Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Next evening
Athrill of anticipation shimmered through Juliet as she sat before the dressing table mirror securing the blush-pink flower crown. Spring blossoms in their hair had been Delilah’s idea.
How Juliet loved a village assembly. One could relax the rules and enjoy a bit of fun, without concern that one was talking to the wrong sort. The village assembly diluted matters of class for a few hours as everyone happily mingled together—a far superior experience to any ball offered in London.
Delilah leaned over her back and rested her chin on Juliet’s shoulder. A shallow worry line had settled between Delilah’s eyebrows this last week. Juliet reached up and squeezed her cousin’s hand. “You know the play will be wonderful.”
The worry line deepened. “I don’t know that at all.”
“I do.”
A rueful smile ticked about Delilah’s mouth. “The Orlando to my Rosalind is several years younger than I and half a head shorter.”
“In all fairness, we Windermere lasses are a tall lot, and with those lanky limbs of his, James Dalhousie does show promise to be a towering, strapping man someday.”
Delilah snorted. “Unless he can achieve that stature in the next twenty-four hours, it’s of no use to me.”
The cousins’ eyes met in the mirror, and giggles couldn’t help bubbling up. “I have a feeling I’ll need to accustom myself to the sound of laughter before opening night,” said Delilah.
“It’ll be a smashing success,” said Juliet, giving her cousin’s hand a reassuring squeeze.
“And Scáthach?” asked Delilah. “Are you finding inspiration for her poem?”
“Somewhat,” said Juliet, releasing Delilah’s hand. Her gaze shifted. She had no intention of revealing that her latest source of inspiration came in the form of one very large, auburn-haired Scotsman.
Delilah straightened and took a step back, head canted subtly to the side. “With Archie and Amelia married off, it’s just the two of us.”
Juliet swiveled around on her seat so she could meet Delilah’s gaze directly. “It’s really only ever been the two of us.”
“But for how much longer, I wonder.”
The moment grew heavy with an unexpected seriousness. “Surely, you’re not thinking of accepting Oliver Quincy,” said Juliet, seeking to lighten the mood.
That got a dry laugh out of Delilah. “Hardly,” she said, but it hadn’t been enough to distract her. “Juliet, since our arrival in Scotland, you seem a bit—” Her eyes screwed up to the ceiling as she searched for the correct word. “Altered.”
“Oh?” Juliet gave a breezy one-shouldered shrug. “I am very much my same self, I can assure you.”
Delilah looked decidedly unconvinced. “Are you?” Her head canted to the other side. “Really, since the night you were stranded at Rory’s.”
Juliet resisted the sudden need to swallow. Delilah would catch it. “I can’t imagine why that would be.”
A lie, of course.
She could imagine.
And did.
Vividly.
Especially at night.
In bed.
A hmm loaded with meaning sounded from Delilah.
Juliet knew she must change the subject, or Delilah wouldn’t stop until she had the truth pouring from Juliet’s mouth.
Rory was the only secret she’d ever kept from Delilah—first as an infatuation, now as a lover.
And the poem for Miss Dalhousie… It lay hot and flat against her skin beneath the silk of her stays.
That was a secret, too.
She’d worked on it all through last night until it was complete, not finding her bed until dawn. But it was done. That was the point.
And soon she and Rory would be done, too.
She would be giving it to him tonight.
Delilah opened her mouth, surely to apply additional pressure, for she could be relentless when she sensed a secret. Juliet knew exactly how to head Delilah off. “I’ve noticed,” said Juliet, “you can be a bit altered yourself.”
Delilah’s brow lifted. “Oh?”
“When Ravensworth enters a room.”
Instantly, all the mischief fled Delilah’s face, and anger flashed behind her eyes for the split of a second, replaced the next instant by an uncharacteristic layer of hardness.
“You’re usually so sensible, cousin,” she said, distant and utterly unlike herself, “but what rot you’re speaking now.
You can complete your toilette without me, I’m sure. ”
With that, Delilah pivoted on one heel and left Juliet alone in the room. She’d scraped a raw nerve within Delilah, but she couldn’t regret it. In fact, she felt relief as to have so thoroughly distracted her cousin.
Juliet couldn’t talk about Rory.
Or how he altered her.
Her hand brushed across her bodice and the poem there.
A poem to help Rory woo another woman.
And she only had herself to blame for it.
But before that, she had a village assembly to attend where she intended to dance her slippers off and forget her troubles for a few hours.
