Delilah was clearly wondering the same as she stared at her cousin, mouth agape, a storm building on her face, even as she tried to stay in character. “Who is this that has wandered into our fair woods?”
Juliet swiveled and proclaimed, “I am called Juliet.”
It struck Rory that though Juliet excelled in the creation of words, that same level of talent didn’t extend to her acting skills.
In short, she was a terrible actress.
Delilah looked tempted to drag her cousin off the stage. “I believe you’ve wandered in from an entirely different play,Juliet.”
“Oh?” Juliet put her hand to her forehead and dramatically scanned the stage and audience. “O Macbeth, Macbeth, wherefore art thou Macbeth?” she proclaimed.
Delilah groaned. The other actors looked confused. Out in the audience, Mr. and Mrs. Dalhousie looked bewildered. Miss Dalhousie looked to be stifling a giggle behind her hand. Ravensworth leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, as if settling in for a night’s entertainment.
And Rory… Well, he found himself taking a step forward, a feeling of protectiveness surging within him. If Juliet was here to make a fool of herself, then she wouldn’t be alone.
She would never be alone.
“’Tis your Macbeth, fair Juliet,” he said.
Delilah threw frustrated hands into the air and lowered herself to a seat, legs crossed in front of her. She leaned back onto her elbows and watched, clearly resigned to the fact that she’d lost all control. The moment no longer belonged to the actors reciting lines, but to him and Juliet—playing none other than themselves, speaking the words writ upon their hearts.
Juliet stared out at him, vulnerable in a way he’d never seen before. What she was doing right now, being the center of attention, couldn’t have been comfortable for her. But then, he was finding the course of true love wasn’t exactly a comfortable business.
Or something like that.
Shakespeare said it better.
She rubbed her lips together, then opened her mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again, decided. “The essence of something is the most difficult thing to describe, because the essence is the truth that lay at its very core—at its heart. Take love, for instance. It isn’t a tangible object that can be held in a hand, and yet itcan be held in a heart. It contains substance and solidity”—she pressed her palm to her chest—“here.” She inhaled deeply, as if bracing herself. “I love you, my Rory. Not theyouI beheld with girlish eyes, but theyouI’ve experienced with my woman’s heart—and body.”
The audience’s scandalized gasp sailed up to the rafters.
Rory didn’t hesitate.
He reached for her hand and led them to the front edge of the stage. He hopped the short foot to the floor and turned, holding her tight as she descended. All eyes following them, rapt, he led her down the center aisle and to the front door, which Rivers had already opened, ever the butler to anticipate the needs of Dalhousie Manor’s guests.
In silence, Rory led Juliet down the wide, stone staircase and across the gravel drive before stepping onto the green lawn that led toward the ha-ha. He’d formed an idea about speaking his heart beneath the stars, but this was Scotland in spring, and no two consecutive nights would have stars. Instead, the sky hung low with a thick blanket of clouds heavy with unfallen rain.
Still, he kept walking until they were beyond view of the house. The windows would surely have eyes.
Only then, with the song of night sung by crickets and warblers for company, Rory pulled Juliet to a stop. Inches separated them as they stood facing one another. He opened his mouth to speak first, and shut it. He’d said so much last night—all that was within his heart, in fact.
Tonight was Juliet’s turn.
Her eyes bright with all that yet lay unspoken, she said, “I thought about writing you a poem.”
“I would be honored.”
He’d thought it was only the female sex who experienced skipped beats of the heart. But he’d just been proven wrong.
“But I didn’t.”
“Oh.”
“Because my mind would take over and try to perfect what’s in my heart if I commit it to pen and paper. And I don’t want that. What ishere”—she pressed her palm to her chest—“andhere”—she pressed her other palm to his chest—“isn’t in need of perfecting, for it’s the poetry writ upon my heart by yours.”
He nodded.
“I tend to think about matters too much,” she continued. “I’m always searching for the perfect words. But with you, Rory, none of that is necessary. With you, I’m allowed simply tofeel—in my body and in my heart. My mind has naught to do with you and me. With you, I can simplybe.” Uncertainty entered her eyes. “But in truth, I don’t understand what benefityouget out of the bargain.”
