Chapter 2
Chapter Two
It wasn’t simply a touch of Kilmuir’s long, masculine fingers that had Juliet snatching her hand back as if scorched.
It was the spark of something in his eyes…
Heat.
Directed at her.
Heat that flushed through her and sent her gaze skittering away.
She’d been determined to ignore his presence for the entire night—a particular skill she’d developed over the years—but it was an impossible feat when the blasted man was seated directly opposite her. And…
Touching her.
She shook the silly thought away.
He’d barely grazed her finger.
It was hardly of consequence that the point of contact still tingled.
Even as she sliced into a filet of trout, so too did the side of her eye cut in his direction. How was it possible that he’d only become more impossibly…oh, well, everything…since he’d moved to Scotland a year ago?
More impossibly broad of shoulder… More impossibly golden of hair… More impossibly bright of eye… More impossibly attractive, especially with his newly-grown, golden-red beard.
It was damnably irritating was what it was.
But, as in every other moment of her life, her natural reserve served her appropriately; her face maintaining its surface placidity so that her well of emotions could storm beneath.
That was what pen and paper were for, anyway. Pens quelled storms into manageable squalls that soon exhausted themselves on paper.
How she longed to jot down a few lines. But she supposed that would be considered rude and eccentric at a supper table where she was a guest of honor.
Juliet felt a gaze on the side of her face. From her place three seats down from Kilmuir, Delilah caught her eye. Her eyebrows lifted in silent question. Juliet gave her head a dismissive shake, unwilling to allow the slightest indication that anything was amiss.
“Now,” said Mrs. Robertson, again directing her sharp gaze toward Delilah.
Everyone asked their questions of Delilah first, which Juliet minded not in the least. It granted her opportunity for observation.
“What brought you unmarried”—she gave her throat a light, prim clearing—“ladies all the way up to the Highlands, my dear?”
“It’s a simple story, really,” said Delilah, warming as she ever did to having all eyes upon her. “Our mother and Mrs. Dalhousie came out in the same London season and became fast friends.”
Mrs. Dalhousie nodded wistfully. “What a wonderful time of life that was.”
“And what brings you here now?” pressed Mrs. Robertson. Like all good gossips she had a nose for a story untold.
Delilah’s gaze shifted to meet Juliet’s. “Is it all right to say?”
Juliet nodded. After all, her enjoyment in committing words to paper was no great secret.
“Miss Windermere,” said Delilah, “has become fascinated by a Scottish heroine of yours.”
“Oh? Which one?”
“The warrior maiden, Scáthach of Skye,” supplied Juliet. “Little more than research, really”
In fact, she was in the beginning stages of writing an epic poem, or possibly a play, about the female warrior. But she wasn’t ready for that particular truth to be aired, so half of it would do for tonight.
“We decided she needs to stand where Scáthach stood,” continued Delilah. “Breathe the air Scáthach breathed. That sort of thing. I’m not the creator of sentences here.”
This was met with a small frisson of interest, but it passed quickly.
“And Lord Kilmuir?” asked Mrs. Robertson, turning to her neighbor.
The woman was determined to extract every morsel of gossip she could from this meal.
“I noticed you weren’t introduced to the young ladies. I take it you’re already acquainted?”
“I know their brother Lord Archer from school,” he replied. “We would see each other up here during term breaks.”
Juliet remembered those wild barefoot summer visits well, as the Dalhousie estate neighbored Baile ìm.
Delilah pointedly cleared her throat. Juliet detected an agenda in her cousin’s eyes. “Now,” began Delilah, “as it’s nearly the thirtieth wedding anniversary of our outstanding hosts.”
Mrs. Dalhousie blushed prettily, and Mr. Dalhousie smiled approvingly.
“I have a proposal for the gathered.”
Juliet knew enough to brace herself, even as everyone else looked remarkably relaxed. They would learn.
“Let’s put on a play.”
