It was the same house she had lived in for years, but it felt suddenly different, as though the wind had carried Mr. Yorke’s kisses and confessions before her, permeating every room and corner with his essence.
She took the stairs quickly, half-expecting him to appear at the top with that breath-stealing smile of his.
A glance through the window as she adjusted a pin in her hair brought her heart to a sudden halt at the sight of a top hat bobbing up and down on the approach to Trevenna.
Only a second longer was needed to inform her that it was not Mr. Yorke but Oswald.
Her chest tightened. She had not seen him since his last call when they had quarreled—when he had told her to stop associating with Mr. Yorke.
Well…she had certainly not donethat.
Her cheeks grew hot as she thought on the kiss, for she could not remember whether she or he had been the one to initiate it. She had the creeping and unsettling sense that it had been she.
She waited for her cheeks to cool and her thoughts to settle before descending to see Oswald, but even once she had managed those things, there was a prickling guilt that lingered. A sense of betrayal of which she could not rid herself.
Oswald had his hat in his hands and his back to her when she entered the drawing room. He turned quickly, his eyes wide and his gaze almost hesitant as they met hers.
“My lady,” he said.
“Oswald.” She inclined her head and kept her tone even, for she was not certain of the purpose of his call and worried the kiss on the beach might be written on her face.
He gripped the brim of his hat tightly. “I have come to apologize.”
Her brows went up. “Oh?”
He nodded. “I have been sick over our last conversation.”
She kept her gaze on him but said nothing, for she could not claim the same. Did that make her heartless? He had been working to ensure Eliza was able to access the stream again while she had been flirting with Mr. Yorke. He had been in pain while Mr. Yorke had been kissing her until she was ready to give him anything. Everything.
“I should not have presumed to speak with Mr. Curnow as I did,” Oswald continued. “And it was poorly done of me to instruct you on your behavior.”
Caroline shifted her weight, trying not to imagine what he would think of her behavior since then. When he had criticized her, her hackles had risen. Now that he was apologizing forhis, she wondered if she had let her pride drive her into doing things she would come to regret.
It was difficult, however, to imagine regretting those moments on the beach.
“It was not my place,” Oswald said. “I pray you will forgive me. You must know how deeply I admire and respect you.”
Caroline let out a breath and smiled, any lingering frustration melting away. “Of course I forgive you.” She put out her hands. “You have been a dear friend to me, Oswald, and I trust I may count you one still.”
He regarded her for a moment, then smiled and took her hands. “Always.”
“I have been meaning to thank you.”
“For what?”
“The stile,” she said. “It has made Eliza’s life immeasurably easier, and I cannot tell you how much I appreciate it, for her happiness is very important to me.”
He searched her face, then squeezed her hands. “It was nothing.”
Caroline let his hands drop. “It was not nothing to me. And certainly not to her. Now, tell me”—she gestured for him to take a seat—“what news have you since we last spoke?”
Tea was called for, and Oswald recounted some of what he had been doing since their last meeting—progress on the mine, news from his sister, and a great deal of correspondence.
Caroline felt a sense of comfort in the familiar conversation between them. Was there not a great deal to be said for this type of relationship? It was not heart-stopping, but it was restful and comforting.
If Mr. Yorke was a cliff, drawing her to its magnificent views, Oswald was a friendly path, inviting her to walk its gentle, well-trodden ground.
“What of you?” Oswald asked, sipping from his cup. “Have you been agreeably engaged?”
