Page 6 of Rival to Resist
She was stamping the Radcliffe seal into the melted wax when the door opened again.
She rose from her seat as the footman announced, “Mr. Yorke, m’lady.”
Her lips parted in surprise at the sight of the gentleman from the village entering the library.
He had doffed his hat, revealing brown hair that matched both brows and eyes. The mud that had spattered him earlier was absent. He was neat and even more handsome.
His smile stuttered and he checked at the sight of her, looking every bit as surprised as she.
The door closed behind the footman, leaving the two of them staring in mutual confusion.
“Good day, Mr. Yorke,” she said, her manners finally returning.
“Good day,” he said, his voice still uncertain. “I…” He looked around the room. “I did not mean to disturb you. I was under the impression that I was being taken to see…your parents, I presume?”
Caroline’s brows pinched together. “My parents are in Staffordshire.”
Mr. Yorke’s confusion doubled. “Staffordshire…”
Caroline watched him curiously, wondering how in heaven’s name he could possibly have come all the way to Cornwall in search of…her parents. She noted for the first time that he held a small wooden box.
“Might I be of assistance?” she asked doubtfully.
Mr. Yorke blinked. “No, I fear—that is…I suppose I could leave this small gift for them with you.” He looked at the box in his hands. “May I ask when you anticipate their return from Staffordshire?”
It seemed they were taking turns frowning more and more deeply. “Mr. Yorke, my parents can never return for they have never been to Cornwall in the first place.” The fact that he had brought a gift for her parents when he had no idea where they lived was a matter of deep perplexity.
“Never bee—” He stared at her for a long moment. “Are you not the daughter of Lord and Lady Radcliffe, ma’am?”
She let out a laugh. “IamLady Radcliffe.”
His lips parted as he stared at her in a way that was either offensive or comical.
Caroline was tempted to find it the latter.
After a moment, he seemed to remember himself, and his mouth snapped closed. “And your husband…is he at home? Resting, perhaps. I understand he does not enjoy good health.”
A burst of laughter escaped Caroline, and she slapped a hand to her mouth to stop it.
Mr. Yorke reared back slightly at her reaction.
“Forgive me, sir,” she said, regaining her composure. “I fear you are misinformed. My husband died three years ago.”
His brown eyes widened in dismay. “Your ladyship, I beg your forgiveness. I?—”
“No,” she said, unable to stop a smile. “I begyours. It must seem very callous of me to have laughed just now. It is onlythat I have never heard death described asnot enjoying good health, and I suppose I was overcome by a sense of the absurd.”
Mr. Yorke grimaced, but his eyes danced despite it as they met hers. “An unfortunate choice of words on my part.” His frown began to return. “I confess I am still confused, however. I had it on good authority—or what Ibelievedto be good authority—that Lord Radcliffe was an ailing baron who oversaw the borough of Trelowen.”
The misunderstanding was becoming clearer to Caroline by the second, though a dozen persisting questions flitted through her mind.
“That is both true and untrue,” she said. “The new Lord Radcliffe inherited the title from my late husband and is indeed ailing. From what I understand, it is rare for him to leave his bed. But this estate—and the management of the borough—lies with me.”
Mr. Yorke’s arrested gaze fixed on hers.
She was accustomed to such reactions. It was a highly irregular situation, after all, and she never failed to find it awkward to explain.
“Please,” she said, coming around the writing desk and indicating a sofa, “do have a seat.”
