Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Evening
“Delilah, you’re quite adept at controlling chaos, you know,” observed Juliet over the rim of her teacup before taking a sip.
From the back of Dalhousie Manor’s grand receiving hall, she and Delilah watched the space transform into an impromptu theater, the entire horde of Dalhousie lads, along with Oliver Quincy, springing to every whim and command that crossed Delilah’s mind and lips.
In the short time since she and Delilah had sat to their tea, the dais that would serve as stage had been moved into place and the estate carpenter was presently hammering the final nail into the structure that would frame the playing space.
“One doesn’t control chaos,” replied Delilah. “One becomes one with it and merely”—she swayed her hands before her—“influences it.”
A dry laugh escaped Juliet. “It helps when all those you command worship the very ground you walk upon.”
Delilah bit into a slice of shortbread, even as her mouth twitched. “Yes, well, that does help.” Her gaze landed on Juliet. “Have you memorized your lines yet, sweet Celia?”
Juliet had known this was coming. “Not quite.”
“Oh, that’s right. You enjoyed a ramble about the Dalhousie lands this morning.”
Juliet shrugged. She knew better than to give ground when an imperious mood struck Delilah. “When given the two options, it’s the choice I’ll make ten of ten times.”
Delilah released a long-suffering sigh, but Juliet knew that would be the end of it. No one ever met with much success in ordering Juliet about. “And how did you find your wanderings?” asked Delilah.
“Beautiful is too simple a word for Scotland.”
“And Scáthach?” asked Delilah. “Did you receive inspiration for her?”
Juliet only just didn’t snort. As an actress, Delilah felt all art to be divinely inspired, but as a writer, Juliet knew differently. Writing was one part inspiration and nine parts work. “I’m getting a feeling for her,” she said simply.
Who was she to disabuse Delilah of her notions? To be the sort of actress Delilah wanted to be, she needed to believe in divine inspiration.
Delilah took a sip of her tea. “Anything of note occur?” Her eye caught on the stage, and she sat suddenly forward.
Her teacup clattered onto the tabletop as she shot to her feet.
“Mr. Quincy, if you would please set the hammer down and let Mr. Jones finish securing the frame…” Her voice trailed as she hurried down the center aisle toward the stage.
Leaving behind her question for Juliet.
Anything of note occur?
Oh, how to answer it…
A part of her—the part she held secret from all, including Delilah—instinctively knew she couldn’t tell Delilah about seeing Kilmuir and his massive, shaggy dog.
Because then Delilah would ask what they’d talked about.
And there was no good answer for that.
For she herself could hardly countenance the direction their conversation had taken.
Actually, what she couldn’t countenance was her boldness.
Had she, in fact, volunteered to write a love poem that Kilmuir would use to woo Miss Dalhousie?
She’d taken leave of her senses.
Except that wasn’t true either.
“What benefit do you get out of this?”
She hadn’t told Kilmuir, of course, but she was very clear with herself about what precisely she got out of their arrangement.
She was helping him to help herself.
When viewed from that angle, what she was doing was incredibly selfish.
With Kilmuir happily settled with Miss Dalhousie, she would finally be free of the stubborn secret infatuation she’d been harboring for him all these years.
She’d thought herself free from it this last year, but that had been a delusion borne of necessity. Seeing him in all his shaggy, handsome Scottish glory last night—and again this morning—had only illustrated how wishful her thinking had been.
But it wasn’t only his handsomeness that drew her—or even mostly his handsomeness.
He was kind and, most importantly, not vapid like so many thought him. He was able to see the simplicity in complex matters, which didn’t make him a simpleton. It made him insightful.
And her poet’s heart loved nothing more than simple language that could express complex emotion.
It took a special skill to take the complicated and make it plain.
Right.
Delilah returned, looking harried. “Controlling chaos isn’t all sunshine and rainbows.” She settled into her seat. “What were we talking about?”
Juliet shrugged and reached for her teacup without meeting her cousin’s eye. If Delilah didn’t remember of her own accord, she wasn’t about to remind her.
“Oh, yes.” Delilah canted her head at Juliet. “Did anything of note occur on your ramble?”
Blast. Delilah’s curiosity was roused. Juliet gave her other shoulder a shrug. “If you count the flock of geese I happened upon who nearly gave me the scare of my life when they all took flight at once.”
Actually, it had been wild and majestic and inspiring.
Delilah shot to her feet, again distracted by the stage construction—now it was the garland for the arbor that needed placing—giving Juliet a bit of room to breathe.
