Miss Windermere gave a slow nod. “I take it the poem wasn’t to her taste.”
“The poem and I, as it turned out.”
Curiosity lit within Miss Windermere’s eyes. “Do you remember the first line?”
“I do.”
“Would you mind reciting it to me?”
He considered saying no, but hadn’t he just read her poetry without permission? Turnabout was only fair play. He cleared his throat. “Ye are like a wee Highland coo, stout of mind, heart, and body.”
Brow lifted, mouth slightly agape, Miss Windermere looked utterly stricken.
Which was the same look that had come over Miss Dalhousie’s face when he’d recited the line to her.
“You cannot say that to a woman.”
“But it’s the truth.”
“No one wants to hear the truth about themselves.”
“I wouldn’t mind it.” In fact, he’d rather like being compared to a Highland coo. He scratched his beard. He was well on his way, in fact.
“Allow me to clarify,” Miss Windermere continued. “Nowomanwants to hear that particular truth spoken abouther.”
Rory pointed at the journal clutched to her chest. “See? If I had your way with words, Miss Dalhousie would’ve surely consented to be my wife.”
It was only the truth—but a truth that held no bitterness for him. It was merely factual.
A funny look came over Miss Windermere’s face. It was the exact same expression he’d once seen depicted on an Italian painting. The subject had been Joan of Arc.
He only just didn’t take a step back.
“I could help you woo Miss Dalhousie,” said Miss Windermere with the same note of fervency and inspiration that must’ve convinced thousands to follow Joan of Arc to their doom.
Rory spread his hands wide, hoping to calm this situation before it got out of hand. Fervent and inspired weren’t hismétier. “That will not be necessary, I can assure you.”
He could tell even as he spoke them that his words landed on barren soil. “I can be your Cyrano de Bergerac,” she continued.
“Cyrano de…who?”
“He was a French poet and adventurer a couple hundred years ago,” she said, dismissive.
“And what has he to do with my situation?”
“He used his way with words to help others.”
“And your way with words will help me how?”
“I shall write a poem for Miss Dalhousie, and you shall recite it to her.”
Rory only just followed her logic. “So she would think the words mine, and…andwhatprecisely?”
“Consent to be your bride.”
Rory felt his brow gather. The fact was he hadn’t considered trying to woo Miss Dalhousie again. She’d rejected his proposal, and he’d been cast down about it for a few months, but that had been the end of it.
Further, since becoming neighbors with the Dalhousies, he’d had opportunity to observe Miss Dalhousie more fully. She was kind and accomplished and very pretty, but upon reflection, whatever spark she held within her didn’t call to a spark within him. That was the only way he could put it.