Barrisford’s introduction registered only as the visitor bowed to Susannah.
Will Dorning, not the Earl of Casriel, not one of the younger brothers. Willow Grove Dorning himself. Susannah had both looked for and avoided him for years.
“My Lady Susannah, good day,” he said. “A pleasure to see you again. Won’t you introduce me to your sister?”
Barrisford melted away, while Della rose from the sofa on a rustle of velvet skirts. “Please do introduce us, Suze.”
Della’s expression said she’d introduce herself if Susannah failed to oblige. The dog had more decorum than Della, at least for the moment.
“Lady Delilah Haddonfield,” Susannah began, “may I make known to you Mr. Will Dorning, late of Dorset?” Susannah was not about to make introductions for the mastiff. “Mr. Dorning, my sister, Lady Delilah, though she prefers Lady Della.”
“My lady.” Mr. Dorning bowed correctly over Della’s hand, while the dog sat panting at his feet. Like most men, he’d probably be smitten with Della before he took a seat beside her on the sofa. Only Effington’s interest had survived the rumors of Della’s modest settlements, however.
“Your dog wants something, Mr. Dorning,” Susannah said, retreating to her seat by the window.
Mr. Dorning peered at his beast, who was gazing at Della and holding up a large paw.
“Oh, she wants to shake,” Della said, taking that paw in her hand and shaking gently. “Good doggy, Georgette. Very pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Georgette, behave,” Mr. Dorning muttered, before Susannah was faced with the riddle of whether manners required her to shake the dog’s paw.
Georgette turned an innocent expression on her owner, crossed the room, and took a seat at Susannah’s knee.
Presuming beast, though Georgette at least didn’t stink of dog. Effington’s endless canine adornments were the smelliest little creatures.
“My ladies, I’m here to apologize,” Mr. Dorning said. “Georgette was in want of manners earlier today. We’ve come to make restitution for her bad behavior and pass along my brother Sycamore’s note of apology.”
“Do have a seat, Mr. Dorning,” Della said, accepting a sealed missive from their guest. “At least you haven’t come to blather on about the weather or to compliment our bonnets.”
Bless Della and her gift for small talk, because Susannah was having difficulty thinking.
This was not the version of Will Dorning she’d endured dances with in her adolescence. He’d filled out and settled down, like a horse rising seven. Where a handsome colt had been, a warhorse had emerged. Mr. Dorning’s boots gleamed, the lace of his cravat fell in soft, tasteful abundance from his throat. His clothing fit him, in the sense of being appropriate to his demeanor, accentuating abundant height, muscle, and self-possession.
Even as he sat on the delicate red velvet sofa with a frilly purple parasol across his knees.
“This is for you, my lady,” he said, passing Susannah the parasol. “We didn’t get the color exactly right, but I hope this will suffice to replace the article that came to grief in the park.”
Susannah’s parasol had been blue, a stupid confection that had done little to shield a lady’s complexion. That parasol hadn’t made a very effective bludgeon when turned on the dog.
“The color is lovely,” Susannah said, “and the design very similar to the one I carried earlier.”
Susannah made the mistake of looking up at that moment, of gazing fully into eyes of such an unusual color, poetry had been written about them. Mr. Dorning’s eyes were the purest form of the Dorning heritage, nearly the color of the parasol Susannah accepted from his gloved hands.
Willow Dorning’s eyes were not pretty, though. His eyes were the hue of a sunset that had given up the battle with night, such that angry reds and passionate oranges had faded to indigo memories and violet dreams. Seven years ago, his violet eyes had been merely different, part of the Dorning legacy, and he’d been another tall fellow forced to bear his friend’s sisters’ company. In those seven years, his voice had acquired night-sky depths, his grace was now bounded with self-possession.
Though he still apparently loved dogs.
“My thanks for the parasol,” Susannah said, possibly repeating herself. “You really need not have bothered. Ah, and here’s the tea tray. Della, will you pour?”
Della was effortlessly social. Not the reserved paragon their old sister Nita was, and not as politically astute as their sister Kirsten. Both of those ladies yet bided in Kent, either recently married or anticipating that happy state.
Leaving Susannah unmarried and abandoned as the Season gathered momentum.
Exactly as she’d felt seven years ago.
“Georgette likes you, Susannah,” Della said, pouring Mr. Dorning’s tea. “Or she likes that parasol.”