“Miss Windermere,” he said, at a loss for any other words.
Something new struck him. He’d always thought her very similar to Miss Dalhousie, but actually the two women bore little resemblance to one another, other than a similar hair color. Where Miss Dalhousie’s eyes were a lovely, limpid brown, Miss Windermere’s were the sort of jewel green that could cut, if one wasn’t careful. Where Miss Dalhousie’s face was a smooth oval, Miss Windermere’s was the exact shape of a heart. Miss Dalhousie’s nose was a cute, little button; Miss Windermere’s long and aquiline.
Miss Dalhousie was pretty as a picture.
And Miss Windermere was…
Absolutely, devastatingly beautiful.
How had he never noticed that about her?
Without a return of his greeting, she reached up. For a wild instant, he thought she might slide her silk-gloved hand around his neck and pull his head down for a kiss.
And for an equally wild instant, he thought he might not mind too much.
Instead, she struck forefinger against thumb and flicked his right cheekbone.
A gob of dried mud flew across the room.
A befuddled beat of silence followed before he recovered and said, “Erm, thank you.”
She nodded curtly and brushed past, continuing on her way as if he’d been naught more than a minor inconvenience, her skirts an efficient silk swish in her wake.
His eye lingered an instant longer than necessary on that efficient swish of her skirts.
He gave himself a mental shake. Miss Windermere was practically a sister to his closest friend in the world.
Right.
Slowly, he followed her, for presumably she was making her way toward the dining room. Her legs were long enough that when she got them moving at a rapid clip, she could cover a great deal of ground in a hurry.
If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was attempting to place as much distance between herself and him as quickly as possible as they traversed one corridor after another. Though he was going to supper, it occurred to him that, really, he might be following Miss Windermere.
Strange, that.
Truly, though, what had just happened?
The facts were that he’d had a gob of mud on his face and Miss Windermere had done him the great favor of disposing of it. Except…
It didn’t feel like a favor.
It felt like an act of aggression.
Which left but one question.
What had he ever done to invite Miss Juliet Windermere’s wrath?
He stepped into the dining room and found a lively gathering already in progress. Servants rushing to and fro, filling wine glasses, readying the first course at the buffet. Mr. and Mrs. Dalhousie were seated at opposite ends of the table with all their guests and family between them—neighbors Mr. and Mrs. Robertson; guests of honor Delilah and Miss Windermere—who was presently being guided to her seat—a few more neighbors; the condescending Mr. Oliver Quincy who seemed to have a relative in every corner of England, Scotland, and Wales; and all the young Dalhousie offspring scattered throughout, including Miss Dalhousie. Rory was relieved to find her seated down the table from the chair he was being ushered toward.
Relief was short-lived, however. For as he was lowering into his seat, he found himself directly across from Miss Windermere, who was studiously considering the tines of her fish fork.
She’d noticed, too.
His host’s voice rang out from the head of the table. “If it isn’t Kilmuir,” said Mr. Dalhousie, checking his pocket watch for all to see. “And nearly on time, too,” he finished with a hearty, unoffended laugh.
“The sheep,” began Kilmuir, the tips of his ears burning, as they always did when he felt in the wrong.
“Ah, my boy, this is Scotland,” said his host. “It’s always the sheep.”