But Miss Windermere looked so strangely excited by the prospect of this poem that he was finding it difficult to deny her. She looked…inspired. And who was he to deny inspiration to a poetess of her talent?
“Oh,” she exclaimed in a sudden burst. “I have it!”
“You have what?” he asked carefully. They always said artists contained a bit—or a great deal, in some cases—of madness in their souls.
“Miss Dalhousie will return in time for the play,” she said, her words making sense only to her. “At the end, you can recite the poem to her in the audience.”
“To Miss Dalhousie?” he asked slowly.
“It’s perfect. It gives us one week—which is rushed for a finished poem—but it should be enough time.”
“Hmm,” was all Rory said. It would’ve been perfect two years ago, but now it felt decidedly less so.
Miss Windermere tapped a forefinger to her mouth, drawing Rory’s gaze. Plump and pink. How had he never noticed that about her bottom lip?
“I do see one problem with the plan,” she said.
Just the one?Rory didn’t say.
“I don’t really know anything about Miss Dalhousie.”
“Well,” began Rory, “she’s an accomplished violinist and speaks more than a few languages, for starters.”
Miss Windermere gave her head an impatient shake. “Not her accomplishments, but the true Miss Dalhousie.” She pressed a palm to her chest, and Rory tried not to notice the shallow swell of her breasts beneath.
Truly, he did.
“Here,” she continued. “Hertruelife—the one that lives inside her heart.”
In that instant Rory understood how Miss Windermere was able to write with the skill and emotion she did.
A poet’s soul resided in her heart.
And he understood something else, too.
He wanted to know more of it.
An idea began to form. “She loves nature,” he blurted.
“Oh?”
In truth, he hadn’t the faintest clue. “I could show you her favorite places.”
Actually, he was fairly certain Miss Dalhousie didn’t enjoy being out of doors.
Miss Windermere gave a slow, considering nod. “That idea holds promise.”
An unexpected flare of relief rippled through Rory. And it had naught to do with Miss Dalhousie, but with the woman before him clutching a journal of poetry to her chest and speaking of the truth that lived in a heart.
He now had the perfect excuse to spend time with her, showing herhisfavorite places, getting to know the true Miss Windermere who resided inherheart.
Though he’d been acquainted with her for years—through youth and into adulthood—he was only now seeing her.
Today offered a glimpse, but tomorrow…
What new vistas awaited?
Yet a question did occur to him. “What benefit do you get out of this?” He simply didn’t see it.