Page 62 of Rival to Resist
FREDERICK
Frederick’s ride the other day—and his encounter with Lady Radcliffe—had proven that all was not lost. Lady Radcliffe was not engaged, which meant the result of the election was not decided. Or at least not irrevocably.
Why, then, did he feel so rudderless?
He did not know what to do with himself. He should be taking advantage of every moment to progress toward his goal, but he was no longer certain what the progress should look like.
Lady Radcliffe was still the key to his success; he simply no longer knew precisely whether the success he sought could be counted in votes or vows.
Was the relief and hope he felt to know she was not engaged primarily due to what it meant for the election? Or was it because he had a chance to win her heart?
Or did he?
Surely, it was every bit as foolish of him to assume he could win her love as it was to assume he could win the election. She was a beautiful, intelligent, capable baroness and he a fourthson with barely enough land to stand for election in a pocket borough—much less win that election.
She was above him in every way.
And he wanted her all the more for it. He was too selfish to surrender all thought of her simply because she deserved better. He would fight, tooth and nail, if there was any chance at all of winning her.
It made the Parliament seat all the more desirable, for it seemed the best way to narrow the gap between them. To marry a fourth son would be considered a waste, but a Member of Parliament? Less so, at least.
And yet, how was he to persuade her he was deserving of both her heart and her votes?
That was a question he could not find an answer to.
The only thing he did know was that he wished to see her.
He had taken the same route on yesterday’s ride with that very hope, but the attempt had been in vain.
Today, however, was Friday, which meant she would make her usual call upon Mrs. Penrose.
It was convenient that Frederick had also been meaning to pay a call to the widow to ensure she had seen and been able to make use of the stile.
His heart leapt at the sight of Lady Radcliffe ahead of him on the lane, and he signaled Flint to a quicker pace.
Lady Radcliffe turned at the sound of his approach and smiled.
He grinned responsively, his lungs suddenly empty. It was the first time he could remember her showing pleasure at the sight of him, and her smile coursed through him like the tide racing to shore.
She guided her horse to make way for him on the lane. “I had wondered if I might see you today.”
“Had you?” he asked. “Do you often wonder such a thing?”
“Not as often as you would like.”
“Obviously,” he replied with a grin. “Tell me—how fares our little seed?”
She cocked a brow at him. “Our seed?”
“The seed we discussed,” he clarified. “Does it show signs of withering? Or are my services required?”
There was a little twitch at the corner of her mouth as she responded. “I fear your pickaxe method was used.”
Frederick’s brows shot up. “I confess I struggle to imagine you wielding a pickaxe, my lady.”
“It is a fearful sight,” she said. “It was not what I had intended, but, in the end, I did not have firm enough rein on myself for anything subtler.”
“I see,” Frederick said, his mind athirst. “And how did…the seed handle your rough and ready methods?”
