A look settled on Miss Windermere’s face—like the cat who had got the cream. “We could use some help in making up the number of players. Perhaps Ravensworth would like to take a role?”
All the color drained from Delilah’s face.
Rory saw that poetry wasn’t Miss Windermere’s only skill. That ability might just be rivaled by her ability to wind her cousin up.
“If Ravensworth stays,” said Delilah, “we’ll need to change the play.”
“ToThe Taming of the Shrew, perhaps?” asked Ravensworth.
“I’m thinkingJulius Caesar.”
“Quite a few stabbings in that one, if memory serves.”
“Precisely.”
Ravensworth snorted.
“Have we settled on an Orlando yet?” asked Miss Windermere.
Masterful, that question. For Rosalind was the lead of the play, and Orlando was her lover.
“Ravensworth cannotbe Orlando,” said Lady Delilah, decided.
“Why not?” asked Ravensworth.
“BecauseIam Orlando.”
They all four turned to find James Dalhousie standing with his hands on his hips, chest puffed out like a lizard who wanted to make himself look more menacing to his enemies. Someday, the lad would make a formidable man. Today wasn’t that day.
Ravensworth squinted. “Has your first chin hair even sprouted?”
“That’s correct,” Delilah said quickly. “James has already been given the role of Orlando.” One couldn’t help but notice the air of relief hanging about her. She cast a dismissive glance toward Ravensworth. “You can be Duke Frederick.”
A frown formed about his mouth. “The villain?”
Delilah shrugged, clearly pleased with herself for having finally got a point on the board. “If the doublet fits.”
Rory cleared his throat. This would be a good time to quell the sniping between Delilah and Ravensworth. He pointed toward the stage. “I see everything is in place.” That was him relieved of carpentry duties.
Miss Windermere met his eye. She saw what he’d done, and approved. He wasn’t sure why the notion made his body heat up a few degrees.
“Our gracious hosts already had a dais for our use,” she said. “It was simply a matter of getting the stage into place and constructing a frame for it.”
“Juliet—” began Delilah.
How had Rory never noticed what a lovely name Juliet was? Or that it perfectly fit Miss Windermere?
“Roses or peonies?” Delilah finished. It was clear the only opinion that mattered was her cousin’s. These two had ever been so.
Yet something more Rory found himself liking about Miss Windermere. While she might tease and wind her cousin up, there was no question where her loyalties lay.
“Peonies,” said Miss Windermere—Juliet.
Delilah let the rose drop to the table. “Will you arrange a section of the garland like usual?”
Rory followed the direction of the cousins’ gazes and settled on the length of greenery twined around the top beam of the stage frame. His eyebrows creased together. “How exactly is Miss Windermere supposed to arrange the garland?” he found himself asking.
Delilah stared at him as if he were the dullest block of wood. “With a ladder, of course.”