Rory nodded. “Sounds like you have quite a bit of story to tell there.”
Juliet felt her adamancy give way to a smile. “Indeed.”
“Your poetry has purpose to it.”
A blush crept through Juliet. She could think of no higher praise. “I can’t imagine you give a fig about anything I’ve had to say.”
“Would you like to quiz me?” he asked. “I was never any good at school, but I would pass your test.”
The intensity of his gaze was almost too much.
She wanted to look away.
She didn’t want to look away.
No one turned her into a bundle of contradictions like this man.
A laugh wrapped in nerves escaped her parted mouth. A laugh full of bravado. “Because, of course, you’ve been hanging on my every word,” she said, cool and distant, because that was the sort of witty repartee expected from Miss Juliet Windermere.
Rory didn’t flinch or seem particularly impressed or amused by it. “Yes.”
Her mouth snapped shut.
All her wit and sophistication and cartload of words that could run around in circles for days had no defense against this—Rory’s straightforward honesty.
Chapter Eight
Rory settled backin his chair and watched Miss Windermere—Juliet.
He supposed if she could call him Rory, then he could, at least, think of her as Juliet.
Like for like.
Wasn’t that what she’d said against his mouth earlier?
Hisyeshad thrown her off balance.Good.He supposed she could stand to be set on the back foot once every so often.
But, oh, what a raven-haired beauty she was tonight in her passion and fervor.
“You’re glowing,” he said.
“Perhaps I’ve caught a fever.”
He cocked his head. “You have a ready response for every occasion, don’t you?”
“Most.”
He understood something. His direct gaze unsettled her.
Further, he might like that.
She glanced around as if something only now occurred to her. “Where is Clootie?”
“She prefers to sleep in the stables and keep an eye out.”
“Good girl.”
“Aye.”