Chapter 17
CAROLINE
It took a few moments and a number of blinks to ensure Caroline was not imagining him there.
She was not. He was there, in the flesh, looking a bit windswept and far too handsome for his own good—and certainly for hers.
“Mr. Yorke,” she said, her voice full of surprise and her stomach somersaulting.
“Lady Radcliffe.” He bowed, then his eyes took in her attire. “Forgive me—I see you are on your way out.”
Caroline opened her mouth to inform him she was on her way to the village, but now that he was here, the journey held little purpose.
“I was going out for a ride,” she said, feeling the need to explain her attire.
“Ah.”
There was a moment of silence as they regarded one another, uncertainty on both ends.
Feeling breathless, she added, “Would you care to join me?”
Surprise flashed in his eyes, then his lip lifted at one edge in a way that did nothing to help her breathlessness. “I would love to.”
Ten minutes later, they were guiding their horses out of Trevenna’s immediate grounds.
Caroline ignored the interested, furtive glances of the stable hands.
Eliza might be right that Caroline had more leeway as a widow than in her youth, but that did not mean that gossip could be avoided.
She was the most prominent figure in Trelowen, which meant there was always an interest in her doings.
“Where do we ride?” Mr. Yorke asked.
“You are my guest,” she said. “Perhaps you should choose.”
He frowned consideringly. “You know the land. Where do you recommend?”
Caroline considered this for a few moments, thinking of all the places she most loved near Trelowen—windy clifftops, heathered moors, wooded paths. Cornwall was amply equipped with striking settings for a ride. But one place in particular came to mind.
“I mistrust that smile,” Mr. Yorke said.
She laughed. “Follow me.”
She urged her horse forward, and Mr. Yorke followed behind as they took a small trail that was hardly visible, for it was rarely used. It hugged a line of trees, then began a steady descent.
“You are not leading me to my death, are you?”
She shot him a playful glance over her shoulder. “Do you dare to find out?”
“Oh, most assuredly.”
Slowly, the foliage began to thin and the sound of waves grew louder as the view opened up to an expanse of pale, untouched sand.
“A ride on the beach?” Mr. Yorke said as they brought their horses to a stop.
Caroline smiled, the salty wind on her cheeks making her body teem with energy.
Or perhaps it was the presence of Mr. Yorke in a place she had only ever been on her own.
“This beach is only accessible at low tide.” She looked out over the untouched, feral stretch of sand and water.
“Richard disliked for me to ride here. He thought it dangerous.”
“And is it?” He looked up at the cliff that towered over them, then to the wave that crashed two dozen feet from the horses’ hooves, its foamy edge creeping toward them until it reached a few feet away, then retreated.
“If the tide is coming in,” she said.
His brow cocked. “And is it?”
She smiled. “The most dangerous part is up there.” She nodded ahead a hundred or so feet, where the cliff jutted out. They watched as the next wave crashed at its foot, the water splashing up the rock and sprinkling the air.
Mr. Yorke looked at her curiously, as though simultaneously impressed and wary. “You are trying to kill me, then.”
She only laughed. “Just beyond it, the stretch of sand is perfect for a gallop.”
“And what happens if we become stranded on that perfect stretch of sand?”
“The longer we sit here discussing it, the more likely it shall be. What do you say? Are you brave enough? For a race, perhaps?”
“Oh,” he said doubtfully, “I do not think that would be wi—” He kicked his heels into his horse, a grin spreading across his face in the second before it left view.
Caroline urged her horse forward frantically as Mr. Yorke glanced over his shoulder.
“Cheater!” Caroline called, but her voice was lost on the wind, which carried Mr. Yorke’s laugh back to her, an aggravating gift.
She began to gain on him as they charged across the sand, skirting the cliff until the muted punch of hooves in sand became splashes. Droplets of saltwater sprinkled Caroline’s face and habit as her horse’s head drew even with the neck of Mr. Yorke’s.
A wave crashed against the cliff ahead, then began its retreat in time for them to gallop through. A glance at Mr. Yorke showed him to be grinning, eyes bright, cheeks wet with spray as their gazes met.
And she felt it.
The connection Eliza had described—the sense of being with a kindred spirit.
She gained ground, their horses nearly head to head as the sand opened up wide, a never-ending blanket of water to their right, the shadow of rugged cliffs to their left. They were hemmed in on both sides, but liberty vibrated through every bone of Caroline’s body.
