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That Clara had a great deal of gumption to do this to a gentleman’s cravat. He had plenty of cravats, so losing one to coal was of no matter to him, but any other man would have already made his complaints and requested to have her dismissed immediately.

She certainly knew her audience.

Oliver folded the soiled cravat neatly, then tucked it into the top drawer of his writing desk beneath his papers.

He’d be keeping that cravat for the foreseeable future, if only to give him a boost when he needed one after dinner with Miss Bowles. And after decorating with Miss Bowles. And after parlor games with Miss Bowles.

Heavens. Is this how some women felt about his pursuit of them? He sincerely regretted his actions if that was the case.

Did Clara feel that way?

His brow furrowed at the thought, but he swiftly talked himself out of it. She would not have retaliated in such a way—she would not linger near him the way she did—if she truly despised his attention.

Now...How to seek his revenge against the maid next?

Twelve

Clara stood atop the ladder in the library, holding the kissing bough as high as she could against the top of the bookshelf.

The room was as grand as any library Clara had ever seen. It was two stories high with a balcony pathway around the upper-level, and books of every genre, shape, size, and color decorated the dozens of shelves.

Two chandeliers hung low to light the white furnishings and brown walls, but what stole attention more than anything was the pastel painting across the ceiling, depicting angels in heaven and lit by the great window at the far side of the room.

When compared to such a glorious spectacle, any added greenery wasn’t entirely necessary.

But Miss Bowles was determined anyway.

“No, it must be higher,” Miss Bowles complained as Clara strained to reach higher. “Otherwise anyone could simply remove it or spot it at once. Hidden kissing boughs are the most fun. Are they not, Mr. Cole?”

Mr. Cole didn’t reply. Instead, he focused harder on the boughs of hawthorn on a nearby settee as he tried to separate them. Was it just Clara, or did it seem as if he was pretending he hadn’t heard the question?

Clara faced the bookshelf again, the feeling from her arm fading away. “I’m afraid this is as far as I can reach, Miss Bowles.”

Miss Bowles sighed heavily. “Very well. You may place it there.” She turned to her mother. “This is why I requested the taller footman. How did we end up with this maid again?”

“I’m sorry, dear,” Mrs. Bowles whispered, “but a woman has got to have more sense than a man in decorating. Even if she is but a housemaid.”

Clara hid her exasperation. She and Mother had decorated their own home, Wildefield, together before Father had died. Every year, it had been glorious—a veritable wonderland of red and white and green.

All of the Bowles’s ideas were simple, rudimentary, and unnoteworthy. Twenty kissing balls fashioned in a haphazard manner, boughs of hawthorn as sparse as a featherless chicken, and mistletoe void of any of their signature berries.

Clara wasn’t going to suggest doing anything else. She didn’t want any part of helping the family win. As petty as that was, she didn’t care any longer.

Two more days. Two more days and she’d be off for an hour or two, long enough to finally deliver those letters to the solicitors she prayed knew her father. They would hopefully bring her closer to her freedom—and Mother’s.

“Very well, that will do,” Miss Bowles said with a dejected sigh. “If only I could climb up there myself, then it could be done properly.”

“Why do you not?” Mr. Cole offered, still examining the boughs.

He seemed to realize he’d just revealed his paying attention, looked up in surprise, then smiled to soften his words.

“I cannot risk the fall, of course,” Miss Bowles said incredulously, obviously offended that the man she was obsessed with would offer such a thing.

Mr. Cole went back to observing the branches without a word.

He looked exceptionally fine today. His hair was more windswept than usual, and the dark blue of his vest gave him a devil-may-care appearance—which was amplified by his actual personality that exuded the same.

Clara climbed down from the ladder when Miss Bowles instructed her to, then held up more boughs of greenery for the persnickety woman to decide upon.