Page 20 of The Secret Suitor

“I have never seen it before.” He raised his gaze to her eyes. “But I will watch for it.”

“You have been utterly useless thus far, Wesley.”

He cracked a smile. “My apologies.”

She took her letter and tucked it into her pocket.

“Come, Miss Hollis,” Wesley said, offering his elbow. “Your Mr. Stroud awaits.”

She glared but took his arm, and let him lead her to the drawing room to meet the rest of the party for dinner.

Mr. Stroud talked extensively at dinner of his most recent interest: music composition. He had been working on a song to play at the musicale and alluded to it being a redemption of his skills.

Music was a perfectly average pastime, but Millie found herself wishing to speak of nearly anything else. The way he droned on, however, made it clear he had no talent for poetry composition. If she had allowed herself any room to consider that he might be the author of the note she received earlier that evening, Mr. Stroud had valiantly put those thoughts to rest.

“Music composition is a pursuit for gentlemen as much as it is for women,” he said, looking hesitantly upon her as though awaiting judgment.

Millie set down her fork and knife, startled. Of course men composed music. Mozart, Handel, and Clementi came to her mind unbidden. This was part of the reason Mr. Stroud had not appealed to her when they met in London. He lacked confidence to an irritating degree. Millie knew there was a woman out there for him, a quiet, meek woman who would enjoy his gentle demeanor. But that woman was not her.

“You need not prove yourself to anyone, Mr. Stroud,” Millie said, pressing her napkin to her lips. She glanced to her other side in the hope that Mr. Kendrick would pull her into conversation, but he was occupied by the woman sitting on his other side—Mrs. Bowles. Suppressing a sigh, Millie set her smile upon Mr. Stroud again. “I look forward to hearing your song. I enjoy pianoforte music greatly.”

“Do you play?”

“A little. Not very well. I am more inclined to sing when someone else plays, but even then, I am not talented. I simply enjoy it.”

“You are being modest, are you not?”

“I promise you, I am not.” She laughed lightly, her gaze drawing across the table without her consent. Miss Stroud was leaning toward Wesley as she spoke to him. Perhaps being obvious in her intentions was her goal. From across the table, however, it appeared she was making an utter cake of herself.

“Perhaps I can play the song for you, Miss Hollis,” Mr. Stroud said. “You might have notes for it.”

Her gaze was torn away from Wesley and his insufferable shadow. Play the song for her alone? Was he trying to give her a hint? “I am not sure how helpful I would be.”

Mr. Stroud’s gaze entreated her. “It would ease my nerves to play the song for a small party before I need to play it for the entirety of the house.”

Millie looked at him, worried her attention would give the false impression she was interested in a relationship beyond friendship. She chewed on her lip, searching for a way out of this agreement.

She was not thinking swiftly enough. Mr. Stroud waited patiently until she had no other recourse but to accept. “I would be happy to listen to your song, Mr. Stroud. Perhaps my sister and brother-in-law would enjoy it as well. My sister is the true musical talent in the family.”

“They would be most welcome.”

Millie reached for her glass and took a long swallow. It occurred to her that if Mr. Stroud was her secret admirer, and she had dismissed him prematurely, her actions only proved to give him hope.

The only thing for it was to determine with finality if he was the man leaving her notes. Dinner would be ending soon, so she needed to act quickly.

“Tell me, Mr. Stroud, when was the last time you had chestnuts?”

“Chestnuts?” he repeated.

“They are delicious when roasted.”

“Yes, of course. I enjoy a hot chestnut on occasion.”

Millie stared into his eyes, hoping for some recognition, a spark of something that implied he had penned the line about her hair and chestnuts. Or, rather, hoping not to see any sort of spark.

His eyes remained blessedly blank.

“What of poetry, Mr. Stroud?”