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He’d received such condemnations before. Yet still, women fell for him after their typical scolding they always deemed necessary.

As such, he quirked another smile and drew closer, though she maintained her ground as he slowly spoke. “I can be any sort of gentleman a woman needs when she desires something more than conversation.”

She wrinkled her nose, disgust apparent in her eyes. “Unfortunately for your sake, sir, I am a woman who prefers conversation above all else. And I am a woman who knows that when a man relies on his supposed charm to impress a woman over his own intellect, it is always a warning that she ought to flee in the opposite direction, if only to save herself from dull experiences—whether that be speaking or something far more intimate—for both would prove to deaden her own intellect when engaging in such interactions with a man like you.”

She raised her chin ever higher. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, it is nearly dark, I am soaked in freezing water, and I should like to dry before I become ill. Good day, Mr. Cole.”

She spoke the last words with finality, then turned on her heel and marched away.

This time, Oliver let her leave. He maintained his smile until there was no danger of her turning around and catching his features as they slowly lowered.

He’d received scoldings before. From ladies, their mothers, his own mother. But never had his own intelligence been so thoroughly torn to pieces. Torn to pieces, crumpled into balls, then thrown out for the dogs to trample on and devour.

With a frown marring his brow, he returned to his horse and made for Applebury. He had no desire to follow the woman any longer. Nor did he wish to discover her name, where she lived, or what sort of business letters she’d been writing.

None of it mattered. Not her words. Not her opinion.

There would be less pretentious young ladies at the house party for him to enjoy. And he would revel in his own fortune that the woman from the river wouldn’t be in attendance, for he knew very well that she would spread the word instantly that a moment upon his lips would deaden a woman’s own intelligence.

And that rumor—true or not—would hardly lend him any favors.

Five

Clara didn’t bother to stifle her yawn as she climbed the steps toward the first floor. Despite her early start at five o’clock that morning, she was only on her eleventh bed chamber with four more to see to today. Harriet and a few other housemaids had their own assignments, but Clara did not see how they were to reasonably finish before the guests started to arrive.

“An hour after sunrise,” Mrs. Wintle had said. “No respectable lady or gentleman would arrive earlier than that, but we must be ready for the onslaught mid-morning and throughout the afternoon.”

Clara glanced out of the side window of the servants’ stairs. A blue winter’s dawn still marked the sky, but the warm, golden sun would not be far behind it. She needed to pick up her footing, taking the stairs at a faster gait.

She was grateful for the privacy the stairs allowed her. She would not wish to run into any of the guests who’d already arrived. The Viscount Weymouth, for example, and his new wife—about whom Clara had already overheard all the gossip.

“Did you hear, he came already married, having told no one he was even in pursuit of a woman?”

“Rumor has it, he and his bride knew one another long ago, though they haven’t seen one another in decades.”

Clara let the gossip in one ear and out the other. She was well accustomed to the ways of servants. Still, she did not believe it was anyone’s business what the family chose to do with their lives.

She had to admit, however, each time she learned another bit of news—like how Archibald Thorne, the Earl of Dalmeer, was not coming to his own mother’s house party—her mood received a significant boost.

Perhaps servants thrived on hearsay to keep the mundanity of their lives at bay.

Being genteel boasted its own form of boredom, but the freedoms held by the upper class could not be matched. How Clara missed the days of sitting with Mother and Father in their comfortable drawing room after dinner, reading before a warm fire as they finished off their tea and biscuits.

Those days were long gone now, though. Six years, to be precise. Her time with her parents at Wildefield had been replaced with stiff and cold Cliveley Park—with her stepfather gambling away his livelihood, and with Algernon peering down his nose at his family because he was far too intelligent to be associated with any of them.

With a shake of her head, Clara flicked the thoughts from her mind, arriving at the first floor. She no longer needed to dwell on Algernon or Cliveley Park. Not when she had rooms to clean.

Turning down a side corridor, she walked toward the small hall that provided entry to four separate rooms. She’d become turned around over and over again throughout her first few days at Bellthorne, but Harriet had helped her navigate the many passages and chambers—for which Clara was eternally grateful.

She readjusted the coal scuttle and kindling in her hands and entered the first room on her left, intending on moving clockwise as she cleaned each chamber.

Not one of the four ladies or gentlemen in this small hall had yet to arrive, but she knew her time was limited to ensure each space was warm and ready for Lady Dalmeer’s prized guests—especially the gentlemen.

Clara had already heard how the Countess of Dalmeer, who had been widowed for ten years, was holding the house party not only as a way to matchmake, but also to stroke her own ego by enjoying the attention she received from a bundle of amiable, attractive young men.

She couldn’t blame the woman. Who wouldn’t want the attention of a handsome man after so long alone?

Excepting Clara, of course, as was evident with her time with Mr. Oliver Cole.