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?”
“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 overmyfuture.”
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 wouldyouhave 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.
