quicker pace.
Lady Radcliffe turned at the sound of his approach and smiled.
He grinned responsively, his lungs suddenly empty. It was the first time he could remember her showing pleasure at the sight of him, and her smile coursed through him like the tide racing to shore.
She guided her horse to make way for him on the lane. “I had wondered if I might see you today.”
“Had you?” he asked. “Do you often wonder such a thing?”
“Not as often as you would like.”
“Obviously,” he replied with a grin. “Tell me—how fares our little seed?”
She cocked a brow at him. “Our seed?”
“The seed we discussed,” he clarified. “Does it show signs of withering? Or are my services required?”
There was a little twitch at the corner of her mouth as she responded. “I fear your pickaxe method was used.”
Frederick’s brows shot up. “I confess I struggle to imagine you wielding a pickaxe, my lady.”
“It is a fearful sight,” she said. “It was not what I had intended, but, in the end, I did not have firm enough rein on myself for anything subtler.”
“I see,” Frederick said, his mind athirst. “And how did…the seed handle your rough and ready methods?”
She looked more pensive for a moment. “Not terribly well. Though, I must say, it was you who was most abused in the conversation.”
“I?” Frederick repeated. He had not imagined he would have played any part in the conversation between Lady Radcliffe and Oswald.
“Oswald happened to be at Trevenna when I arrived after our encounter—”
“Behold me shocked.”
The only evidence she gave of hearing this comment was a little gleam in her eyes as they took a leisurely pace down the lane.
“I soon realized that he was upset over something.” Her gaze moved to Frederick.
“He heard of my attendance at your party and was less than pleased at my unladylike behavior.”
Frederick’s mouth slipped open, but he forced it closed. “And was I blamed for your abominable comportment?”
“In part, yes. For you are a rake.”
A laugh burst from him, and she smiled.
“He has found me out at last,” Frederick said.
“While I am apparently too green to recognize it.”
“Naturally. I only prey on the most green and naive young women.”
Lady Radcliffe laughed softly, and Frederick felt an immediate hunger to hear the sound again.
She had been intoxicating even when she disliked him; smiling at him and laughing with him, she was ruinous.
If he had been the recipient of such smiles, it was no wonder Oswald was making a spectacle of himself over her, arranging a wedding date and heaven only knew what else.
Frederick was half-tempted to seek out the vicar himself.
“I was adjured to stop associating with you,” she said. “You see, in sack racing and treating your injury, I have stooped to behavior below my station.”
“Well, then, the damage is already done, surely. There is nothing to be gained from cutting me off now that I have brought you down to my level.”
“Is that so?” Her expression was amused. “Oswald tells me I must allow him to be the best judge of your sex in general—and particularly, men of the Town like you.”
Frederick nodded. “How fortunate you are to have an expert on matters of male licentiousness and depravity at your disposal. How ever did he come by his substantial knowledge?”
Lady Radcliffe’s smile grew as they reached Mrs. Penrose’s cottage and slowed their horses.
Frederick dismounted before his had quite stopped, then offered his hand to Lady Radcliffe, his heart pattering, for the last time he had offered such help, she had refused it.
She took his hand without hesitation, however, and slipped down from the saddle, her feet landing inches from his.
Their eyes met, and hers took him in with curiosity.
The moment made his lungs tighten, but it felt fragile, as though any eagerness on his part might shatter it into as many grains of sand as there were on Trelowen’s beach.
“Look,” he said. “I have brought you down to my level yet again.”
The door opened, and Mrs. Penrose stepped outside.
Frederick released Lady Radcliffe’s hand, and they greeted the widow.
She looked better than the last time Frederick had seen her—less pulled and tired. That must mean the stile was doing what he had hoped it would.
She welcomed them inside and put on a pot of water to boil.
“How is your injury, Mr. Yorke?” she asked.
“Healing well, thanks to Lady Radcliffe and Mrs. Tonkin.”
“I am glad to hear it. Watching what occurred, I had feared your injuries might be even more substantial.”
“I am made of sterner stuff than I look, ma’am.”
“I do not doubt it.”
“I trust Oswald has addressed the matter of the gate,” Lady Radcliffe said.
“Yes,” Mrs. Penrose said. “Though, it is not a gate but a stile. It serves the purpose well enough. I wrote to thank him for it only this morning.”
Frederick opened his mouth, then shut it. She thought the stile was Oswald’s doing?
Was he, then, to receive credit for what Frederick and Ruan had done?
“I am glad of it,” Lady Radcliffe said, looking relieved. “We quarreled yesterday, and now I shall have to humble myself and convey my thanks as well.”
