“It’s a good twelve feet high,” he pointed out. Someone had to be the voice of reason with the Windermeres.
Miss Windermere shrugged. “Nothing I haven’t done before.”
“I…I…” Rory found himself saying. “Forbid it,” he didn’t say.
Three sets of curious eyes landed on him. Delilah’s brow had lifted. Ravensworth’s eyes had narrowed. And a little frown was pulling at the corners of Miss Windermere’s mouth, as if she’d intuited the completion of his unfinished lordly command.
“I…I shall lend my assistance,” he stated. He didn’t ask.
“You mustn’t worry, Rory,” said Delilah. “Juliet has a talent for flower arranging and general greenery placement.”
As if artfully arranged flowers were any concern of his.
Truly, the Windermere genius lay in utterly ignoring a point when it didn’t suit their ends.
Miss Windermere plucked the peony from Delilah’s hand and strode toward the stage. She was a tall woman, with long legs beneath those white muslin skirts. When she walked decisively fast, she strode.
He rather liked that about her, too.
He found himself following slowly, feeling in no small part a fool, his eye never wavering from her as she directed a middle Dalhousie lad—Ned, this one was called—to place a ladder at the center of the stage by leaning it against the upper frame. She grabbed a handful of white peonies from the wicker basket at the base of the ladder.
A feeling churned inside Rory’s stomach. He didn’t much like where this was headed. For if his hunch was correct, Miss Windermere intended to—
Peony stems tucked into the pink sash at her waist, freeing up her hands, she placed one hand, then the other, onto the ladder and began climbing. No one seemed to take notice or be particularly bothered, least of all the lady herself.
Add fearless to Miss Windermere’s vast intelligence and massive talent.
In combination with her good looks, she might be the perfect woman.
Now, where had that thought come from?
Rory found himself standing at the base of the ladder. “Should you be going up quite so high?” he called up.
She glanced down. “How else am I to place the flowers?”
One could hardly challenge the logic of the question, but… “Doyouhave to be the one placing the flowers?”
She tossed him an irritated glance. “Yes.” A beat. “If you’re going to insist on standing there, you can make yourself useful.”
“How’s that?” he asked. Neck craned, he grabbed the base of the ladder with both hands. She’d climbed up to the second highest rung.
Also, there was the matter of her skirts.
Namely, it would take hardly a shift of the eye to see up them.
He wouldn’t…
He couldn’t.
A cold sweat sheened his skin.
If he were to ever see up her skirts, it would be by permission.
Hers.
Definitely not at the behest of the cockstand that was beginning to form inside his trousers.
He must think about something—anything—so as not to make an even bigger fool of himself than he was already.