Simply Magic

4

Frances’s matchmaking schemes were going to be doomed to disappointment, Susanna thought as she tied the ribbons of her straw bonnet beneath her chin the following afternoon. They were green to match her favorite day dress-not that she had many others to compete with it.

The Reverend Birney, good-looking in a fresh-faced, boyish sort of way, had been polite to her last evening. He had even conversed with her for a short while at the supper table, expressing an interest in a school that took in almost as many charity girls as paying pupils. But there had been nothing approaching ardor in his manner toward her.

Mr. Dannen, short-as Frances had warned-and slightly balding at the crown of his head, but not by any means unpleasing of countenance, had engaged her in conversation for almost an hour before supper even though he was the host and ought to have circulated more among all his guests. But she had asked him about Scotland, his mother’s country of birth, and he had proved to be the sort of man who needed very little prompting to talk at great length on a subject of personal interest to him. His descriptions had been interesting and she had not minded at all having to listen to them. But she had felt not the smallest spark of romantic interest in him. Or he in her, she guessed.

Miss Calvert was indeed interested in Mr. Finn-and he in her.

“Ah, you are ready,” Frances said from the open doorway of Susanna’s room. “Viscount Whitleaf is here. He is downstairs, talking with Lucius.”

Susanna grimaced and reached for her gloves. Her stomach felt suddenly queasy and her knees less than steady.

“I wish I were going to walk to Miss Honeydew’s cottage,” she said.

“You know we would have called out a carriage for you before we allowed that to happen,” Frances said.

“But he was there when I offered to go read to Miss Honeydew,” Susanna explained, “and he felt obliged to offer to take me in his own conveyance. Poor man! I was horribly embarrassed.”

Frances laughed and moved aside to allow Susanna to step out of her room.

“I do not suppose he minded in the least,” she said. “He is nothing if not gallant to ladies. It is very sweet of you, Susanna, to be willing to give up an afternoon for Miss Honeydew. I try to call on her a few times whenever we are at home. It has never occurred to me, though, to offer to read to her, despite the fact that I remember you did it the last time you were here too.”

By that time they were downstairs and approaching the front doors. They were open, and Susanna could see the Earl of Edgecombe and Viscount Whitleaf standing just outside them at the top of the horseshoe steps. They turned at the approach of the ladies, and the viscount swept off his hat and bowed.

“It is a glorious day again,” he said, his eyes laughing at Susanna. “Today there are definitely a few clouds in the sky-I counted twelve on my way over here-but they are small and white and harmless and actually add to the beauty of the sky.”

Susanna might have laughed out loud or at least smiled if she had not just stepped outside and seen the vehicle in which she was to ride-Frances and the earl must wonder why he was making such an issue of what ought to have been a passing mention of the weather. But she had seen the vehicle. He had said last night that he would escort her in his curricle, but she had been too caught up in the knowledge that he was going to drive her to reflect upon the fact that she had never ridden in one before. And this was no ordinary curricle. It was, she guessed, a gentleman’s racing curricle, light and flimsy, its wheels large, its seat looking small and fragile and very far up off the ground.

“And the occasional shade is welcome,” Frances said. “It is very warm today.”

“Miss Honeydew seems determined to ply us with tea and cakes after Miss Osbourne has read to her,” the viscount said. “We may be gone for quite a while, but you may rest assured that I will return Miss Osbourne safe and sound.”

“Whitleaf is a notable whip, Susanna,” the earl said with a laugh as they all descended the steps to the terrace. “You need not fear for your safety.”

“I am not afraid,” she said. “It is just that I have never ridden in a curricle before.”

And the seat looked even higher and the whole thing flimsier from down here-and marvelously elegant. The horses, which were being held by one of the grooms from the stable, looked alarmingly frisky. But even before she need start worrying about the journey itself…how on earth was she going to get up there?

Fortunately it proved easier than it looked. She climbed up to the seat with no dreadful loss of dignity, though she clung to the viscount’s hand as she did so. She moved over on the seat as far as she could go, but even so…

But even so, when he joined her there and gathered the ribbons into his hands, his outer thigh and hip were touching hers-and there was nothing she could do about it. And she had thought two days ago when they were walking back to Barclay Court from Hareford House that she had never felt more uncomfortable in her life! She had known nothing then about discomfort.

He gave the horses the signal to start, the curricle swung into motion, and her hand took a death grip on the rail beside it. For a few moments she could think of nothing but her own safety-or lack thereof.

“I will not let you fall,” he said as they moved from the terrace onto the lane. “And I will not spring the horses-unless you ask me to do so, that is.”

Ask him to…

She laughed and turned her head toward him. He looked back, and she felt all the shock of discovering that their faces were only inches apart.

“Laughter, Miss Osbourne?” he said, raising his eyebrows. “You are not enjoying the ride by any chance, are you?”

She was terrified. Her toes were curled up inside her shoes, her hand was still gripping the rail hard enough-or so it seemed-to put five dents in the metal, and every muscle in her body was clenched. The hedgerows rushed past them somewhere below her line of vision, the little clouds dashed by overhead, the horses trotted eagerly down the lane, their chestnut coats gleaming in the sunshine, the seat swung effortlessly on its springs. She was…

She laughed again.

“This is wonderful!” she cried.

Then, of course, she felt terribly foolish. How gauche of her! She was behaving like a child being given a rare treat. And yet she did not feel like a child as she became aware again of his thigh and shoulder brushing against hers.

His laughter mingled with her own.

