Rory nodded in greeting for his old friend. “Sebastian.”
“Rory,” said Ravensworth before addressing the room at large, and Delilah in particular. “I see a problem with the casting of Charles.”
“You would,” muttered Delilah who had taken a sudden interest in her copy of the play.
“If I’m not mistaken,” he continued, “Charles is the wrestler inAs You Like It.”
“Mm-hmm,” was all he got from Delilah.
“Who is defeated by Orlando.”
She tapped her copy of the play. “It’s all here in black and white.”
“And James Dalhousie is to play Orlando?”
James stepped away from the backdrop he’d been painting, brush still in hand. “I am.”
Ravensworth pointed toward James. “Soheis supposed to defeathim?” He was now pointing at Rory, who had a good six inches and three stone on the lad.
“It does rather defy belief,” said Juliet, ever the voice of reason.
Except when she was begging for his touch.
Rory gave himself a mental shake. This wasn’t the time or place.
Later.
Delilah’s jaw clenched and unclenched. “It’s a play. It’s all about setting reality away from the world of the stage, isn’t it?”
Of everyone, James remained unmoved. “I could take him anyway.”
Rory realized the lad was talking about him. A mouthy lad, to be sure.
Ravensworth barked a hearty laugh. “I don’t suggest putting it to the test any time soon, old boy.”
A few chuckles sounded around the stage. James’ fists clenched at his sides. The boy certainly felt the need to prove his mettle. Rory remembered that particular masculine feeling at his age.
Well, the lad would figure it out. Rory had more important matters on his mind—like Miss Juliet Windermere.
Right.
He found himself striding up the center aisle, stopping only when he reached the front of the stage. He held out his hand. “Miss Windermere, would you like to practice our lines together?”
Her straight black eyebrows lifted with surprise. But he could see no help for it. He needed to get her alone, and the direct seemed the only way.
She opened her mouth, but it was a flabbergasted Delilah who answered, “But Charles the Wrestler and Celia don’t speak any lines together.”
The statement of the obvious landed in the room like a solid object.
“Perhaps,” began Juliet, her unflinching gaze fixed upon him, “you’ve left your copy of the play at Baile Ìm and would like to borrow my copy?”
“Erm, aye.”
She took his hand and allowed him to help her descend. “My copy is in the small drawing room. I’ll show you your lines.”
And with that, Rory followed Juliet away from the chaos of a stage production in rehearsal, his gaze having a devil of a time being gentlemanly and staying elevated at her shoulders. The narrow valley where her shoulder blades met beckoned the eye down the long length of her spine to the subtle sway of her hips—and a little lower, well, that would be her sweet, round arse, wouldn’t it?
Two days had been too long without this view.