Caroline’s heart somersaulted. He could not possibly be serious. “Your stakes are less appealing than you seem to think. You shall lose the election either way.”
“I will cease campaigning,” he said as though she had not spoken, “and return to London. Forthwith.”
Her mouth went dry while he looked on with unconcealed relish in her reaction.
“And if you win?” she said, too curious not to ask. “I assume you expect me to support you instead of Oswald in the election?”
“No,” he said.
It took her a moment to recover from her surprise. She had been so certain. “What, then?”
“You owe me another dance.” He tossed the bag toward her.
She let it fall at her feet, not so much to prove a point but because she was taken off guard by his response. He was willing to surrender his entire campaign—and all he wanted if he won was to dance with her again?
“As I said, Mr. Yorke, I shan’t be provoked.”
With a grin, he hopped around so that his back was to her, then he turned his head so only his profile was visible. “Or perhaps you want me here more than you care to confess.”
12
CAROLINE
Caroline hurried to the starting line, taking a spot at the end.
“Shall you make an announcement ending your campaign?” Her tone was playful, but her heart battered against her chest mercilessly as she climbed into the sack.
Mr. Yorke’s head whipped around, and his mouth stretched into the widest grin she had yet seen him wear. “I will make an announcement, pack up my things, and leave at once. On my honor as a gentleman.”
“Good,” Caroline said, even though the prospect of him leaving Trelowen made her stomach tighten and swim.
“And you will dance with me if I win?”
She smiled. “Can you not manage to secure a second set with a woman without duress, Mr. Yorke?”
“Ready, set, go!” Jory yelled out.
They were the last off the line.
Caroline grasped the edges of the sack and hopped forward, landing just shy of the place Mr. Yorke reached with his own hop.
The crowd’s cheers were drowned out by the sound of her pulse and the rhythmic thud of her hops. She had one thing on her mind and one thing only: to win. To see Mr. Yorke, so infuriatingly confident, finally lose. To prove shedidn’twant him there.
To her satisfaction, she managed to keep abreast of him as they hopped behind the other participants, sand being kicked up around their sack-covered knees and ankles. Caroline had a vague curiosity over Eliza’s performance, but she pushed it aside selfishly, her eyes on her goal.
Her shoulder bumped Mr. Yorke’s as they tried to keep their balance and maintain their pace. Her previous thought came to mind—to push him.
But, no. She wanted to win fairly.
For all the intensity in her mind and body, and despite the rivalry, she found herself laughing, and Mr. Yorke too. Mr. Yorke stumbled, and she inched ahead, the taste of impending victory surging through her veins, making her feel alive as she never had before.
With but a few hops left in the race, she glanced over at her rival.
The same vivacity shone from his face, but there was something more there—something more intense as he slipped farther behind, the gap between them growing slightly.
Her heart surged.
He was going to lose.
