For now, though, he wasn’t rushing into anything. No matter what Oscar or Jenny might say, he was waiting to get married.
3
“Bring more depth of feeling tothe romance.”
Zaira tapped her pen against her lips and stared out at Dover’s Pond. Mr. Knapp’s editorial suggestion had played round and round her mind for the past hour that she’d been trying to rewrite the romantic scene between the heroine and the man she loved and wanted to marry. The two shared only a short kiss, but no matter what Zaira put down, she ended up crossing it out.
She tossed her pen onto the manuscript pages, then let herself fall back into the long grass and wildflowers that surrounded the pond. With her skirt hiked past her knees and her feet already dangling in the pond, she swished the water as she peered up at the vast blue sky.
She had to get this next segment perfect. If she failed to deliver what Mr. Knapp and the readers wanted, she would lose her opportunity to be a published author. In fact, her writing career could be over.
To get it perfect, she had to infuse more emotion into her story. But to do that, she needed to experience romance for herself, and she needed the practice of being with a man.
During her sheltered life, she could count on one hand the number of times she’d been alone with a young man who wasn’t her family. Maybe twice? Three times at the most, if she counted the occasion when she’d stood in the hallway with Coyle Nooan when the rest of their families had lingered in the parlor. He’d stared at her with stark appreciation, but he hadn’t said anything personal.
“Ugh.” Zaira splashed a foot in frustration, sending droplets over the bare skin of her legs and knees. “No wonder I can’t write realistically.” There was so much of life she had yet to live, so many emotions she hadn’t felt, so many things she’d never done.
When it came to the romance in her story, how could she possibly write with more depth when she’d never been in love, never even come close?
She closed her eyes and puckered her lips. What would a kiss feel like? As she touched her fingers to her lips, she tried to imagine soft lips against hers. It would be tickly and sweet and would make her feel cherished, wouldn’t it?
But even as she tried to guess what a kiss would evoke in her, she sighed. “Oh, Zaira, you’re pathetic.”
“I’d have to agree.”
As her eyes few open, she released a squeak and bolted to a sitting position.
There, standing only a few feet away, was Bellamy McKenna. He had a vest over his shirt, which was rolled up at the sleeves. His hands were stuffed in his trouser pockets, and his flatcap was donned at a rakish angle.
Beyond him near the covered pavilion, he’d tied his horse. How had he approached without her hearing him? Had the rustling breeze and the buzzing of the cicadas masked hisarrival? Or had she been too distracted to notice him? Too caught up in imagining what a romance would be like?
Had he seen her kissing the air?
From the smirk tugging up the corners of his lips, she guessed he had.
A flush swelled into her cheeks, but she merely lifted her chin and glared at him. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.”
“Maybe you should be paying better attention to your surroundings. What if I’d been someone nefarious?”
“Nefarious?” She lifted a brow. “My, my, we’re using big words today.”
“Believe it or not, a person doesn’t have to be a writer to use big words.”
She hadn’t known for sure if he was aware of her writing pursuits. But he’d obviously deduced it. Either that, or he’d gone into the newspaper office yesterday after seeing her step out of it and had wheedled Mr. Knapp into telling him what she was up to.
The best thing to do was pretend she wasn’t surprised and act as though she wasn’t perturbed by him in the least.
“Oh aye.” She tried to form her lips into a smirk of her own. “Using big words has more to do with intelligence or the lack thereof.”
“Naturally I’m very intelligent.”
She scoffed. “And, of course, I’m not a writer any more than you are a painter.”
His dark gaze hardened, and his jaw flexed.
Why didn’t he want anyone to know about his painting? As a man, he couldn’t possibly have the same obstacles that she had as a woman, could he?
Perhaps he’d taken a false identity because of family, which was another reason she used her pseudonym. Of course her family and friends knew she loved to read and write stories. And her parents were satisfied with those pursuits ... as long as they remained firmly in the hobby arena.
