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Wesley let out a breath of relief.

“Splendid!” Lady Dalmeer cheered. “How very chaste, my dear.”

Miss Stroud left to join her parents on the other side of the room, shooting Wesley a coy look once she had planted herself beside her mother. The attention from the rest of the room returned to Lady Dalmeer’s back and the sprig of mistletoe they were trying to steal.

“She is certainly covering disappointment,” Millie muttered.

Wesley had forgotten she stood at his side. “What do you mean? Who is covering disappointment?”

“Lady Dalmeer. I am certain as soon as Miss Stroud mentioned a kiss, she was utterly delighted. Her grand schemes were proving successful.”

“You are strange.”

“On the contrary, I am merely aware of how dearly our hostess wishes every unmarried man or woman will leave this house party engaged. She wants to fix our maladies.”

Wesley agreed with her, but pressing her for more information was more entertaining. “Being single is a malady?”

“To the countess—and my mother—it certainly seems to be.” Millie fought a yawn. “Which is why I refuse to put effort into this game. I plan to find a husband on my own terms. I would like to do so soon, but I do not need Lady Dalmeer’s assistance.”

“Of course you don’t,” Wesley muttered.

“What do you mean by that?” Millie peered at him, her brown eyes deep and narrowed.

“You are clever, beautiful, and determined. You will have no trouble finding a husband when you set your mind to it.”

Millie blinked at him.

He tore his attention away and watched the game, but his mind was thoroughly on Millie. Had he spoken too freely? He’d meant every word, but given the way she continued to stare at him, he had perhaps gone too far.

Chapter Eight

The Christmas morning church service had gone over the usual allotted time, made entertaining when the majority of the sermon was nothing more than a plea to the parishioners to invite the vicar to dinner, gilded in scripture. Mr. Tomlinson, the widower who led Lady Dalmeer’s congregation, was clearly lonely, and possibly in search of a new wife. By all appearances, Lady Dalmeer would not mind stepping into that role.

Millie somehow found herself on a pew sandwiched between Wesley and Mr. Hawthorne, a dark-haired gentleman with a fine talent for tying his neckcloth and a handsome countenance. He had not said much before the service beyond a brief greeting, but his smile was overly friendly. When Mr. Tomlinson had waxed at length about the Christian duty to practice hospitality, Mr. Hawthorne had turned to look at her with decided amusement.

Had they been sharing in the joke? The very notion had sent Millie’s head spinning for the remainder of the service. She had continued to sneak looks at him for the following forty minutes, but he had not again set his attention on her.

Now that the service had ended, people were filing out of the pews, and Millie could not help but wonder how to determine if this man was the author of her secret notes—if that brief knowing look was a message she was meant to properly interpret.

“Do you think the vicar would like Lady Dalmeer to extend an invitation to dinner?” Wesley asked, leaning close and lowering his voice as they stood.

Gooseflesh raised on Millie’s arms as his soft breath tickled her ear. She noted how handsome he looked in his burgundy waistcoat and flawless cravat, brown coat buttoned snugly at his waist. His dark hair was tamed to the best of his ability, but the curls still fell where they wished.

“He has probably been inundated with invitations since coming down from his pulpit.”

“Why do you think so?”

“No one could miss his meaning. Besides, the man is very handsome. I am surprised he lacks for invitations at all.”

“Very handsome?” Wesley repeated, leaning back slightly to look at her better. His green eyes danced with amusement.

“Far too old for me, Wesley Prescott.” Millie’s cheeks warmed. “He could be my father. Objectively, I can state he is an attractive man…to older women.”

“It must be his prosing that makes the villagers hesitate, if he is so objectively handsome.”

Millie glanced down the aisle, which had mostly cleared of parishioners. Mr. Hawthorne was nowhere to be seen. “Drat, Wesleymere.”

“What have I done now, Mildred?”