Chapter 20
FREDERICK
Frederick dismounted in the inn yard, then handed off the reins to Jory.
His gaze caught on a horse drinking from the trough. Lady Radcliffe’s horse.
“Is Lady Radcliffe here?” he asked.
“No, sir,” Jory responded. “She left ’er ’orse while she went down the lane. But she did ask if ’ee were here.”
Frederick’s heart somersaulted. “She did?”
“Aye, sir.”
Frederick digested that for a moment. Had she asked because she wished to see him? Or because she wished to avoid him? “Did she seem…disappointed that I was gone?”
Jory shot him a funny look, as though the question was ridiculous.
“Jory!” Mrs. Tonkin’s yell came from the back door of the inn.
Jory glanced in her direction, then hesitated.
She had been more distant with Frederick over the past couple of days—less warm, more aloof. At first, he had attributed the change to fatigue—or even his own sensitivity. But it had persisted.
He was still trying to decide whether to give up his campaign in Trelowen, and Mrs. Tonkin’s support had been the only consistent one since his arrival. He worried perhaps that even that was waning.
“I can manage.” Frederick put out his hands for the reins.
Jory looked doubtful. “Do ’ee know ’ow to—”
“Yes,” Frederick said, amused. “I have brushed down a horse or two in my day.”
“Jory!” Mrs. Tonkin’s tone increased in impatience.
He handed the reins to Frederick and ran off to his aunt, seeming to think the risk of Frederick’s incompetence a price worth paying to avoid his aunt’s ire.
Frederick led Flint into the stables and looped the reins through the iron ring next to the tack room.
He shrugged off his coat and laid it over the nearby chair, then got to work removing the tack. Once that was done, he found a brush in the tack room, rolled up his sleeves, and began the methodical work of brushing down Flint.
His gaze flitted to Lady Radcliffe’s horse now and then, his curiosity burning steadily.
Had she wanted to see him?
If so, he would remain here, brushing Flint until the hair gleamed like silk just for the chance to see her.
If not…
It had been everything he could do to respect the space she had requested. Having her within reach but choosing to maintain the distance was torture. Perhaps he had been overeager in sharing his regard for her. Subtlety had never been a strong suit of his.
He finished brushing Flint, then led him to his stall. He latched it, then ran a hand through his hair, frowning at the straw-laden floor as he entered the tack room to put away the brush.
“Frederick?”
He went still, wondering if he had imagined it—imagined her voice saying his name. Not Mr. Yorke but Frederick.
Heart thudding like a war drum, he walked to the door of the tack room and peered out.
Silhouetted against the light outside was Caroline.
Her gaze fixed on him, and for a time, they stared at one another. There was something curious about the way she looked at him.
“Did you build the stile for Eliza?” she asked.
Frederick’s heart stuttered at the abrupt and unexpected question.
Caroline took a few steps toward him, and as she drew nearer, he could see her expression more clearly under the shadow of her bonnet and the muddy light of the tack room. It was intent, serious, her brows bunched together.
She stopped a few feet shy of him. “Did you?” she repeated, more insistent. She seemed almost…upset.
This was not how he had imagined their next encounter.
He tightened his hold on the brush and met her gaze squarely. “Yes.”
There was a pause as she stared at him. She took one step toward him, then another.
A strange, intense energy emanated from her as her head tipped up to maintain their gaze.
Frederick forced his breath to come and go steadily—in and out, in and out—as her eyes searched his face for what felt an eternity.
He kept still, too uncertain to risk moving.
She reached a hand to his cheek, her gloved palm pressing gently against it.
Frederick swallowed, his cravat suddenly feeling tight, his breath impossible to control.
Her fingertips pressed more firmly against his jaw as she pulled him toward her, unhurriedly but irresistibly.
His anticipation was so powerful and the final distance between them closed so slowly that he could hardly tell when her lips finally touched his.
They were soft and silken, moving against his effortlessly as the smell of hay and horses was replaced by the gentle scent of bergamot and the taste of her lips.
The brush in his hand dropped to the floor with a thunk, and he slid a hand up the satin skin on her neck, turning his head to deepen the kiss only to find her bonnet in the way.
He found his way to the ribbons and tugged until they broke free. His lips never leaving hers, he gently removed the bonnet and set it aside.
Her hand slipped along his cheek and threaded into his hair.
