James crossed his arms over his chest and settled back in his chair, looking quite pleased with himself for having gotten in one final riposte.
“Mr. Quincy, you must accept our apology for James,” said Mrs. Dalhousie. “He had a fever last week, and I’m afraid it might still be affecting his manners.”
Quincy waved the apology off. “The delightful spontaneity of youth.”
“And what about the rest of the actors?” asked an amused lady whose name Juliet couldn’t recall.
Delilah gave a little shrug that said she already had the matter well in hand. “Kilmuir—”
His fork clattered to his plate. “What have I to do with the play?”
“You’ll be in it, of course,” said Delilah, certain. “With your acting skills, you would do nicely as…” She gave it some consideration. It was no secret that Kilmuir’s acting skills, while earnest, lacked polish—to put it diplomatically. “We’ll find something for you. Perhaps you can help construct the backdrops. Carpenters are always needed,” she ended optimistically.
Juliet only just didn’t snort as Delilah carried on assigning roles and deciding on a schedule while she consulted her pocket watch. She’d had pockets sewn into all her dresses so she could always have it on her person. Something about actors and timing, which went over everyone’s heads, as she was the only Windermere with a capacity for, or interest in, keeping the time.
“It’ll be too late to start tonight,” said Delilah, “so we begin tomorrow.Early.”
Beneath her lashes, Juliet’s gaze slid across the table. Kilmuir had tucked into his cut of venison with the appropriate gusto for a man of his size and was now taking a gulp of wine. She followed the line of his gaze and found him looking down-table, in the direction of Miss Dalhousie.
Of course.
She still chafed at the idea of a resemblance between her and the other woman simply because they were both possessed of dark hair. Miss Dalhousie’s luscious brown eyes were her most defining feature—eyes that were the opposite of Juliet’s. Miss Dalhousie’s eyes were the sort that invited one to fall in.
Further, Miss Dalhousie was quite an accomplished lady. She played violin with a level of mastery that spoke of many hours of devoted work. She painted and did needlework with elegance. She wrote in a flowery calligraphic script to rival that of a medieval monk. She even spoke French and Romanian. Apparently, the violin instructor had been from Romania. There was no end to Miss Dalhousie’s accomplishments.
Juliet couldn’t stand her.
Which she felt guilty about, because Miss Dalhousie—who on more than one occasion had implored Juliet to call her Davina—was an exceedingly agreeable person.
Who wouldn’t be infatuated with her?
Yet… Why should Juliet care?
She harbored no more romantic illusions about Kilmuir.
The blasted man and Miss Dalhousie could have each other.
She stabbed a carrot with more force than necessary and brought it to her mouth.
It tasted like dust.
Besides, she had more pressing matters to consider.
Like how to make herself scarce on the morrow once Delilah began organizing the play.
Early.
Perhapsearlywould be a good time to make for the outdoors and start breathing some of Scáthach’s air.
Chapter Three
Next day
Juliet scratched pencilagainst the blank white surface—and yet again it refused to march across paper and leave words in its wake in the usual fashion.
She let the pencil fall and cast her gaze about her surroundings. Beside her perch on a boulder of granite slipped a gentle stream as a forest of pines swayed in the light breeze. This should’ve been the perfect, idyllic spot upon which to receive inspiration. It was all here, and yet…
Somehow it wasn’t.