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She nodded in silence, glancing over her shoulder. Was she looking for someone? Or staring in the direction of her home, perhaps? He needed to speak before he lost her.

“Where are my manners?” he asked with a smile. “Mr. Oliver Cole, at your service.”

He bowed, and she curtsied but did so with a wary eye. “One would argue introducing oneself to a young woman would not prove that one has manners,” she said.

With a chuckle, he couldn’t help but agree. “I trust you are well after your little spill?”

“Yes, but I was far better when I wasn’t up to my elbows in freezing water.”

Again, he grinned. She had a mouth on her. He’d always admired that in a woman. He only ever seemed to experience it with those in the lower class, however. Shame. Having a retort to everything a person said kept spirits alive and always at the ready.

“Might I offer you my overcoat while I see you home safely?” he asked, lumping the two together on purpose.

She seemed to catch on in an instant. “Neither will be necessary. Thank you for your assistance, but I must take my leave now, sir. Good day.”

She bobbed another swift curtsy, then made her way up the bank. Oliver watched her in silence for a moment.

She was an intriguing woman. She spoke and held herself with great elegance for a tradesman’s daughter or for a servant—unless, of course, he was mistaken and her father was a gentleman. Perhaps she’d be attending the house party, as well. Wouldn’t that be a treat?

Scurrying after her, he removed his hat. “Forgive me, but will you not tell me your name or perhaps let me know where you live so I might call upon you at a later date to ensure you are well?”

He had no intention of calling on her—or remembering her name. But knowing what she was called would make matters much easier as he tried to coax a kiss from her pretty lips.

He’d learned that over the years, too.

As he expected, she did not stop her climb up the bank, mud clinging to her boots and to the bottom of her hem. “Thank you, but I should like to keep both to myself.”

She certainly was harder to crack than Hannah Radcliffe. The innkeeper’s daughter didn’t even have a shell to remove. This woman, however, seemed to have it sealed securely under lock and key.

“Then might you allow me to escort you back to ensure your safe arrival?” he offered next.

He needed her to accept his offer of help. Then along the way, he could soften her further before encouraging her into the shelter of a nearby thicket of trees where the two might warm each other with an embrace and locked lips.

The very image of holding a woman as gorgeous as her was enough to flush heat through his chest. He was certain he could convince the woman to want the same from him.

She stopped at the top of the embankment, the trees still hiding them from the road as she turned to face him. “I was perfectly capable of finding my way to the river alone. I believe I am more than capable of finding my way from it.”

“But—”

“And do not think that you might follow me home either from a distance,” she interrupted. “My-my father will surely have words to say against you if you do so.”

The slight hesitation in her words produced another smile from Oliver. She was lying. He wasn’t sure about what exactly, but after years of pursuing women, he’d learned their tells rather deftly.

“Very well, I shan’t follow you home,” he began. “So long as you tell me why ink stains your fingers so.”

This inquiry had very little to do with seducing her and everything to do with his own curiosity.

“How am I to trust you will uphold your end of the bargain?” she asked.

Her quivering chin had ceased, and he was glad of it. He wouldn’t wish to keep her out there any longer than necessary. At any rate, in but a few moments, she would surely be back at home with a warm fire, comforted by her family.

“Because I am a gentleman,” he returned.

She coughed, which sounded suspiciously like a scoff. “That hardly means anything anymore,” she mumbled, her blue eyes hard. “But very well. The ink would not wash off because I have only now just spent the last six hours writing.”

His intrigue had expanded like the setting sun, casting long, warm rays of golden light across the fields beyond the trees. Frost still gripped most of the grass, causing the blades to glisten with the shimmering of a thousand diamonds.

But Oliver was too captured by this woman to focus much on anything else. “Good heavens,” he began. “Six hours? What writing, pray tell, demanded such attention?”