A rueful smile ticked about Delilah’s mouth. “The Orlando to my Rosalind is several years younger than I and half a head shorter.”
“In all fairness, we Windermere lasses are a tall lot, and with those lanky limbs of his, James Dalhousie does show promise to be a towering, strapping man someday.”
Delilah snorted. “Unless he can achieve that stature in the next twenty-four hours, it’s of no use to me.”
The cousins’ eyes met in the mirror, and giggles couldn’t help bubbling up. “I have a feeling I’ll need to accustom myself to the sound of laughter before opening night,” said Delilah.
“It’ll be a smashing success,” said Juliet, giving her cousin’s hand a reassuring squeeze.
“And Scáthach?” asked Delilah. “Are you finding inspiration for her poem?”
“Somewhat,” said Juliet, releasing Delilah’s hand. Her gaze shifted. She had no intention of revealing that her latest source of inspiration came in the form of one very large, auburn-haired Scotsman.
Delilah straightened and took a step back, head canted subtly to the side. “With Archie and Amelia married off, it’s just the two of us.”
Juliet swiveled around on her seat so she could meet Delilah’s gaze directly. “It’s really only ever been the two of us.”
“But for how much longer, I wonder.”
The moment grew heavy with an unexpected seriousness. “Surely, you’re not thinking of accepting Oliver Quincy,” said Juliet, seeking to lighten the mood.
That got a dry laugh out of Delilah. “Hardly,” she said, but it hadn’t been enough to distract her. “Juliet, since our arrival in Scotland, you seem a bit—” Her eyes screwed up to the ceiling as she searched for the correct word. “Altered.”
“Oh?” Juliet gave a breezy one-shouldered shrug. “I am very much my same self, I can assure you.”
Delilah looked decidedly unconvinced. “Are you?” Her head canted to the other side. “Really, since the night you were stranded at Rory’s.”
Juliet resisted the sudden need to swallow. Delilah would catch it. “I can’t imagine why that would be.”
A lie, of course.
She could imagine.
And did.
Vividly.
Especially at night.
In bed.
Ahmmloaded with meaning sounded from Delilah.
Juliet knew she must change the subject, or Delilah wouldn’t stop until she had the truth pouring from Juliet’s mouth.
Rory was the only secret she’d ever kept from Delilah—first as an infatuation, now as a lover.
And the poem for Miss Dalhousie… It lay hot and flat against her skin beneath the silk of her stays.
That was a secret, too.
She’d worked on it all through last night until it was complete, not finding her bed until dawn. But it was done. That was the point.
And soon she and Rory would be done, too.
She would be giving it to him tonight.
Delilah opened her mouth, surely to apply additional pressure, for she could be relentless when she sensed a secret. Juliet knew exactly how to head Delilah off. “I’ve noticed,” said Juliet, “you can be a bit altered yourself.”