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She wondered if she should scurry downstairs, but then, she’d already finished her duties that night. Mr. Hurst took issue with her looking at the stars on Christmas Eve for her departed father...he could keep his issue to himself.

Footsteps slid closer down the steps, creaking wood with each movement until she turned to face the butler with an innocent expression.

Only, it wasn’t Mr. Hurst.

It was Mr. Cole.

And he was looking just as stunned as she was.

Fourteen

Oliver froze. “Clara?”

“What are you doing here?” she whispered, her eyes wide as she stood from her place in the windowsill.

She glanced down the stairs, then back at him.

Oliver had an innocent enough reason to be there in the servants’ stairs, and yet, he was so surprised to see Clara, he struggled to explain himself. “I...I was hungry.”

She frowned, the look in her eyes shifting to accusation. “So soon after dinner?”

Dinner...What an utter fiasco that had been. He’d lost his appetite with Miss Bowles inundating him once again—speaking in even greater detail of her love of orangeries, how she knew their group would win the decoration competition, and how she couldn’t wait to find time alone with Oliver so he might ask her anything he would like to.

As alarming as that prospect sounded.

“I did not manage to eat very much,” he defended weakly.

She crossed her arms, dropping her eyes down his front.

He lowered his gaze, only then remembering that he’d removed his cravat, and while he’d kept his waistcoat on halfway unbuttoned, his shirt hung open at the top of his chest.

Why did he always appear like this in front of her?

“So you thought to find food in the dead of night like a common thief?” she asked. “I hardly believe that is the real reason you’ve come down here, Mr. Cole.”

Oliver stared. “You believe I came down here to find you?”

She raised her eyebrows, daring him to contradict her.

He had a mind to play up her accusation, but allowing her to believe him capable of such a brazen act would cause her to lose what little respect for him she had.

If she had any...

“I assure you, Clara,” he began, “I came down here solely for food. I’ve done so the last couple of nights. Lord Dalmeer informed me of Mrs. Jennet’s generosity, so I chanced my fortune one evening by asking the cook for an extra plate before bed. She acquiesced and ever since bade me to come for a plate whenever I desired it.” He paused. “I truly had no notion you would be here. Why...why are you here?”

She still eyed him suspiciously, but he couldn’t blame her. After the way she’d been treated by the other gentleman last summer—and then by Oliver himself—it would be a miracle if she ever trusted another man again.

“I was on my way to my room,” she finally replied.

The light of the moon shone through the glass, and the candlestick still sitting on the window well flickered behind her, causing a halo to shine around her blonde hair.

“You sleep downstairs?” he asked.

“Yes, with the rest of the temporary maids.”

She was a temporary maid? He hadn’t any idea.

“Why did you not eat?” she asked. Her guard appeared to have lowered, but only to a small degree. “Surely you could have found something to enjoy with such a large meal.”