She and Delilah were close—they always had been and ever would be. Juliet had always sensed that the world saw them as two halves of the same whole, and growing up together close as twins, she had, too.
Until Rory had come along, and she’d become instantly besotted.
That feeling… She’d kept it to herself—for herself. If Delilah ever knew, she wouldn’t be able to help involving herself—or inserting some mischief.
And that was the last thing Juliet wanted.
Movement caught the edge of her eye. Two men were crossing the threshold into the hall.
The Viscount Kilmuir and His Grace Sebastian Crewe, the Duke of Ravensworth.
Instinctively, Juliet leaned back, toward the wall—she was even tempted to slip behind the arras—for all their attention was fixed on the hullabaloo happening around the stage.
Juliet couldn’t quite make out the details, but Delilah’s hands were on her hips and she was standing between a pugnacious James Dalhousie and a condescending Oliver Quincy.
Both Kilmuir and Ravensworth stood tall and broad of shoulder and too handsome for their own good.
But that was where their similarities ended.
Where Kilmuir radiated gold and light, Ravensworth possessed an altogether different mien with his dirty blond hair and light amber eyes that shone with intensity and purpose.
Further, Ravensworth had always been supremely aware of his devastating good looks, while Kilmuir remained utterly indifferent to his.
Where Kilmuir viewed life from a place of clear simplicity, Ravensworth was…complex. A dangerous air had ever swirled about him, which some ladies—many ladies—found irresistible.
Not Juliet.
He simply wasn’t the sort for her. She’d always known it instinctively.
And who was the sort for her?
Traitorous question.
Ravensworth’s gaze had found Delilah. It was always where his eye went—directly to Delilah. Like a magnet.
A specific energy pulsed between those two. Yet Delilah couldn’t stand to be in the same room with Ravensworth—not since the Eton scandal. Juliet had long sensed Ravensworth must’ve had a hand in it, but Delilah had revealed nothing.
Juliet wasn’t the only one keeping secrets.
She felt the heat of a gaze on the side of her face.
Her eyes shifted, and the breath caught in her throat.
Kilmuir was staring at her. Inquisitive and insightful were those turquoise eyes.
Then he was walking…
Toward her.
This was…new.
And the feeling shimmering through her veins…
She wasn’t sure she liked it. But one thing was almost certain.
She thought she might want more of it.
Rory wasn’t about to let Miss Windermere get away with that trick.
The one where she made herself invisible.
“Miss Windermere,” he said. Her emerald eyes took on the hunted aspect of a trapped animal.
Ravensworth had no choice but to follow, though Rory could see he would prefer to make straight for Delilah. He didn’t know what lay between those two, but they’d eventually sort it out.
They weren’t his concern.
But the raven-haired woman in his sights somehow was.
“Kilmuir,” she said. Her gaze shifted to Ravensworth. “Your Grace.”
“Miss Windermere,” said Ravensworth on a shallow bow.
“What a delightful coincidence that you and Lady Delilah happen to be visiting Scotland when I happen to have business with Mr. Dalhousie. He’s promised to invest in a concert pavilion in Glasgow, and I’m here to hold him to it.
” Ravensworth had a way of speaking utterly serious words in a light, offhand manner that fooled no one.
Sebastian was a devoted patron of the arts.
A smile teased at the corners of Miss Windermere’s mouth. “Oh, yes, quite a coincidence.” It was clear she rather thought it wasn’t.
A gruff laugh escaped Rory. He liked the way Miss Windermere didn’t cede ground to a duke, even if that duke was one of his oldest friends. Sebastian could stand to be taken down a notch or two.
“Juliet,” Delilah called out without looking in their direction. “Do you think Amelia would come up from London to paint the backdrop for the forest?”
“As she’s six months gone with her second child—”
“She and Ripon are certainly good breeders,” inserted Delilah.
“—the answer is no,” finished Miss Windermere, firm and definite.
Delilah exhaled an irritated breath, but still she didn’t glance up. “I need your opinion on the arbor, cousin.”
“Perhaps Kilmuir or Ravensworth would like to offer their opinions, too.”
Delilah’s head whipped around. She gave their trio a quick once-over, her face transforming into thunder personified. Rory only just didn’t laugh. He caught a twinkle in Miss Windermere’s eyes. Pure mischief.
He hadn’t known that about her.
What else didn’t he know?
He would have a few opportunities to find out.
And he was rather looking forward to them.