Frederick itched to correct them. That Oswald should be thanked by both Mrs. Penrose and Lady Radcliffe for Frederick’s idea—and work—and furthermore, that Frederick should be the means of mending a quarrel between Oswald and Lady Radcliffe was intolerable.
But to insist on correcting the misunderstanding? That felt like bad form.
Lady Radcliffe had already made it clear she did not feel she could trust the intentions behind any good Frederick did. To ensure he received credit for the stile would only reinforce that anything he did was for the recognition.
Besides, what mattered most, surely, was that Mrs. Penrose was served by the stile.
So, he held his tongue.
Mrs. Penrose’s good spirits were contagious enough to distract him from the annoyance within a few minutes, and they enjoyed tea and good conversation for the rest of the call.
“She has become quite fond of you, I think,” Lady Radcliffe said as they began the ride back toward Trevenna and Trelowen. “Another victim to your rakish charm, I suppose.”
“My path from London to Cornwall is littered with them. A woman need only show the merest interest in me to be selected as a victim.”
“And did I show such an interest?” Her eyes danced as she waited for his response.
He thought back on their first meeting in the streets of Trelowen when his boot had stuck in the mud—before she had realized who he was and why he had come.
“You did.”
Her brows went up.
“Before you despised me, you quite liked me, I think. Otherwise, you would not have helped me with my boot.”
Her eyes narrowed, then recognition dawned. “I had forgotten.”
He watched her expression, wondering what feelings the memory brought.
“Well,” she said, turning her focus forward again, “from everything I have heard of rakes, I must say my experience has been underwhelming.”
“Pray expound, my lady. I strive to provide satisfaction to all my victims. I have a reputation to uphold, after all.”
“A reputation to uphold and others to ruin.”
He grinned. “Precisely.”
“Well,” she said, her head tilting to the side thoughtfully, “I suppose I had imagined becoming victim to a rake would include less sack racing and more…”
Frederick raised a brow.
Her gaze flicked to his mouth, and his heart thumped.
She pulled her gaze away, a tinge of pink in her cheeks that he could have sworn had not been there before. “…Stolen encounters.”
“Ah,” he said, trying to keep his tone playful when all he could think about was kissing the soft pink of her lips. “Perhaps I am losing my touch. Or becoming lazy in my…raking.”
Her brows drew together. “I believe I should be insulted by that comment.”
“Why?”
“That I should be the victim who finally tired you—it does not reflect particularly well upon me, does it?”
“Or perhaps you have inspired me to change my ways.” He became pensive. “Shall I reform? I feel as if I am only just beginning to get my feet under me as a rake. It seems a bit soon.”
“Too soon,” she agreed. “Reform must feel deserved.”
He sighed dramatically as they came to the fork in the road and slowed their horses. Frederick felt that familiar reluctance for their parting of ways, as though time with her was slipping through his fingers.
Who was to say what their next encounter would be like? Particularly if she and Oswald mended things between them. She might well return to her more wary way with Frederick.
But this morning…it had felt like some paradisaical wisp of a life Frederick dreamed of, and now the breeze was beginning to blow.
“That sigh certainly does not bode well for you,” Lady Radcliffe said. “If you are going to continue as a rake, you had better commit to it.” Her gaze lingered on him now. The teasing had dissipated, making way for something curious and challenging.
“Very well, then,” he said. “What do you recommend?”
She shot him a quizzical look. “If you are to have success as a rake, you cannot be forever asking people what to do, Mr. Yorke.” She pulled on the reins, and her horse came to a full stop. Her gaze held his. “By the very nature of his character, a rake takes charge.”
He swallowed. “Just so. Now, for instance. A rake would take charge by…”
Her gaze held his, almost…challenging. Waiting.
His breath came only with effort. “It is difficult indeed to take charge as I wish when I am astride a horse.” And even more difficult when he feared one misstep might destroy whatever current was between them.
She merely watched him, saying nothing.
Frederick was too afraid to even blink, feeling that they were dancing on a knife edge between jest and invitation.
He felt as though he had been handed the opportunity of a lifetime—one so unexpected he hardly trusted it.
And what was he to do with it? Lean across the narrowing space between their horses and kiss her? Dismount and help her down?
His pulse thundered. If he was going to kiss her, he wanted it to be perfect. Unforgettable.
She nudged her horse forward. “Perhaps you will find a more convenient opportunity in the future. Good day, Mr. Yorke.” With a smile that made Frederick feel as though he was going mad, she passed him, her knee brushing his as she went, leaving him in the lane to wonder whether he had just been tested or teased—or tempted beyond bearing.
Whatever he might be—hero, candidate, rake—each day, he was more and more at her mercy.