Page 80 of Rival to Resist
Jory glanced in her direction, then hesitated.
She had been more distant with Frederick over the past couple of days—less warm, more aloof. At first, he hadattributed the change to fatigue—or even his own sensitivity. But it had persisted.
He was still trying to decide whether to give up his campaign in Trelowen, and Mrs. Tonkin’s support had been the only consistent one since his arrival. He worried perhaps that even that was waning.
“I can manage.” Frederick put out his hands for the reins.
Jory looked doubtful. “Do ’ee know ’ow to?—”
“Yes,” Frederick said, amused. “I have brushed down a horse or two in my day.”
“Jory!” Mrs. Tonkin’s tone increased in impatience.
He handed the reins to Frederick and ran off to his aunt, seeming to think the risk of Frederick’s incompetence a price worth paying to avoid his aunt’s ire.
Frederick led Flint into the stables and looped the reins through the iron ring next to the tack room.
He shrugged off his coat and laid it over the nearby chair, then got to work removing the tack. Once that was done, he found a brush in the tack room, rolled up his sleeves, and began the methodical work of brushing down Flint.
His gaze flitted to Lady Radcliffe’s horse now and then, his curiosity burning steadily.
Had she wanted to see him?
If so, he would remain here, brushing Flint until the hair gleamed like silk just for the chance to see her.
If not…
It had been everything he could do to respect the space she had requested. Having her within reach but choosing to maintain the distance was torture. Perhaps he had been overeager in sharing his regard for her. Subtlety had never been a strong suit of his.
He finished brushing Flint, then led him to his stall. He latched it, then ran a hand through his hair, frowning at thestraw-laden floor as he entered the tack room to put away the brush.
“Frederick?”
He went still, wondering if he had imagined it—imagined her voice saying his name. NotMr. YorkebutFrederick.
Heart thudding like a war drum, he walked to the door of the tack room and peered out.
Silhouetted against the light outside was Caroline.
Her gaze fixed on him, and for a time, they stared at one another. There was something curious about the way she looked at him.
“Did you build the stile for Eliza?” she asked.
Frederick’s heart stuttered at the abrupt and unexpected question.
Caroline took a few steps toward him, and as she drew nearer, he could see her expression more clearly under the shadow of her bonnet and the muddy light of the tack room. It was intent, serious, her brows bunched together.
She stopped a few feet shy of him. “Did you?” she repeated, more insistent. She seemed almost…upset.
This was not how he had imagined their next encounter.
He tightened his hold on the brush and met her gaze squarely. “Yes.”
There was a pause as she stared at him. She took one step toward him, then another.
A strange, intense energy emanated from her as her head tipped up to maintain their gaze.
Frederick forced his breath to come and go steadily—in and out, in and out—as her eyes searched his face for what felt an eternity.