Wasn’t that what dances were for, anyway?
Two hours later
Juliet still fully intended to dance her slippers off at some point in the evening, but first, she needed to break free from Oliver Quincy, who was presently talking the ears off her and any other unfortunate person who happened to amble within listening distance.
And to make matters worse, Delilah—contrarian to the last—had decided to fully engage with the pompous nodcock. “Why take issue with a traveling Shakespeare company in the area?” asked Delilah.
Quincy exhaled a long-suffering sigh, his mouth curving in the supercilious smile he’d perfected as his particular artform. One could almost admire it, from afar…from very afar.
“A traveling troupe of actors”—Quincy uttered the word with particular disdain, and without consideration that the lady he’d been attempting to court these last three years was, in fact, an actress—“is little better than a band of gypsies. Horses and all manner of farm implements will have gone missing by morning. Mark my words.”
A few of the assembled had gathered around and were nodding in assent.
Not Delilah. Her cheeks and eyes contained the bright, sharp glint of irritation held at bay.
“The tradition of the traveling theater company is a centuries-old practice,” she said, reasonably.
Too reasonably. Juliet didn’t trust Delilah when she was being too reasonable.
“It’s as noble a trade as any. Nobler, in fact. ”
“Nobler?” Quincy scoffed and shook his head in mild forbearance.
“While it is somewhat charming that you enjoy dabbling in theatrical pursuits, Lady Delilah, how do you figure that?” He gave a corrective shake of the head.
“These ideas of yours. A husband could help guide you toward more ladylike modes of thought.”
Delilah’s fists clenched at her sides. If they’d still been in the nursery, Delilah would’ve already walloped Quincy over the head.
And though they’d been out of the nursery for decades, and were ostensibly more civilized, Juliet wasn’t sure a good walloping was too far removed from the realm of possibility.
Delilah kept her head and unclenched her fists. Juliet could breathe again.
“’Tis nobler,” continued Delilah, “because a traveling theater company offers anyone with a coin in their pocket—from king to costermonger—a respite from the drudgery and responsibilities of everyday life. To spend an evening with the poetry of Shakespeare… What more could anyone want?”
Familiar movement caught the edge of Juliet’s eye. She knew before her gaze shifted who she would find.
At the wide entrance to the main assembly room stood Rory and Ravensworth looking almost too splendid to gaze upon directly, dressed in their finest evening blacks.
They wouldn’t have been out of place at a London ball.
Here, they certainly stood out, but she suspected that was rather the point.
Not to lord it over the local village, but rather as a show of respect.
If a duke and a viscount arrived at the assembly looking less than their impeccable best, the villagers might feel slighted, as if they weren’t deemed worthy of the finest from a pair of eligible lords.
But, oh, how eligible they looked. Just by arriving, they’d suddenly become the sun around which this entire affair revolved. Juliet found herself, subtly stepping back. She would eventually hit wall, where she could observe their effect on the room.
But it wasn’t to be.
Rory’s eye caught hers, and he started walking…
Toward her.
As if she were somehow lodestone to his magnet.
How the idea appealed to her.
As if the pull of her left him no choice but to be here.
It was only after the two men joined their small grouping that Quincy acknowledged—or even noticed, more like—their presence.
He gave them each a passing nod of acknowledgment and continued with his education of Delilah.
“But, Lady Delilah, here is where your feminine brain has lost its way. Shakespeare’s plays were performed by men and lads during his day.
His work was never intended to be open to the interpretation of the fairer sex.
” He shrugged, as if helpless to the facts.
“Surely, ’tis best to leave matters your mind couldn’t possibly comprehend to the men.
In this way, the balance between the sexes is maintained.
Truly, all you need is a firm and dedicated husband to take you in hand, and you’ll find yourself all the happier for it. ”
Juliet’s mouth might’ve gaped fully open before she picked it up off the floor. She considered placing a restraining hand on Delilah’s upper arm before she went for Quincy’s throat. But Delilah simply stared at the man as if he’d suddenly sprouted another head, utterly befuddled.
Juliet darted a glance toward Ravensworth and Rory, who were watching the proceedings with no small amount of amusement. In fact, Ravensworth snorted. “A firm hand you say, Quincy?”
“Indeed.”
“To bend her over one’s knee and deliver a firm smack on the bottom, perhaps?”
Quincy nodded, judiciously. “As would be her husband’s right.”
Juliet’s hand jumped to her mouth.