Simply Magic (13 page)

Susanna folded back the bedcovers as soon as she was alone, snuffed the candle, and climbed into bed. She pulled the sheet up to her chin and closed her eyes.

And was again waltzing with him.

And sharing dreams with him in the refreshment room and strolling with him in the fresh air outside, her arm linked through his, their hands clasped, their fingers laced together.

And again she was reliving that brief kiss.

In three days' time she was going to be saying good-bye to him.

Her dear, dear friend.

Which was really a very foolish way of thinking about him when she had known him for less than two weeks and had not spent much longer than half an hour with him during any of those days. And when he was Viscount
Whitleaf
of all people.

Friendship. It does not seem a strong enough word, does it? Are we not a little more than just friends?

She could hear him speak those words—just before he touched his forehead to hers and then kissed her.

But she did not want to remember those words—or that kiss. She did not want to believe that they were anything more than friends. There would be just too much pain to bear if…

She turned over onto her side and slid one hand beneath the pillow. She drew up her knees and tucked the sheet beneath her chin.

Once more she was twirling about the dance floor, enclosed in his arms and music and magic.

Once more she was feeling his lips touch hers.

10

Peter could not think back upon the last hour or so of the assembly
with any great pleasure.

He remembered it with considerable discomfort, in fact.

He had broken several of his own strict self-imposed rules.

He had waltzed with Susanna Osbourne and then had supper with her—tête-à-tête when he might have joined other people at one of the larger tables—and then gone walking outside with her, also tête-à-tête. He had spent at least an hour exclusively with her—more than twice as long as he ever allowed himself to spend alone with any lady who was not his sister.

He had not even been content to draw her arm through his as they walked. He had also held her hand—and actually laced his fingers with hers. It had bordered very closely on impropriety. No, actually it had slipped beyond the border. Well beyond.

And then—the pièce de résistance of atypical behavior for him—he had kissed her. Honesty compelled him to admit that that brief meeting of lips could be called nothing less than a kiss.

It was all enough to make him break out in a cold sweat—because of course he could not simply obliterate the memories. On the contrary. They kept poking accusing fingers into his conscious thoughts.

He had trifled with her feelings. It was all very well to try telling himself that it was of no real significance, that he would forget within a week. Perhaps he would. But he also knew very well—good Lord, he had
five
sisters—that women remembered such things far longer than men did and set far more store by them.

He had always been aware of that, and he had always respected feminine sensibilities—except perhaps on one memorable occasion. And except on the evening of the assembly.

He had the uneasy feeling that Susanna Osbourne might just possibly be more hurt when they said the inevitable good-bye than she would otherwise have been.

Which was perhaps a conceited thought, he was willing to admit, but even so, she was the last person he would ever want to hurt.

And the worst of it—surely the
very
worst of it—was that that wretched apology for a kiss had surely been her first.

Dash it all, he was
not
proud of himself. He was downright ashamed if the truth were told.

And of course he could not court her even if he wanted to, which he did not—he
liked
her, that was all. There was an insurmountable gap between them socially.

Such differences ought not to matter, but of course they did. He lived in a society in which titled gentlemen were expected to choose brides from their own select upper circles. And there were sensible reasons for such exclusivity beyond simple snobbery. The wives of titled men had duties to perform for which their upbringing must have prepared them, and they had social obligations in the fulfillment of which they must be adept and comfortable.

It all sounded like weak enough reasoning when verbalized in his mind, but really it was not. It was all part of the fabric of society with which he had grown up and in which he had lived since his majority.

There was only one thing for it, he decided during the largely sleepless night that followed the assembly. He must keep his distance from Miss Susanna Osbourne for the three days that remained of her stay in Somerset—he was to leave the day after her. He must prevent himself from saying or doing anything that he might regret. Or anything
else,
anyway.

