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He was obviously upset with Clara’s fall, as well. Though at least he was gentlemanly enough not to have laughed.

“Really, Mr. Cole, I do not wish for you to get left behind from your group,” she pressed.

He was helping her too greatly, having picked up three times as many branches as she had due to his stride, long arms, and strong grip.

“I know the way back to the house.”

He continued his gathering, but Clara stood, catching Miss Bowles’s eye upon them again—calculating, condemning—and Clara’s stomach churned. The woman couldn’t be crossed. Which meant she also couldn’t think anything was going on between Clara and Mr. Cole. Everything would be ruined. Clara would have to find another place of work. Or worse, she’d have to resort to the workhouse where she’d die of starvation, never to see Mother again.

Algernon would be victor over all.

“Please,” she suddenly snapped, and Mr. Cole stopped, looking up at her. “I can manage on my own.”

He hesitated, his brow low over his cold eyes. Then he bowed and extended her the basket he’d already filled.

“Very well,” he said as she attempted to snatch the basket away from his grasp, but he held fast. “But this is not over yet, Clara.”

Her heart rapped against her chest. What on earth did that mean? What was not over?

He released his hold of the basket, then walked swiftly away to catch up with Miss Bowles.

Clara followed after them with their baskets in hand, though her thoughts were still behind her on what exactly Mr. Cole could have meant.

Because the more she thought of it, the more she could not decipher his meaning, and that was more concerning than anything.

Ten

Oliver spooned another mouthful of white soup into his mouth, trying to savor the taste of the rich broth, but Miss Bowles’s constant chatter was making it rather difficult.

“Then I told them—Well, I’m sure you can imagine, but I shall tell you anyway—I told them I could not live without an orangery, and to suggest that we remove ours to replace it with a conservatory was an offense on par with wearing a sullied bonnet to church. I could not, in good conscience, allow the change to occur, especially in my own home. Never mind that the conservatories are brighter from every angle. I cannot and will never trust a building constructed of mere glass to one fortified by masonry and all manner of fine craftsmanship. I daresay I...”

The woman continued, but Oliver’s attention faded away again. How he regretted ever smiling at her at the inn. Little did he know that coy creature across the way who’d blushed could turn into someone who could speak so...prolifically.

He’d thought himself fortunate to have been seated by her and to have captured her attention so fully, but after another meal, after their shared peck of a kiss—that had been less enjoyable than a splinter beneath one’s fingernail—and after her treatment of Clara, and his own, his senses had finally aligned.

His attraction to Miss Bowles was nonexistent.

Now, even the mere sight of her forced, demure grin was enough to gag him. She ought to be avoided more than Hannah Radcliffe. The innkeeper’s daughter had wanted his attention for an evening. Miss Bowles wanted a lifetime of it.

Of course his family would wish to see if marriage was possible. She was of good breeding and well-mannered enough—unless he thought of her treatment of servants. But if he couldn’t stomach a mere dinner with her, how could he manage a marriage with her?

At any rate, Oliver hadn’t come to the party to find someone to wed. He’d come to enjoy his final weeks of bachelorhood. Now he’d have to dissuade Miss Bowles as he had other women.

It was time to reduce his charm.

“Then my mother had the gall to suggest the fruit would taste better in a conservatory,” Miss Bowles continued. “To think she knows more of fruit trees than I, a proficient...”

Oliver continued nodding, but he was fully disengaged at this point. He’d rather listen to her ladyship discuss the recent matches she was making. He’d rather listen to George mope about his lost love—which he was still doing, incidentally enough. Oliver would even rather listen to his little sisters speak of their latest bonnet trimmings.

A smile curved his lips at the thought of them. How he missed them and their innocent tattle. If he did ever find someone to marry, it would have to be a woman whom he knew would find joy in his sisters’ conversation as greatly as he did—or at least pretend to do so.

Miss Bowles would think they were far too silly to pay attention to.

“And I never thought I’d have to tell my own father that orangeries are the future, far more than conservatories. To think that...”

Truthfully, death might be preferable to this slow torture Miss Bowles was putting him through at the moment.

“Cousin?”