He read more.
“Anexcellentpoet.”
Miss Windermere shifted on her feet. He was discomfiting her. But he couldn’t tear his eyes away.
“You’re the sort of poet anyone would want to be.”
A wry laugh caught his ear. A laugh that indicated she didn’t believe him. “I’m fairly certain not everyone wants to be a poet.”
Rory’s gaze narrowed on the woman before him. She was quite unlike the Miss Juliet Windermere he’d known for years, who viewed the world around her from a calm and deliberate remove.
ThisMiss Windermere looked a bundle of nerves.
He tapped forefinger to page. “I would give up quite a lot to be able to write words in the configurations you do. I’d give up my future earldom.”
Her eyes twinkled with a suppressed smile. “But not your current viscountcy?”
She’d asked the question in all seriousness, yet he suspected she was teasing him.
He rather liked being on the receiving end of a tease from Miss Windermere.
“I’d prefer to keep it,” he said. “I rather like Baile Ìm.”
Her head canted to the side. “You do have a, erm,waywith words.”
Rory winced. If that wasn’t damning by faint praise, he didn’t know what was. “Youhave a way with words, Miss Windermere,” he said, earnest.
He thumbed through the journal, each new page filled with more brilliance than the last.
Right.
He snapped it shut and held it out for her to take, only now realizing she hadn’t given him permission to read her brilliant words. She stepped just close enough to grab it and took an immediate step back.
“My apologies for taking liberties with your work,” he said, sheepish. It only seemed right.
She nodded her acceptance of his apology, but didn’t turn to leave. “I’ve heard that you write the occasional verse.”
“Very occasional,” he said. “I’ve mostly stopped.”
“Why would you do that?”
“May I be blunt?”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Oddly, he believed her. “I’m a bloody atrocious poet.”
She smiled. “How can you know that?” she asked. “Have you shared your poems with anyone?”
“One person,” he admitted. “One poem.”
“Neither number is enough to gauge the quality of a work.”
She’d asked for the truth. Here it was… “You know that I proposed marriage to Miss Dalhousie a few years ago?”
“I’d heard something about that.”
“I wrote her a poem.”