A smile teased at the corners of Miss Windermere’s mouth. “Oh, yes, quite a coincidence.” It was clear she rather thought it wasn’t.
A gruff laugh escaped Rory. He liked the way Miss Windermere didn’t cede ground to a duke, even if that duke was one of his oldest friends. Sebastian could stand to be taken down a notch or two.
“Juliet,” Delilah called out without looking in their direction. “Do you think Amelia would come up from London to paint the backdrop for the forest?”
“As she’s six months gone with her second child?—”
“She and Ripon are certainly good breeders,” inserted Delilah.
“—the answer is no,” finished Miss Windermere, firm and definite.
Delilah exhaled an irritated breath, but still she didn’t glance up. “I need your opinion on the arbor, cousin.”
“Perhaps Kilmuir or Ravensworth would like to offer their opinions, too.”
Delilah’s head whipped around. She gave their trio a quick once-over, her face transforming into thunder personified. Rory only just didn’t laugh. He caught a twinkle in Miss Windermere’s eyes.Pure mischief.
He hadn’t known that about her.
What else didn’t he know?
He would have a few opportunities to find out.
And he was rather looking forward to them.
Delilah strode up the center aisle, a rose in one hand and a peony in the other. She looked determined to ignore Ravensworth as she asked her cousin, “Which do you prefer for the arbor?”
It was Ravensworth who answered. “I think roses particularly suit you.”
Delilah inhaled sharply, as if bracing herself for a deeply unpleasant thirty seconds, and faced Ravensworth. She couldn’t ignore him forever. “And why is that?”
A sardonic smile curled along one side of his mouth. “They have thorns.”
“Peonies it is,” said Delilah.
Ravensworth swept his arm around. “What’s all this, anyway?” Before anyone could reply, he answered his own question. “A play.” He snorted. “Of course.”
Delilah crossed her arms over her chest, and her jaw clenched. She wouldn’t be answering. That was apparent.
“It is, indeed, a play,” replied Miss Windermere.
“And what play would that be?” asked Ravensworth.
“As You Like It.”
His smile widened. “Two cousins venturing into the forest to make a bit of mischief,” he said. “Sounds like two cousins I know.”
“How long will you be staying at Dalhousie Manor, Your Grace?” asked Miss Windermere.
“Oh, I’d say a week or so.”
A look settled on Miss Windermere’s face—like the cat who had got the cream. “We could use some help in making up the number of players. Perhaps Ravensworth would like to take a role?”
All the color drained from Delilah’s face.
Rory saw that poetry wasn’t Miss Windermere’s only skill. That ability might just be rivaled by her ability to wind her cousin up.
“If Ravensworth stays,” said Delilah, “we’ll need to change the play.”
