Page 49 of Rival to Resist
His eyes lifted to hers, and she felt that same swirling in her stomach she had noted when they had danced at Trevenna earlier.
His gaze on her was watchful and curious, his usual twinkling absent in a way that made her feel breathless. His eyes seemed to askwhat will you do?
The question produced a host of ideas, most of them entirely improper.
Mrs. Tonkin’s footsteps approached, and Caroline released his head.
“There ’ee go.” Mrs. Tonkin set a bowl on the table, seeming not to have noticed anything out of the ordinary.
“Perhaps you should do this.” Caroline rose.
“Nay, m’lady. Without wantin’ to offend ’ee, the cleanin’ is the easy part. I’ve to make the poultice. Unless ’ee’d rather do that?” Mrs. Tonkin regarded her with a skeptical question on her face.
Caroline wished she knew the first thing about poultices. She had watched one be made years ago, but that was no help now.
“No,” she agreed, “you had better do that.”
Mrs. Tonkin nodded and disappeared again.
Caroline hesitated, then sat back down.
“I can clean it,” Mr. Yorke offered. He reached for the clothnext to the bowl of water, but his brow furrowed and he stopped midway, rolling his shoulder.
“Jago’s work,” Caroline said, picking up the rag.
“Perhaps.”
She laughed incredulously as she dipped the cloth in the water. “Perhaps?”
His mouth lifted at one edge in a half-smile. “Wrassling is but one of my day’s adventures, Lady Radcliffe.”
She gently dabbed the cloth on his brow. It would be easier if she stabilized his head with her hand, but she decided against it.
Once she had dabbed at the wound, it was her brow that furrowed. “Perhaps the surgeon should be called for.”
“No,” he said firmly.
Their eyes met, and she noted a vestige of stubbornness in his that she had not seen there before. It must be that very stubbornness which kept him in Trelowen when there was no prospect of victory. “As you wish. But it is deeper than I had thought.”
He fiddled with the single ring he wore. “Courtesy of this.”
She glanced at it—a silver band with oval bezel, engraved with an ornate Y. “Is it a signet?”
He laughed softly. “Fourth sons do not receive family heirlooms, Lady Radcliffe.” He looked at it evaluatively, as though unsure what he thought of it. “I had it made myself.”
Her eyes lifted to his curiously. “For what occasion?” She returned to her task, but with every dab of the wet cloth, fresh blood seemed ready to take the place of whatever she had cleaned.
“No occasion. Simply as a reminder to myself.”
She wetted the rag in the bowl, then wrung it out. “Reminder of what?”
He fiddled with the ring more. “That I mustmake my own way in this world. I have no legacy to leave but the one I create.”
Caroline’s hands slowed. It was strange to hear him talk of such things—to gain a sliver of insight into what lay behind the facade. In the garden, he had said he regretted mentioning his brother’s influence and that he did not intend to utilize it for his own benefit; this ring seemed to be evidence he meant it.
“I did not say that to receive pity from you,” he said with a hint of amusement.
She placed a hand under his chin and dabbed at his injury. His jaw was rough, not just with sand but stubble. The feeling was similar but distinct enough that her fingers itched to explore it.
