This provoked a good round of chuckles around the table.
Rory felt another sort of heat on the side of his face—the heat of a stare. His gaze shifted, and he found Miss Windermere’s emerald eyes upon him. Reflexively, his mouth curved into a smile. Her gaze widened for an instant before startling away.
He followed her line of sight to find Delilah at the other end.Of course.Those two had been close all their lives—since Miss Windermere had come to live with her uncle, aunt, and cousins after her parents perished in a tragic carriage accident. With Delilah being the more conversable of the two, Rory hadn’t taken much notice of Miss Windermere beyond the fact that she was a relation of Archie’s and pleasant to be around in the general sense.
Until ten minutes ago.
Of a sudden, he intuited a truth about Miss Windermere. Unlike her cousin, she preferred to blend into the background. So, she used Delilah as a shield. He’d never really noticed her because she didn’t wish to be noticed.
Which was quite the trick, considering how striking she was. Those blush-pink lips. Those high, delicate cheekbones. Those emerald eyes that could peer into a soul and tell its secrets…eyes that contained both an openness and a mystery.
What had happened this last year that Miss Windermere had transformed into a siren?
“Lady Delilah,” said their hostess from her end of the table, “what news do you bring of your family?”
Delilah finished her sip of wine. “If Mama and Papa’s ship didn’t encounter any trouble on the Mediterranean, I believe they should be in Greece by now.”
“Greece?” asked Mrs. Robertson in her soft Scottish burr, a horrified expression on her face.
“Mount Pelion, to be precise,” continued Delilah, her crystalline blue eyes sparkling with mischief, delighting in horrifying upright ladies.
Where Miss Windermere was a dark-haired beauty, Delilah’s blonde curls cropped above her shoulders provided a light contrast. Apparently, short hair on a woman was considered scandalous, but Rory couldn’t see why. The style suited Delilah’s fine-boned features perfectly.
He gave a mental shrug. Ladies tended to construct such arbitrary rules for themselves. He supposed they got bored.
“Isn’t that correct, Juliet?” asked Delilah.
Miss Windermere nodded. “They’re exploring the legend of the Centaur’s Path.”
No legend or myth in the world was safe from the Earl and Countess of Cumberland’s indefatigable explorations. Thetonviewed them and all their offspring as harmless eccentrics, but Rory saw the Windermeres for who they genuinely were—intrepid followers of their passions.
He admired that about them.
“Oh, my,” said Mrs. Robertson around her spoonful of Scotch broth. “Wasn’t your sister the one who married a duke?”
Delilah nodded. “The Duke of Ripon. The Duchess was safely delivered of a young future duke last year and has spent every waking hour since painting him from all conceivable angles.”
Mrs. Dalhousie gave an approving nod. “And Lord Archer?” she asked. “Is he still on the Continent with his bride?”
“Indeed,” said Delilah. “Who knows when they’ll return to England.”
Mrs. Robertson gave a censorious tsk. “To be away from one’s homeland isn’t natural.”
Miss Windermere patted the corner of her mouth and set her napkin down. “Are you saying we Windermeres aren’t natural?”
Silence descended on the room—even the servants stopped in their tracks—and Mrs. Robertson’s mouth gaped slightly open.
Miss Windermere’s disingenuous smile relented. “You wouldn’t be the first.”
Mr. Dalhousie barked out a jolly laugh, and relief broke the tension, giving everyone permission to enjoy the rest of the meal.
As conversation flowed around the room during the fish course, Rory found his gaze straying toward Miss Windermere more than once. He realized she’d always been like that. Not one to mince words, but to fearlessly speak the ones that cut directly to the heart of a matter. He also realized he’d always liked that about her.
“Lord Kilmuir,” murmured Mrs. Robertson to his left, “would you mind very much passing the gravy dish?”
“With pleasure,” said Rory. While the Dalhousies had servants to attend to the meal, their suppers weren’t such formal affairs that one didn’t spoon a dollop of gravy onto one’s own plate when warranted.
Without paying attention, he reached for the dish. But rather than encountering porcelain, he encountered…a finger.