She grimaced. “More like my novel is intent on finishing me.”
“It’s not going well?”
“The tale I wrote to entertain my father and escape finishing school seemed to pour from my pen with ease. This one moves like treacle. I don’t have any practical experience in the ways of society.”
“You didn’t have any practical experience of dragons or swordfights.”
“That was different. I imagined an entire world. It’s not as if anyone could judge it and say I got it wrong—it was my creation. This book is much more difficult because I must do Lady Claridge justice. I have an intimate knowledge of her novels and yet it doesn’t seem to help when I attempt to write my own words. I keep rewriting the same scene over and over. I must astonish Mr. Norwood with my elegant and erudite prose. In short, this book must be perfect.”
“You’re expecting rather a lot of yourself. It doesn’t have to be perfect. It only has to capture the tone and style of Lady Claridge.Then the editors at Norwood & Pennington will help develop and improve the manuscript.”
“No.” She shook her head stubbornly. “This first draft must be perfect. It’s my only chance. I honestly thought it would be easy. After all, Lady Claridge dictated three whole novels to me. I’m steeped in her prose.” She waved a sheaf of papers at him. “But writing an entire novel, even with a detailed outline, is much more difficult than I’d anticipated.”
“How difficult can it be to churn out a romantic tale?”
“One would think it would be simple, I know. I have the outline—simply flesh it out, throw some meat on its bones, and have done with it. But it’s so much more difficult than it looks.”
“When I read your letters to your father, I also read the chapters of the fantastical novel you were writing. Truth be told, they were captivating. I read eagerly and was disappointed when I never found out what happened to the princess and the dragon.”
She shot him a surprised glance, obviously struggling to absorb the compliment. “You enjoyed it? I-I wouldn’t have thought it to your taste. Mr. Norwood saidThe Dragon and the Blue Starwould never appeal to the sensibilities of the modern reader.”
“He was wrong. My sensibilities were well engaged.”
“But it doesn’t matter if he’s wrong. He’s the publisher, and he won’t publish it. A new Clovercote novel is the only one he will consider. It’s been my long-cherished dream to become a published author. I want to hold my book in my hands. Smell fresh ink on the page and know that my imagination might open a door for a reader to walk through. I wouldn’t even care if the critics hated the novel if it found its way into the hearts and minds of readers. I want all the joys and sorrows that come along with being an author, and that dream has only solidified since my father’sdisappearance. My father and Lady Claridge encouraged my dream, told me that I possessed creative talent, but now I’m not so sure. Perhaps it’s an impossible fantasy.”
He hated the dejected look on her face. She was usually so sunny and optimistic. “I’m certain your writing can’t be as bad as all that. Here, let me have a look.” He reached for the sheet she’d been working on.
“Not that one!” She placed her hand on the sheet, weighing it down on the desk.
“Why not?”
“The ink isn’t dry yet.”
“You’ll have to relinquish your writing to others’ eyes at some point.”
“Here, you can read this one.” She handed him a sheet, covering her face in her hands. “Don’t judge me too harshly.”
The duke read in silence, sitting in a chair near her desk, his face as impassive as ever. Only a slight quirk of his eyebrows betrayed any emotion. What did that quirking mean?
He finished and lowered the sheet.
“Well?”
“Ah . . .” His face contorted. “Ah, it’s . . .”
“Are you laughing at me?”
“Of course not. I rarely laugh.”
“That thing you’re doing with your lips. You’re manfully attempting not to laugh. Admit it!”
A strangled noise. More twitching of his jaw muscles.
“Well!” she cried, snatching the sheet from his hand and retreating to her desk. “At the very least, I’ve finally managed toelicit some mirth from you! That’s worth something. I told you it wasn’t any good. I truly don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”
“It’s not you. You’re a good writer, there’s no doubt about that.”
“If it’s not me, then what is it?”