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“Devil take it.”
Oliver nodded, then tossed his snowball at the tree with less force. “You have not been writing the notes, then.”
Wesley’s brow lifted. “You thought it was me?”
Oliver shrugged. “You clearly have feelings for Millie.”
“She does not agree.”
“Ah.” Oliver nodded slowly. “Is it safe to assume, by the way you are sulking, that my cousin refused you?”
“It would be more accurate to say she did not believe me when I told her how I felt.”
“Well, that is interesting.”
“I find it frustrating, rather.”
“How do you intend to change her mind?”
Wesley bent for another handful of snow and packed it between his hands, watching it come together. “I have been leaving some distance between us.”
“That certainly seems like the best way to win her over,” Oliver said dryly.
Wesley shot him an unamused look. “I had assumed opening my heart to the woman would be enough to win her over.”
Oliver laughed, the sound drawing the attention of those nearby. He brushed his gloved hands together to rid them of excess snow and stepped closer to Wesley so he could speak more privately. “I am not married, and I have not successfully courted a woman into accepting a proposal, but I can tell you this—you will not win any hearts by keeping to the shadows and letting other men woo her.”
“I have been nearby for most of the day. I would not say I have kept to any shadows.”
“Did you talk to her? Approach her?”
“Not much, I suppose.” Wesley leaned down for another handful of snow and formed it into a ball. He threw it at the tree but missed, and it landed on the ground with a pathetic plop.
He stared at the failure and considered whether he should have spoken to Millie about his feelings at all. But he could not change the past, and he did not regret speaking those things. They were true. He had hoped his character would prove to Millie he had meant every word he had uttered, but Oliver was correct: standing back and remaining a constant friend was not going to prove anything.
Wesley needed to do something. “What do you recommend?”
Oliver rested a hand on his hip and looked across the snowy lawn at his cousin as though considering the question. “She loves poetry.”
“I am no poet.”
“No, but there are plenty of already-written verses to choose from. We already know she finds her secret notes to be extraordinarily romantic. It seems to me it should not be terribly hard, Prescott.”
Wesley threw his final snowball at Oliver’s chest. “Thank you for the advice.”
“You have a fine way of showing gratitude.” Oliver brushed the lingering snow from his coat. He grinned. “But it was my pleasure.”
“Oh, Mr. Cole!” Miss Bowles called—Oliver’s relentless admirer.
“Perhaps if I do not look, she will think I have not heard her.”
“The entire house party heard her, Oliver,” Wesley said dryly.
Miss Bowles repeated his name, louder this time.
He grimaced. “Evidently, I am needed. Good luck, Wesley.” He shot Wesley an expression of long suffering before going to meet Miss Bowles with a strained smile on his face.
Wesley picked up another handful of snow, packing it into a ball as he watched the man walk away. His attention slid to Millie, laughing with the Strouds at the face they were putting on their snow puppet. He felt the driving need deep in his stomach to go to her, to be the reason she laughed, but he pressed it down and focused on throwing his snowball instead.