They passed a large rock in the middle of the expanse, and she pulled up on the reins.
Mr. Yorke glanced over his shoulder and, finding she had slowed, followed suit, guiding his horse back around and returning to her.
Cheeks aching and wind-chapped, she dismounted, drawing a frown from Mr. Yorke.
“Should we not return?” he asked, breathless. “I have no objection to spending the night on this beach, but I cannot think you would be comfortable.”
Caroline smiled, fixing her gloves. “You may be at peace. The tide is falling.”
He let out a chuckle and swung down from his horse. “You, my lady, are a minx.”
“And you are far too gullible. Perhaps I should make you my candidate, after all.”
His head came around, an exaggerated excitement in his eyes.
She laughed. “As I said…far too gullible.”
Mr. Yorke led his horse toward her, and they began to walk down the beach. “You say gullible; I say hopeful.”
Caroline gave a perfunctory smile and looked out at the waves. She was the one who had introduced the topic of his desire for her support in the election, so she had no one but herself to blame that she disliked his reaction.
Some part of her—the silly, idyllic girl within, no doubt—wanted Mr. Yorke to be here with her simply because he enjoyed her company. Not because it was part of his attempt to persuade her into giving him her votes.
“I have been wishing to discuss something with you,” he said.
With a little gallop of the heart, she met his gaze. “And what might that be?”
He surveyed her for a moment. “Reform.”
She blinked. “Reform?”
“I would like to hear your thoughts on the subject.”
“Mr. Yorke,” she said, trying to keep her voice lighter than she felt, though her pace quickened, betraying her. “I have no wish for you to pretend to an interest in reform merely to placate me.”
He hastened to catch up with her, then took her arm, bringing them both to a stop.
His gaze was clear as she reluctantly met it. “There is no pretending, my lady. Only a respect for your intelligence and a curiosity to understand your views.”
She said nothing, for her heart believed his sincerity, but her mind warned her it was all part of his scheme.
She rarely spoke her views candidly, for they were never taken seriously.
If they were not laughed at as the idealistic imaginings of a sheltered, naive woman, they were brushed aside without ceremony as foolishness.
She had once broached the subject of reform with Brightmoor, and he had cut her off mid-sentence, telling Richard he had better watch her more closely if he did not wish to be thought a Jacobin.
Caroline had no desire to open herself up to such an experience with Mr. Yorke.
“Please,” he said.
She searched his face, and Eliza’s words came to mind. Observe him more.
Mr. Yorke was offering her the opportunity to do just that. It might end in frustration or even a bit of humiliation on her end, but at least she would know for certain that he was just as every other man she had known.
“I would have thought you familiar with the arguments for and against the issue,” she said.
He shrugged. “No doubt every man with an opinion believes himself the master of the topic—until his ignorance is laid bare.”
She smiled slightly. “And you are asking me to lay yours bare?”
“I was speaking of the ignorance of other men,” he said, though his eyes twinkled at her.
“Naturally.”
Their laughing eyes met for a few moments before he spoke again. “Very well, then. Lay my ignorance bare, my lady. Gently. A man’s pride can only bear so much.”
She pondered for a moment. “You need look no further than Trelowen to see the case for reform on display.”
They began walking again, their horses trailing behind them.
“In what way?”
She shot him an arch brow. “Would you be here if the system were not so easily manipulable and corrupt?”
“But it has not been manipulable,” he said. “You have made certain of that.”
“Because I know how the people suffer when they are used for position and power rather than listened to and advocated for. Whose bellies go empty when the price of corn rises? Whose hard-bought cattle starve when their grazing lands are enclosed and fenced off? Whose fish cannot be preserved for winter famine when salt is taxed? It is those most nearly affected who have no voice in the process.”
His brow furrowed, his gaze ahead. “You would have those who cannot even read make decisions that affect the entire country? Have every scullery maid and fisherman weigh in on foreign policy?”
“No, but I would have it acknowledged that they are the ones paying the steepest price for such policy—and that we cannot expect to turn a blind eye to their struggles and suffering without consequence.”
He was quiet.
She reached over and touched the ring that was concealed by his gloves. “You seek to make a legacy for yourself, and you have chosen to do so by finding a voice in Parliament—an option only available to you because you are a man born into privilege.”
He gave a little a laugh.
“Do you not agree?”