Page 39 of Rival to Resist
He frowned. “A pity.”
“Surely, it cannot come as a surprise to you that I do not mean to attend. I am supporting Oswald in the election.”
Frederick feigned surprise. “Areyou?”
She tried to suppress her responsive smile. “Yes, Mr. Yorke. I am.”
“And you may continue to support him while still attending, you know. You consider yourself an advocate of the people, I gather, and the whole village will be there. I rather think they would take pleasure in seeing you there, not to mention that I think you yourself would enjoy it.”
She did not respond to this, but her eyes were full of thought.
He wanted her there—unaccountably needed to know when he would see her again, and to ensure it would be soon.
“Ah,” he said, as though realizing something. “Oswald has forbidden you.”
A fire ignited in her eyes. “Oswald is my candidate, not my master. He serves at my pleasure—not the other way around.”
“Of course,” he replied meekly, inclining his head. After a moment, he muttered, “If he wins.”
“No one but you has any doubt on the matter.”
“Then what harm could there be in coming? Unless you are afraid you might enjoy it too much…”
She looked amused as much as annoyed. “You are trying to provoke me into accepting your invitation.”
“Is it working?” he asked hopefully.
Her rosy lips pressed together. “Perhaps. You seem to possess a unique ability for provocation.”
He grinned. “Well, if you wish to see me put in my proper place, you could come watch me participate in a bout of wrassling at the party.”
Her delicate brows lifted. “Wrassling?”
A shot of victory rang through him at the intrigue in her voice and expression. “It promises to be an evening to remember. I hope to see you there.” He took her gloved hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it. “Good day, my lady.”
He walked away, itching to turn around and see whether she was watching him. As he left through the ornately carved door, it occurred to him what a strange day it would be.
The morning had held an education in baking. The afternoon was bound to hold a different one in fishing, and the evening an education in…well, heaven only knew.
Frederick was a dead fish.
Or smelled like one, at least.
His sleeves were stiff with salt and covered in…he did not even know. He had resigned himself to burning the shirt. The breeches might be salvageable. Or not.
No longer could he claim ignorance about the differences between mackerel and pilchard. Over the last two hours of sorting them on tables, then packing them into salt barrels, he had gained an intimate knowledge of both. Their lidless, glassy eyes would haunt his dreams for years to come.
Whatever hope he had felt that Lady Radcliffe would join the party at the beach had given way to fear—fear that if she did so, she would smell him from a mile away.
“That should do it, lads,” Mr. Tregenza said, gathering up the net and tossing it into the hull.
Frederick suppressed a sigh of relief with only the greatest effort. His shoulders burned from carrying the salt-weighted barrels up the incline from the beach to the cellars. His lower back revolted with every twist and turn. Wrassling would break him clean in two.
Lady Radcliffe would applaud, no doubt.
“’Ee did it, sir.” A fisherman named Ruan patted him on the back. “I didn’t even think ’ee’d come.”
“I promised I would, did I not?” Frederick said, as though he hadn’t considered and discarded a dozen excuses on the ride from Trevenna to Trelowen.
