He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He glanced toward the locked door. “Will you leave first? Or shall I?”
Juliet didn’t hesitate. “You.” She needed a moment to gather herself.
Rory looked as if he would say more. Instead, he closed the distance between them, tucked his thumb beneath her chin, and tipped her head back. His mouth grazed across her lips for a bright instant of contact, then was gone.
When she opened her eyes, the door was closing behind him.
Somehow, alongside the carnality and wickedness that blazed between them could existthis…a sweet parting kiss.
Rory…wicked and sweet—a combination of ingredients only recently discovered.
And yet she was ravenous and insatiable for them.
She’d always possessed a sweet tooth.
And yet…was he her sweet to sample?
Wasn’t he, in fact, destined to be Miss Dalhousie’s?
The thought unleashed a definite and resoundingnoinside her, as every cell in her body rejected the idea.
It was only now—now that the haze of lust was fading—that she was able to string together a few rational thoughts. One of which was quite plain and simple:
She’d taken matters too far with Rory.
Her heart was going to break when this was all over. A sliver of a crack might’ve already formed.
There was only one thing for it.
She must finish the poem.
And finish whatever madness that had sprung between her and that magnificent, sweet, secretly wicked man.
Chapter Twelve
Next evening
Athrill of anticipation shimmered through Juliet as she sat before the dressing table mirror securing the blush-pink flower crown. Spring blossoms in their hair had been Delilah’s idea.
How Juliet loved a village assembly. One could relax the rules and enjoy a bit of fun, without concern that one was talking to thewrong sort. The village assembly diluted matters of class for a few hours as everyone happily mingled together—a far superior experience to any ball offered in London.
Delilah leaned over her back and rested her chin on Juliet’s shoulder. A shallow worry line had settled between Delilah’s eyebrows this last week. Juliet reached up and squeezed her cousin’s hand. “You know the play will be wonderful.”
The worry line deepened. “I don’t know that at all.”
“I do.”
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 helpbubbling 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?”