A few beats of silence met the proposal. Delilah never could apprehend that most people would rather eat their left foot than tread the boards and spout lines from the Bard.
But Delilah was never one to allow a few beats of stunned silence deter her. “Shakespeare, methinks.”
A low, pained groan caught Juliet’s ear. She glanced across the table to find Kilmuir looking like he might, in fact, rather eat his left foot than have anything to do with this conversation.
And then Juliet remembered Kilmuir’s full name. Lord Rory Macbeth, the Viscount Kilmuir. A bloodthirsty name, if there ever was one.
A few amused eyes cut in his direction, as surely he’d known they would. “How about the Scottish play, eh?”
A few laughs followed the Macbeth reference, and an unamused smile pulled at his mouth, which provoked a giggle from Juliet. It was likely wrong that his discomfort delighted her so.
His gaze landed on her and narrowed. “Or how about Romeo and Juliet?”
All eyes swung toward Juliet, and the laugh that had sprung from her mouth fell to the floor with a resounding thud.
Kilmuir heard it, for amusement shone in his eyes. He understood something about her most in this room didn’t. Unlike her cousin, she didn’t enjoy being the center of attention. Where Delilah blossomed, she wilted.
“No tragedies,” said Delilah, unaware of the silent battle raging between her cousin and friend. “A comedy will do nicely. I was thinking As You Like It.”
At her end of the supper table, Mrs. Dalhousie brightened at the idea. “That would be a fun diversion, don’t you agree, husband?” Mrs. Dalhousie never agreed to anything without her husband’s express approval.
“I do believe you’re right, my dear.” And Mr. Dalhousie never denied his wife her heart’s wish.
Mrs. Dalhousie’s brow gathered. “But I do wonder if we have the numbers to fill out the play.”
Delilah began explaining that they, indeed, did have plenty of actors. “I’ll take on the role of Rosalind, of course, as I know all her lines.”
“Dearest cousin,” said Juliet, unable to resist a bit of teasing, “you know all the lines in the play. End of. You could perform it yourself in its entirety.”
Delilah tapped forefinger to mouth, appearing to give the idea serious thought, before shaking her head. “No, I think not. It would be better with a larger cast. Now where was I? Oh, yes, I’ll play Rosalind, and Juliet will play Celia, of course.”
Juliet nearly choked on the wine she’d been sipping. “I? I think not.”
Delilah was the one who considered all the world her stage and Juliet the one who wanted nothing more than to write the lines.
“Well, I think you shall,” said Delilah, firm. “And Miss Dalhousie can play Phoebe.”
Miss Dalhousie gave her head a rueful shake. “I’m afraid I shall have to disappoint you, Lady Delilah.”
“Oh?” Delilah wasn’t accustomed to disappointment. She usually found a way around it. “Why is that?”
“A dear friend of mine has recently been delivered of her first child,” said Miss Dalhousie, unperturbed, “and I shall be leaving tomorrow to pay her a visit.”
Delilah flicked a dismissive wrist. “You’d only miss one day of rehearsal.”
Again, that rueful, obstinate shake of Miss Dalhousie’s head. “I shall be gone the week.”
“But you’ll return for the performance, dearest?” asked Mrs. Dalhousie.
Her daughter smiled her perfectly lovely smile. “I wouldn’t miss it, Mama.”
That seemed to satisfy all but Delilah, whose gaze was now casting about, taking in potential actors. “I suppose we can do it like in Shakespeare’s day.”
“And what way is that?” asked Mrs. Robertson.
“Use boys for the female roles.”
That got a lift from more than a few sets of eyebrows. The numerous Dalhousie sons seated around the table didn’t exactly accept the news with jubilation.
“Not I,” said James, the eldest Dalhousie lad at around sixteen years of age. “I shall be Orlando.”
Oliver Quincy, who had been—blessedly—quiet at his end of the table, laughed in his particular patronizing way. “You’re a bit young for the role, don’t you suppose?”
