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The curve of her lips had returned, pulling him back to the conversation from before. He longed to keep his focus on her—her past, her family, her reasons for needing to be at Bellthorne beyond needing pay—but she was a closed book.
His only hope of opening that book was, perhaps, by being open himself.
“Very well,” he said. “I will admit it. I came to Bellthorne with the intent to kiss as many women as possible.”
He drew a step closer to the window, causing her to shift so the light caught her features more fully. Candlelight glistened in her blue eyes as they tracked his every move.
“However,” he continued, “just as I can admit to that, I can also admit that your thorough scolding of me at the river has affected me so deeply, I no longer take the same pleasure as I once did in my pursuit of a woman.”
Excepting, of course, his harmless pursuit of Clara. He’d felt greater, more prolonged joy in the few moments he’d spent with her than he had with any woman he had ever kissed—combined.
Ever since her words at the river, his motivations toward other women had dissipated. But it wasn’t until she’d told him of how she’d been put upon by a man that Oliver’s spirit had been thoroughly crushed. How many women did he know who’d had the same experience as Clara? And how many of those same women had felt coerced into saying yes to kiss him?
The very notion sickened him to the point of self-loathing. How had he never considered such a thing before now? How could he have allowed himself to behave and appear as such a despicable creature?
No matter his reasoning, his years of ignorance and denial were finished forever.
He was only relieved he’d never gone so far with Clara that he could not take back any actions.
He eyed her from where she stood across from him, two steps down from his own, and was surprised to find a bright smile upon her lips.
“Why are you so jolly after my confession?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.
“Because of what you said.”
“That I take no pleasure in kissing any longer?”
Her smile grew as she nodded. “I thought I saw a sliver of goodness and respectability within you, and I’m pleased to know I am still as good a judge of character as I always have been.”
Oliver had never felt such humbling pride. She thought him good? Respectable, even? He wasn’t sure what to do with the information. Before, he would have used it to his advantage. To flirt with her to receive what he wanted.
And yet, while he was still a man who noticed her beauty and regality, he no longer had the compulsion to have his way with her. Instead, his impulse was to engage her in conversation for longer, to get to know her, and to earn her trust.
Who was this new Oliver Cole who felt more satisfaction from a conversation and an earned smile than an easy kiss? He did not recognize himself in the slightest, yet he welcomed him with open arms.
“Do not let such a compliment puff you up, sir,” Clara warned. “You know I can just as easily bring you down again.”
How well he did know that. And yet...“How can I not feel pleased at such words when delivered by someone like you?”
She scoffed, their voices still low. “Yes, because housemaids’ opinions are typically taken with the highest regard.”
Her hair tapped against her temple again, casting a delicate shadow over her long eyelashes.
“But you’re not just any maid, are you?” he asked in a whisper. “Will tonight be the night you finally tell me the truth, Clara Hunt?”
Fifteen
Clara immediately shook her head, though she softened it with a smile. “No, sir, it is not the night.”
She would never tell him why she was at Bellthorne—that the maid he was speaking with right now in the dead of night was once a lady, now risking a scandal to be free from the clutches of her stepbrother.
In truth, she shouldn’t even be speaking with him right now.
He dropped his chin. “When I seek answers, my charm always finds a way.”
“And if I am immune to your charm?”
“Then I shall try a different route.” He took a step lower to stand on the one just above hers. “Perhaps I shall simply beg.”