He suppressed a small groan of pleasure, wrapping his arms around her frame and pulling her flush against him.
This. This was what he wanted.
Caroline. Every bit of her. Every thought, every quip, every chastisement. Every kiss, every sigh, every inch of her warm skin. For the former made the latter all the sweeter.
A thud sounded, and they broke apart.
It was only the kick of a horse against its stall, and Frederick smiled down at Caroline. “Between the two of us, you are certainly the rake—taking advantage of a helpless young man in the tack room.”
She pushed at him playfully, but a quick hand around her waist kept them together.
He stole another kiss, which she returned readily before pulling away and resting her forehead against his.
A small sigh escaped her. “Why did you not tell me?”
“What would you have thought if I had?”
“What do you mean?”
He pulled back and looked at her with a half-smile.
“Caroline, you have mistrusted my every move, my every word since my arrival—and I am not condemning you for it,” he hurried to say at the look on her face.
“You were right to do so. My intentions were selfish. So, when I discovered that you and Mrs. Penrose believed Oswald responsible for the stile…” He lifted his shoulders.
“You allowed us to believe it,” she said, condemnatory but teasing.
Frederick squared her with a flat look. “Would you have thought better of me if I had rushed in and said, ‘No, no, no! It was not Oswald. It was I. I did it! Thank me.’”
She regarded him for a moment, her lips pressed together in a way that confirmed she understood his decision.
“Besides,” he said, “it was not only me. I could not have managed it without Ruan.”
She laughed softly. “He said you nearly hammered his thumb off.”
Frederick scoffed. “He moved it when I was striking. Is he the one who told you, then? He was not supposed to.”
“Spare him your censure. I forced it out of him.” She looked up at him, a tenderness in her eyes that made his chest glow with warmth. “Thank you.”
He swallowed, for gratitude from her was something he had never thought to receive. He pressed his lips to the top of her head and closed his eyes.
“Frederick…”
“Hm?”
There was a beat before she pulled back. “I want to be entirely forthcoming with you…”
He touched a finger to her lips and smiled. “I think you have been.”
Her cheeks pinked delightfully. “That is not what I mean.”
“What do you mean?”
She regarded him squarely, a hint of something else in her eyes. Worry, perhaps. “I mean that I do not want you to assume that—” She stopped and let out a breath.
“That because you have ravished me in the tack room you mean to support me in the election?”
She tried to repress her amusement. “You seemed quite willing to be ravished, as you say, but yes.”
Frederick smiled, even though there was a hint of disappointment inside. To have her affection was more than he could ever have hoped for. But he would be lying to himself if he claimed it did not smart a bit to know she did not respect him enough to vote for him.
“You know,” he said, “I am not entirely certain I mean to continue campaigning.”
Her eyes widened. “What? Why not?”
“Is it not obvious?” He ran a finger along the edge of her face, pushing back a stray hair. “I may have come here to win your votes, Caroline, but it is you I want now.”
She swallowed. “You have wanted a seat in Parliament far longer.”
“Yes. But there are hundreds of seats in Parliament, and there is only one of you.” He leaned in and pressed his lips to hers, long and firm, willing her to believe him.
When they pulled back, she looked up at him with a knit brow. “I do not want you to surrender the campaign.”
The corner of his mouth tugged upward. “Why not? And how do you propose I win? Do you think Oswald will vote for me? No doubt that ever-absent Prowse man will return shortly to do so as well.”
She gave a rueful smile. “No, I suppose not.” Her expression grew more somber, more apologetic.
“I all but promised Richard I would see Oswald elected—and I have promised Oswald my votes. It was foolish of me, perhaps, but what is done is done, and he does have Trelowen’s best interests at heart.
” She paused, her eyes searching his. “I have come to respect you and admire you—”
“—and kiss me—”
“—but I do believe he is more fit to represent the borough.”
The words stung, but Frederick smiled through them. “As long as I am more fit to be yours.”
The kiss he received in response was enough to assuage the pain of knowing he would lose the election.
Almost enough.
But what he had said was true…there would be other opportunities for election. His affection for Trelowen had grown in such a way that he regretted it would not be this place or these people he would represent in Parliament, but he hoped he would find his place, all the same.
He was determined to deserve Caroline, no matter what.
“What of Oswald?” he asked.
“What of him?”