Her mother peeked her head around the door before opening it fully, a bright smile on her face, which immediately sent concern spearing through Millie. “You have a visitor, darling.”
“Oh?” Hope flared briefly in her chest before she managed to snuff it out. The caller would not be Winston, no matter how she wished it were.
That he’d left the ball directly after they’d been interrupted hurt. She’d hoped he would come inside and ask her to dance, and they’d have more time together. The opportunities to do so were rare, and it felt as if his choice not to do so reflected on her and his feelings—or lack thereof—for her. That she wasn’t desirable enough for him to want to attend.
“Viscount Dunthorpe is calling.”
Millie’s stomach pitched alarmingly. “Mother—” she began, certain her parents had something to do with his presence.
“I know you said you weren’t ready,” her mother interrupted before Millie could finish, “but these things can’t always be planned to a schedule.”
“I suppose, but I am not prepared to consider him as a potential suitor.” Hadn’t she already made her feelings clear?
Her mother’s continuing smile filled Millie with unease. “If he has realized he holds admiration for you, then all the better. Perhaps nature will take its course.”
Millie frowned, uncertain precisely what her mother meant. “As I said before, I would rather wait until later in the Season before Father considers arranging a match.”
“Millie.” Her mother’s firm tone had her bracing for a lecture. “You are nearly seven and twenty. Time is the one commodity you don’t have.” She crossed the room to pull the bell, then strode toward the wardrobe. “Now then, what shall you wear?”
Millie heaved a sigh, put down her pen, and recapped her inkwell. She reluctantly rose and glanced at her ecru gown. Though simple in design and a few years old, she liked it. “Surely what I have on is sufficient.”
Her mother gave it a brief glance then nodded at the maid, who had paused in the open doorway. “Alice, can you please help Millie change? She has a gentleman caller.”
“I’d be delighted, madam.” Alice sent Millie an excited look only to have her expression fall once she noted her mistress’s lack of excitement. “What of the pink striped gown?” she asked as she moved to the wardrobe.
“Excellent suggestion.” Her mother nodded in approval. “Tidy her hair as well, please. And do hurry. We don’t want to leave the viscount waiting for long.”
With that, she departed.
Alice retrieved the gown and sent Millie a sympathetic look. “A viscount? Not the marquess, then?” she whispered as Millie joined her near the dressing screen.
“Viscount Dunthorpe, to be precise.”
“How disappointing.” The ever-efficient maid quickly unbuttoned Millie’s gown and assisted her into the new one even while murmuring in sympathy.
Within a quarter of an hour, Millie descended the stairs and entered the drawing room, unsurprised to see her mother visiting with Dunthorpe. No doubt she was concerned about what Millie might say if she didn’t watch over them.
Dunthorpe pushed to his feet as she entered the room, looking her over from head to toe, which left her wondering what he saw. “Good afternoon, Miss Davies.”
Millie paused to curtsy, while he bowed. “How kind of you to call, my lord.” She managed a polite smile before sitting in a nearby chair. “Such lovely weather we’re having today.”
“It is, indeed.” He returned to his seat, glancing between her and her mother. “I had a nice ride in Hyde Park this morning.”
The conversation continued in a halting manner, and it seemed as if Dunthorpe was trying to be on his best behavior. While the topics he raised weren’t especially riveting, he made an attempt to be engaging.
She couldn’t help but think how easy it was to talk to Winston. He made her laugh and made her think. She looked forward to speaking with him, and it was never a trial, unlike the present conversation.
“Isn’t that right, Millie?” Her mother sent her a pointed look that made her realize she’d lost track of the conversation, something that would earn her reproof from her mother later.
“My apologies. I’m afraid I was woolgathering.”
Sure enough, a hard glint flashed in her mother’s eyes. “The viscount was mentioning how delightful garden parties are, and I said that we enjoy them as well.”
She sent Dunthorpe a questioning look before she could think better of it, not believing for a moment that he enjoyed them. His cheeks took on a ruddy hue as if he guessed her doubt.
“We do,” she agreed. “Is there a particular flower you admire?” A part of her felt compelled to press him for details to catch him in the lie.
His brown eyes widened in surprise. “I can’t say that I know the name of any, but I admire them all the same.”