Her hand brushed across her bodice and the poem there.
A poem to help Rory woo another woman.
And she only had herself to blame for it.
But before that, she had a village assembly to attend where she intended to dance her slippers off and forget her troubles for a few hours.
Wasn’t that what dances were for, anyway?
Two hours later
Juliet still fully intended to dance her slippers off at some point in the evening, but first, she needed to break free from Oliver Quincy, who was presently talking the ears off her and any other unfortunate person who happened to amble within listening distance.
And to make matters worse, Delilah—contrarian to the last—had decided to fully engage with the pompous nodcock. “Why take issue with a traveling Shakespeare company in the area?” asked Delilah.
Quincy exhaled a long-suffering sigh, his mouth curving in the supercilious smile he’d perfected as his particular artform. One could almost admire it, from afar…from very afar.
“A traveling troupe ofactors”—Quincy uttered the word with particular disdain, and without consideration that the lady he’d been attempting to court these last three years was, in fact, an actress—“is little better than a band of gypsies. Horses and all manner of farm implements will have gone missing by morning. Mark my words.”
A few of the assembled had gathered around and were nodding in assent. Not Delilah. Her cheeks and eyes contained the bright, sharp glint of irritation held at bay. “The tradition of the traveling theater company is a centuries-old practice,” she said, reasonably. Too reasonably. Juliet didn’t trust Delilah when she was being too reasonable. “It’s as noble a trade as any.Nobler, in fact.”
“Nobler?” Quincy scoffed and shook his head in mild forbearance. “While it is somewhat charming that you enjoy dabbling in theatrical pursuits, Lady Delilah, how do you figure that?” He gave a corrective shake of the head. “These ideas of yours. A husband could help guide you toward more ladylike modes of thought.”
Delilah’s fists clenched at her sides. If they’d still been in the nursery, Delilah would’ve already walloped Quincy over the head. And though they’d been out of the nursery for decades, and were ostensibly more civilized, Juliet wasn’t sure a good walloping was too far removed from the realm of possibility.
Delilah kept her head and unclenched her fists. Juliet could breathe again.
“’Tis nobler,” continued Delilah, “because a traveling theater company offers anyone with a coin in their pocket—from king to costermonger—a respite from the drudgery and responsibilities of everyday life. To spend an evening with the poetry of Shakespeare… What more could anyone want?”
Familiar movement caught the edge of Juliet’s eye. She knew before her gaze shifted who she would find.
At the wide entrance to the main assembly room stood Rory and Ravensworth looking almost too splendid to gaze upon directly, dressed in their finest evening blacks. They wouldn’t have been out of place at a London ball. Here, they certainly stood out, but she suspected that was rather the point. Not to lord it over the local village, but rather as a show of respect. If a duke and a viscount arrived at the assembly looking less than their impeccable best, the villagers might feel slighted, as if they weren’t deemed worthy of the finest from a pair of eligible lords.
But, oh, how eligible they looked. Just by arriving, they’d suddenly become the sun around which this entire affair revolved. Juliet found herself, subtly stepping back. She would eventually hit wall, where she could observe their effect on the room.
But it wasn’t to be.
Rory’s eye caught hers, and he started walking…
Toward her.
As if she were somehow lodestone to his magnet.
How the idea appealed to her.
As if the pull of her left him no choice but to be here.
It was only after the two men joined their small grouping that Quincy acknowledged—or even noticed, more like—their presence. He gave them each a passing nod of acknowledgment and continued with his education of Delilah. “But, Lady Delilah, here is where your feminine brain has lost its way. Shakespeare’s plays were performed by men and lads during his day. His work was never intended to be open to the interpretation of the fairer sex.” He shrugged, as if helpless to the facts. “Surely, ’tis best to leave matters your mind couldn’t possibly comprehend to the men. In this way, the balance between the sexes is maintained. Truly, all you need is a firm and dedicated husband to take you in hand, and you’ll find yourself all the happier for it.”
Juliet’s mouth might’ve gaped fully open before she picked it up off the floor. She considered placing a restraining hand on Delilah’s upper arm before she went for Quincy’s throat. But Delilah simply stared at the man as if he’d suddenly sprouted another head, utterly befuddled.
Juliet darted a glance toward Ravensworth and Rory, who were watching the proceedings with no small amount of amusement. In fact, Ravensworth snorted. “A firm hand you say, Quincy?”
“Indeed.”
“To bend her over one’s knee and deliver a firm smack on the bottom, perhaps?”
Quincy nodded, judiciously. “As would be her husband’s right.”
