Chapter 9 #2
She pointed. “There, beneath the dormer window.”
A dry laugh sounded through Sebastian’s nose. “And how would you know that?”
“Because that’s where Juliet would sleep. Dreamers and writers are in constant need of windows to stare out of.” She glanced at him, and a laugh chirruped out of her. “You’re entirely too massive a man for this loft.”
It was true. His forehead had struck two support beams already. “Shall we make our descent?”
On the ground floor, Delilah inhaled another sip of Shakespeare’s air before following Sebastian through the front door and out of the house. “That was wonderful,” she said as they fell into step on the high street.
“Then I take it you’re a believer,” said Sebastian.
“A believer?”
“In Shakespeare.”
“As…what?…a diety?”
He shook his head on a laugh. Oh, the things Delilah said. “As a writer.”
“You’ll have to explain.”
“There are rumblings that Shakespeare as we know him is a fraud.”
“How so?”
“That he was an actor and man of business who took credit for others’ words.” He spread his hands wide. “Or that time has given him credit due others without anyone’s say-so.”
“And the reasoning behind these theories?”
Sebastian shrugged. “Two things. The sheer quantity of the work found in the folios published after his death. There is simply so much of it, and he didn’t live to be all that aged. As an actor and man of business, where would he have found the time?”
Delilah appeared entirely unmoved. “And the other theory?”
“He was lowborn. Some feel that only a gentleman could’ve written those lines.”
Delilah snorted. “Shakespeare can’t win, can he?”
“How so?” asked Sebastian, interested in her perspective.
“Either multiple men wrote the works attributed to him, or if a single man did, it could’ve only been a highborn, Eton-educated aristocrat.”
“A Harrovian might be an acceptable possibility,” he said, dry.
She cut him a curious glance. “What do you think?”
Sebastian allowed a few footsteps to fall behind them while he gathered his thoughts.
“It’s in the expression of the deepest, darkest motivators of humanity that we find the heart of Shakespeare,” he said.
“And I’ve yet to meet a highborn, Eton- or Harrow-educated aristocratic male capable of expressing humanity’s deepest, darkest motivators beyond belly or cock. ”
A delighted laugh escaped Delilah. “Yourself included?”
“Possibly.”
Her smile remained wide even as her eyes narrowed. “So, you—a duke—believe a lowborn man to have been one of the greatest writers in history?”
Sebastian nodded. “I do. As a patron to many sorts of artists, I’ve observed those gifted by the muse at close quarters, and I happen to know she doesn’t give a sod about one’s birthright. She strikes and gifts where she wills.”
Delilah cast a surprised glance his way. “How very poetic, Your Grace. Have you been struck by a fever?”
“Erm, no.”
“I’ve never heard you speak so.”
And she liked it.
That was what he heard in her voice. Still… “To be fair, Delilah, we hardly conversed before a few weeks ago.”
She nodded pensively. “Our conversings were conducted more in the mode of guerilla skirmishes.”
A dry laugh sounded through his nose. She wasn’t wrong.
They reached the River Avon—and the punt for two tied to the small dock exactly where he’d instructed. “After you, milady,” he said, his hand extended to assist her into the boat.
“What is this?” she asked, even as she took his hand and placed her feet gingerly onto the bottom boards. “Another surprise? For me?”
For you, he didn’t confirm. He found himself giving a noncommittal grunt—he’d become quite adept at those—and stepping into the punt, untying the ropes and taking oars in hand.
He’d been rowing them down the river five or so minutes when Delilah said, “This is a decidedly aristocratic pursuit for lowly Seb the carpenter.”
“I won’t tell if you won’t.”
A smile twitched about her mouth. She truly was lovely, relaxed and reclined onto her elbows and allowing the soft river breeze to riffle through her curls. “Archie has rubbed off on you over the years, I’m afraid.”
He didn’t deny it. “Let’s hope I’ve rubbed off a little on him, too.”
Sebastian loved Archie like a brother, but it was only one day in ten that his friend’s feet touched earth. It was a well thing he’d found the more earthbound Valentina.
“Where are we going, anyway?” asked Delilah.
“There’s a place I want to show you.”
“Along the Avon?”
He nodded.
“How very mysterious.” She held up a hand. “Don’t tell me.” A beat. “You have land here.”
“As it happens, I do. Wimberley Hill.”
She shook her head. “I thought you weren’t a duke for the rest of the summer.”
“No one will know we’re there.”
Intrigue shone in Delilah’s eyes. Good. He liked keeping her on her toes.
“In Shakespeare’s house—” he began.
“I still can’t believe we were inside the Bard’s house—breathing his air—only an hour ago.”
“You mentioned Juliet,” he continued. “You miss her.”
Delilah nodded as if a knot had suddenly formed in her throat. “After she ran off with Rory, I saw the future stretching out without her, and it was dead lonely.”
She looked surprised at herself for having spoken the words aloud, particularly the last one which emerged on a rasp. Lonely.
She’d been lonely. So, she’d taken her future in hand and joined the Albion Players. He admired that in her. She hadn’t taken loneliness lying down.
“Juliet is like my twin,” she continued. “Part of me. You know…” Hesitation hung about her. “When you discovered me with the Players…”
“Yes?”
“I wasn’t happy about it.”
“I seem to have a vague recollection,” he said only half ironically.
“At first.”
Sebastian waited.
“But now, well, I’m glad you claimed your dukely prerogative to do as you will and stayed with the company.”
Sebastian allowed her words to settle into the air between them, where they nested and made themselves comfortable.
“You know, Delilah, I’m not alone in exercising my aristocratic prerogative.”
“Oh?” she asked, all wide-eyed innocence, except for the self-deprecating glint in her eyes.
“I can’t imagine there’s anything you’ve wanted to do that you haven’t done.”
She screwed her eyes up to the sky, face scrunched, as if she were thinking hard. “I haven’t attended a masquerade ball, and I’ve always wanted to do that.”
After a few rows of the oars, Sebastian found himself asking, “Shall I throw a masquerade ball?”
“It doesn’t exactly seem like your style,” she said, blithely reaching out and allowing her fingertips to graze along the surface of the water.
Was she saying he was an old fogey? “I might throw one,” he protested.
“And why would you do that?” Her eyes had drifted closed with the smooth glide of the punt.
“Because you would like it.”
Her eyes slitted open and met his. “You would throw a masquerade ball for me?”
He held her gaze and said, “If I ever do, you’ll know why.”
His words didn’t drift lightly away with the river breeze, but instead remained, solid, as if composed of dense substance. Delilah’s head canted as she chewed on them. At last, she said, “You’re a sweet man.”
She spoke the words with such utter and complete surprise, a laugh almost burst from him. “Pardon?” He would give her the opportunity to take them back.
“You heard me.”
He met challenge in her eyes. Rather than folding, she was doubling down.
“I’m most definitely not sweet.”
Men simply weren’t sweet. That was the role of women.
“You are,” Delilah returned without heat. As if it were established fact, and she was simply the messenger.
“I’m not.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Am I the only one who knows that about you?”
Nonplussed, Sebastian took refuge in a grunt. Anyway, they’d been punting alongside his land for the last ten minutes and the dock was now in view, which gave him the excuse to make ready for disembarkation. Then he was securing the boat and taking Delilah’s hand to assist her onto dry land.
“Come with me,” he said.
And she allowed her hand to remain within his.