“I suppose no such thing,” said James with no small amount of umbrage.
But Quincy appeared not to have heard him. “I shall be most pleased to offer my services for the role.”
Of course, Quincy would want the part of Orlando. It would put him in close proximity to Delilah, who he’d been attempting to woo these last three years—to no avail.
It wasn’t too difficult to see what was happening. Delilah was the prize for these two love rivals: Oliver Quincy, supercilious popinjay extraordinaire, and James Dalhousie, a besotted youth of sixteen years.
It should be an interesting week.
“I believe there is an ass in this play,” said James, a mean glint in his eye. “There’s a role that should suit you, Quincy.”
Adults gasped; children snickered.
“Actually,” said Quincy, undeterred. It was a known fact the man was impossible to insult. “I believe the character you’re referring to is Bottom from A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
“One thing is for certain,” began James.
Quincy lifted a condescending eyebrow. “And what is that, young master?”
“He’ll be Ass if you’re playing him.”
“James,” interjected Mrs. Dalhousie, “I believe that’s quite enough from you.”
James crossed his arms over his chest and settled back in his chair, looking quite pleased with himself for having gotten in one final riposte.
“Mr. Quincy, you must accept our apology for James,” said Mrs. Dalhousie. “He had a fever last week, and I’m afraid it might still be affecting his manners.”
Quincy waved the apology off. “The delightful spontaneity of youth.”
“And what about the rest of the actors?” asked an amused lady whose name Juliet couldn’t recall.
Delilah gave a little shrug that said she already had the matter well in hand. “Kilmuir—”
His fork clattered to his plate. “What have I to do with the play?”
“You’ll be in it, of course,” said Delilah, certain.
“With your acting skills, you would do nicely as…” She gave it some consideration.
It was no secret that Kilmuir’s acting skills, while earnest, lacked polish—to put it diplomatically.
“We’ll find something for you. Perhaps you can help construct the backdrops.
Carpenters are always needed,” she ended optimistically.
Juliet only just didn’t snort as Delilah carried on assigning roles and deciding on a schedule while she consulted her pocket watch.
She’d had pockets sewn into all her dresses so she could always have it on her person.
Something about actors and timing, which went over everyone’s heads, as she was the only Windermere with a capacity for, or interest in, keeping the time.
“It’ll be too late to start tonight,” said Delilah, “so we begin tomorrow. Early.”
Beneath her lashes, Juliet’s gaze slid across the table. Kilmuir had tucked into his cut of venison with the appropriate gusto for a man of his size and was now taking a gulp of wine. She followed the line of his gaze and found him looking down-table, in the direction of Miss Dalhousie.
Of course.
She still chafed at the idea of a resemblance between her and the other woman simply because they were both possessed of dark hair.
Miss Dalhousie’s luscious brown eyes were her most defining feature—eyes that were the opposite of Juliet’s.
Miss Dalhousie’s eyes were the sort that invited one to fall in.
Further, Miss Dalhousie was quite an accomplished lady.
She played violin with a level of mastery that spoke of many hours of devoted work.
She painted and did needlework with elegance.
She wrote in a flowery calligraphic script to rival that of a medieval monk.
She even spoke French and Romanian. Apparently, the violin instructor had been from Romania.
There was no end to Miss Dalhousie’s accomplishments.
Juliet couldn’t stand her.
Which she felt guilty about, because Miss Dalhousie—who on more than one occasion had implored Juliet to call her Davina—was an exceedingly agreeable person.
Who wouldn’t be infatuated with her?
Yet… Why should Juliet care?
She harbored no more romantic illusions about Kilmuir.
The blasted man and Miss Dalhousie could have each other.
She stabbed a carrot with more force than necessary and brought it to her mouth.
It tasted like dust.
Besides, she had more pressing matters to consider.
Like how to make herself scarce on the morrow once Delilah began organizing the play.
Early.
Perhaps early would be a good time to make for the outdoors and start breathing some of Scáthach’s air.