It was an eminently sensible resolve, and he kept it for two days. On the first, he was invited with the Raycrofts and a number of other neighbors to dine at Barclay Court and play charades and cards afterward. He did not ignore Susanna Osbourne—how could he? She was on the opposing team to his at charades, and she threw herself into the game with much the same energy and enthusiasm she had demonstrated at the boat races. She fairly sparkled with exuberant high spirits and made him believe—to his relief—that he must not have seriously upset her on the night of the assembly after all. He certainly did not ignore her or avoid her. He spoke with her and laughed with her and competed against her. But they did it all in the setting of the larger group and spent not even a minute alone together.

The following day, as the result of a suggestion made by Miss Moss at the Barclay Court dinner, a large party of young people drove into Taunton in four carriages for a look around the shops and a picnic on the banks of the River Thone. Peter deliberately did not ride in the same carriage as Susanna Osbourne, and though they were often close enough during the few hours in Taunton to exchange a few remarks and smiles, they were never alone together.

And then on the third day he awoke with a start at least an hour earlier than usual to the almost panicked realization that this was her last day at Barclay Court, and that they had wasted two whole days when with a little ingenuity they might have contrived to spend some time enjoying each other's exclusive company.

Dash it, he
wished
he had not kissed her. Or walked along the village street with her, their hands clasped, their fingers laced together.

It would be altogether wiser, he decided as he made his way down to breakfast some time later, to avoid being alone with her for one more day. Tomorrow she would be gone, and he would be getting ready to leave.

Raycroft and his sister, he discovered at breakfast, were going to walk over to Barclay Court during the morning to bid farewell to Miss Osbourne. They were to call for the Calvert sisters on their way.

“You simply must come with us, Lord Whitleaf,” Miss Raycroft said. “Is it not sad that Miss Osbourne will be leaving so soon?”

Going with them would present him with the perfect opportunity to do the polite thing—take his own leave of her—but to do it from within the safety of a largish group. Yes, it would be eminently sensible. And he would have the congenial company of four young ladies for the walk to Barclay Court and back again.

But when he opened his mouth to reply, the words he spoke were not the ones he had intended to say.

“I have promised to call upon Miss Honeydew this morning,” he said—though in fact he had done no such thing. “It is almost my last day here too, you know, and I have grown fond of the lady. I will try to call at Barclay Court sometime this afternoon.”

Miss Raycroft pulled a face, but she did not suggest—as he thought she might—that the planned walk to Barclay Court be postponed until the afternoon so that they might all go together after all.

And so she and Raycroft set off without him, and he spent the morning chopping wood for Miss Honeydew, despite her vociferous protests, a task for which he was rewarded with effusive thanks, a few tears, and an insistence that he eat half a dozen of her housekeeper's special cakes, which this time were suspiciously black at the bottom and nearly rock-hard in the center. He took the dog for a run before driving his curricle back to Hareford House.

The morning had been cloudy—one of those days that could not make up its mind whether to dissolve into rain or open out into sunshine. If it had rained, he might have persuaded himself to remain at the house to play chess with Raycroft's father, who was always eager for a game with someone who could at least come close to beating him.

But the sky cleared off instead and the sun shone. The outdoors beckoned.

Peter rode over to Barclay Court. He left his horse in a groom's care at the stable and strode across the terrace and up one branch of the horseshoe steps. The butler was already in the open doorway and informed him that his lordship and the ladies had just finished luncheon and would surely be delighted to receive him in the drawing room.

He would, Peter decided as he followed the butler up the stairs, stay for fifteen or twenty minutes and then leave. He would wish Susanna Osbourne a pleasant journey and a happy autumn term at school. Perhaps he would kiss the back of her hand—or perhaps he would merely bow over it.

Good Lord, such self-conscious planning was quite uncharacteristic of him, he thought ruefully. The appropriate good manners normally came so naturally to him that he did not have to think them out in advance.

The butler opened the double doors of the drawing room with a flourish, as if he were about to announce the Prince of Wales himself—and then paused.

Susanna Osbourne was rising from a window seat. The large room was otherwise empty.

“Oh, Mr. Smothers,” she said, “the earl and countess went downstairs to the library. Did you not see them?”

The butler turned an almost comically mortified face to the guest, but Peter spoke up before him.

