Chapter 17 #2
“I merely find it ironic to be lectured on privilege by the woman who controls half the votes in Trelowen—and who has singular power over my future.”
She smiled. “Then you can sympathize with being at the mercy of others. A valuable experience, I think.”
He looked at her quizzically. “You complain of corruption while using it to achieve your own ends.”
She stopped and turned toward him, frowning. “I am working within the system as it exists—and attempting to do so in a way that benefits my borough, not myself. What would you have me do?”
He regarded her for a few moments. “I admire your passion.”
“But think me misguided and naive.”
He shook his head, the light in his intent gaze making her heart patter more quickly. “I wish half of Parliament was as intelligent and capable as you.”
She gave a breathy laugh and broke her gaze away.
“I mean it,” he said. “You inspire me. I am a better man for knowing you.”
A heady breathlessness came over her as she met his gaze, trying to keep her tone light. “And a sudden advocate for reform?”
He smiled slightly. “A man with much to consider, rather. One who would hear more of your thoughts on the matter.”
“And counter each and every one.”
He cocked a brow. “Would you rather I listened in silence? I can certainly do so.”
She searched his face, considering her answer. For years, she had wanted to be listened to—to convey her thoughts and beliefs without interruption. But as she looked at Mr. Yorke, his curious gaze fixed on her, she realized her desire had been misguided.
He was doing more than listen to her; he was taking her seriously enough to debate the subject with her, treating her as an intellectual equal whose thoughts were worthy not just of being heard but of being challenged.
“No,” she admitted. “I would not.”
Mr. Yorke’s eyes grew warmer. “I thought not.”
They stared at one another for a few moments.
“What did your husband make of your ideas on reform?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she said, watching a wave roll in. “He preferred to pretend I did not have them.”
“And yet he left his estate in your hands—a mark of trust.”
She smiled wryly. “He did so out of desperation—and only after making me promise not to run Trelowen into the ground with my radical notions.”
The sea breeze whipped at their cheeks and clothing, the press of each gust on Caroline’s back pushing her toward Mr. Yorke. Or perhaps she was simply imagining what she wanted the excuse to do.
She hated herself for it—for the desire to take refuge in his arms and lips, to believe every word from his mouth, to think the very best of him despite his intentions in coming to Trelowen.
“What do you want, Mr. Yorke?” she asked, aggravation creeping into the question.
A flicker of surprise flashed over his face.
“Your brother is a duke. If a seat in Parliament is your wish, you could obtain it elsewhere easily enough.”
He did not respond immediately, but he wore a wry smile when he did.
“All my life, I have lived in the shadow of my siblings—even before William inherited the dukedom. As the fourth son, little is expected of me. I am overlooked. Underestimated. Forgotten. I came to Trelowen in search of a seat that would give me the recognition I have so long craved.”
Caroline ignored the tightness in her throat. She hated hearing him speak of the real reason he had come into her life—the real reason he remained in it.
“All my life, and in Trelowen more than ever, it has seemed as though everything I wish for is within sight but just out of reach.”
He took a step toward her.
Air swirled around, licking at her cheeks and whipping her skirts around her legs, but in her lungs, she could find none.
“It is not your votes I have come to covet most, Lady Radcliffe. It is your respect. Your admiration. Your trust.” He brushed aside a lock of hair the wind had blown into her face. “It is you.” He took another step closer, his eyes almost pleading with her. “Caroline…”
She closed her eyes as the wind brought her whispered name to her, then carried away every thought but what it would feel like to be held by him, to feel his lips on hers.
“Every time I close my eyes, your face is there waiting,” he whispered. “I cannot sleep without dreaming of you.”
The last bit of resistance in her fractured down the middle, and before she knew what had happened, her fingers were gripping his coat, his hands finding her waist, the reins of both horses hanging forgotten as their lips came together in a crash like the waves on the sand.
Unlike the waves, neither of them retreated but drew closer.
Caroline had never wanted something, someone so fiercely as in that moment. And she was not alone in her desire. His lips took hers again and again, and her body flushed with warmth at the feeling of being so wanted.
He kissed her as he had debated her—giving her free rein, then returning with his own challenge in a dance unlike anything she had ever experienced.
She began to feel as though the touch of his fingers on the small of her back and the press of his thumb against her waist were the only things keeping her from unraveling.
A gull screeched above, and they broke apart.
They stared at one another, the sea roaring just as it had before their kiss, as though nothing had changed.
But everything had.