“But it was Miss Osbourne I came particularly to see, Smothers,” he said. “If she will receive me, that is.”

The butler looked back to the lone occupant of the room.

“But of course,” she said, walking halfway across the room before stopping. “It is quite all right, Mr. Smothers. How do you do, my lord?”

He was not doing very well at all actually. He had been assaulted again by the rather foolish panic he had felt when he awoke. This was the last time he would see her. Tomorrow morning she would be gone. The day after so would he. It was no comfort at the moment to try telling himself that by this time next week he would probably have forgotten her.

He smiled and advanced into the room, and the butler closed the door behind him.

“Frances received an invitation this morning to sing at a series of concerts in London later in the autumn,” she explained. “She and the earl have gone down to the library to check on dates and make some plans. But they will not be long.”

They would not be long.
Suddenly their absence seemed to him like a gift he had avoided but longed for.

She was looking rather pale, he thought, until he looked more closely and realized that actually her face was slightly bronzed from exposure to the sun. But there was something…It was in her eyes even though they smiled. No, the rest of her face smiled. Her eyes surely did not. Like him, he thought, she was not unaware that this was the last time they would be alone together, the last time they would see each other.

Of course
she was not unaware of it. Over the course of ten days or so they had developed a friendship that was rare in its warmth. How foolish of him to have deprived them both of two days.

“I came to say good-bye,” he said.

“Yes.” She spoke softly.

“It has been a pleasure knowing you,” he said, though it struck him that there was so much knowing yet to do—if only they had more time.

“Yes,” she said. “It has. Been a pleasure.”

“Yesterday's excursion was enjoyable,” he said.

“Yes,” she agreed. “I have never been to Taunton before.”

“Nor I,” he said.

He saw her swallow, and she turned her head away for a moment before looking back at him.

“I hope you have a pleasant journey the day after tomorrow,” she said.

“Yes. Thank you.” He clasped his hands at his back.

“Shall I—”

“Will you—”

They spoke together and stopped together, and she gestured for him to proceed.

“Will you come out for a stroll with me?” he asked her, abandoning without a thought his careful plan for a fifteen-minute formal call. “It has turned into a beautiful day out there.”

“I will fetch my bonnet,” she said.

She left him on the landing while she ran up to the next floor, and panic returned. What if they could not get out of the house and out of sight before Edgecombe and his lady emerged from the library? There was this
one
afternoon left. This was it—his last chance. This time tomorrow…

His last chance for
what,
for God's sake?

As they stepped through the stairway arch into the hall, Edgecombe and the countess were coming out of the library, all hospitable smiles when they saw him.

“Ah, there you are, Whitleaf,” Edgecombe said. “Smothers came and told us you were here—sorry about the misunderstanding, old chap. We were on our way up to join you. You are not leaving already, are you?”

“Please do not,” the countess said.

“Miss Osbourne and I are going to take a stroll outside,” Peter explained. “This sunshine is too lovely to miss.”

“You should go and see this end of the wilderness walk,” Edgecombe suggested. “It is all very picturesque—deliberately so, of course. In fact, we will come with you, will we not, Frances?”

Her hand came to rest on his sleeve.

“You were concerned yesterday,” she said, “that I had had too much exposure to the sun during the picnic. Remember?”

“Eh?” He looked down at her with a frown.

“I think I had better do the wise thing and stay indoors today,” she said.

Peter saw comprehension dawn in Edgecombe's eyes at the same time as it dawned in his own mind.

“Oh, absolutely, my love,” Edgecombe said. “I'll stay here with you. Will you mind, Susanna?”

“No, of course not,” she said.

“Sunstroke can be a dangerous thing,” Peter added.

And so they stepped out of the house alone together, he and Susanna Osbourne—with the blessing of the Countess of Edgecombe, it would seem.

But blessing for what?

She had not misunderstood, had she? She did not expect?…

But he would not torture his mind further or waste another moment of this suddenly precious chance to be alone one more time with Susanna Osbourne—his friend.

He offered her his arm without a word, and without looking up into his face she took it.

There was suddenly a strange—and potentially disturbing—sense of completion.