He had caused her a largely sleepless night, she recalled. She had dreaded this afternoon and the thought of being alone with him again. What would she talk about? She had no wish to talk with Viscount Whitleaf of all people. Even apart from the name he bore she had decided on her first acquaintance with him-on her first sight of him-that he was shallow and frivolous. And yet she had not been able to forget that he had been sitting with Miss Honeydew when most of the other young people had avoided her all evening whenever they could do so without appearing ill-mannered. And that he had made her laugh with that foolish but surely kindly-meant flattery about an old lady. And he had voluntarily doomed himself to the tedium of an afternoon at Miss Honeydew’s cottage. He had not-as Susanna had led Frances to believe-been trapped into offering her a ride in his curricle. He might easily have avoided doing so.

“You certainly enjoyed yourself with all the young ladies last evening” she said. “They would have been perfectly happy if there had been no other gentlemen present.”

“I did,” he admitted, turning the curricle onto the fork of the lane that led directly to the village with hands that looked very skilled indeed on the ribbons. “Enjoy myself, that is. It is a pleasure, you know, to listen to young ladies chatter and to turn the pages of their music when one knows that doing so makes them happy. But your barbed tongue was at work again, was it not? Would they have been happy with only me? I doubt it. Miss Calvert would not have been happy if Finn had not been there. Perhaps you did not notice that she spent some time in his company? And Miss Krebbs was very happy indeed when Moss asked her to reserve a set for him at the assembly-so happy that she allowed him to fill a plate for her at supper and sit beside her. Miss Jane Calvert would have spent a less enjoyable evening if she had not had the Reverend Birney in her sights for most of the time. And you would have sat all alone for an hour if Dannen had not been there.”

“Mr. Dannen was the host, ” she protested. “Besides, I was not talking of myself.”

“And as a final word in my defense,” he said, “it might be pointed out that all the gentlemen had an equal opportunity to gather at the pianoforte and turn pages of music.”

She could not think of an answer to that one.

“Is this a racing curricle?” she asked.

“The thing is, you see,” he said, “that no self-respecting gentleman below the age of thirty would want to purchase for himself a curricle that could not race.”

“And I suppose,” she said, “you do race in it?”

“Now what would be the point,” he asked her, “in owning a racing curricle if all one did with it was crawl about country lanes as I am doing now?”

“Is this crawling?” she asked. She had been finding the speed exhilarating and had been feeling very daring indeed.

“My poor chestnuts,” he said, “will never forgive me for the indignity of this journey.”

She laughed.

He turned his head again to smile down at her.

“What?” he said. “I am not about to find myself at the receiving end of a lecture about the danger of risking my neck and those of my horses by dashing fruitlessly along the king’s highway merely for the sake of winning a race? The last one, by the way, was from London to Brighton, and honesty forces me to confess that I lost it by a longish nose.”

“Why should it concern me,” she asked him, “if you risk your neck?”

“Now that, Miss Osbourne,” he said, “was unkind.”

“I suppose,” she said wistfully, “it is the most glorious feeling in the world to fly along as fast as your horses can gallop.”

Or simply to fly. She had a recurring dream in which she was a bird, free to soar into the blue and ride the wind.

“I have a curious suspicion,” he said, “that my first impressions of you were quite, quite inaccurate, Miss Osbourne.”

His words jolted her into a realization that she had actually been talking with him-and even rather enjoying herself. And already they were passing through the village. They were halfway to Miss Honeydew’s cottage.

“Your silence speaks loudly and accusingly,” he said as he touched his whip to the brim of his hat and she raised her free hand to wave to Mr. Calvert, who was walking along the village street in the direction of his home. “Obviously you believe that your first impressions of me were accurate.”

Did she? He enjoyed spending his time flirting with young ladies. He owned a racing curricle and had raced it all the way from London to Brighton. She had seen nothing that suggested there was any substance to his character-though he had sat with Miss Honeydew last evening and been kind to her.

“You still dislike me,” he said with a sigh, though it seemed to her that he was amused rather than upset in any way.

“I do not-” she began.

“Ah, but I believe you do,” he said. “Do you not teach your pupils that it is wicked to lie? Is it something about my looks?”

“You know very well,” she said sharply, “that your looks are perfect.”

It was only after the words were out that she wished, wished, wished that she could recall them. Goodness, she must sound like a besotted schoolgirl.

“Oh, I say,” he said, laughing, “is that true? My eye color is not effeminate?”

“You know very well it is not,” she said indignantly. How had the conversation suddenly taken this uncomfortably personal turn?

“I have a cousin,” he told her, “who has the same color eyes. I have always thought they look so much more appropriate on her.”

“I would not know,” she said, “since I do not know the lady.”

“It is not my looks, then,” he said, “unless you happen to have a bias against perfection. There would be little logic in that, though. It must be my character, then.”

“I do not dislike you,” she protested. “There is nothing I find objectionable about your character-except that you do not take anything seriously.”

“That,” he said, “is very akin to those annoying pronouncements with which certain people preface nasty remarks: ‘I do not wish to be critical, old chap, but…’ Ah, the condemnation in that but. And in your except that. You think me a shallow man, then.”

The words had not been phrased as a question, but he was waiting for an answer. Well, she was not going to deny it merely because good manners suggested that she ought. He had asked.

“Yes, my lord,” she said, gazing along the road and wondering when Miss Honeydew’s cottage would come into view. “I do.”

“I suppose,” he said, “you would not believe me if I told you I sometimes entertain a serious thought or two and that I am not entirely shallow?”

She hesitated.

“It would be presumptuous of me to call you a liar,” she said.

“Why?” He had dipped his head even closer to hers so that for a moment before he returned his attention to the road she could feel his breath on her cheek.

“Because I do not know you,” she said.

“Ah,” he said. “What would you say, Miss Osbourne, if I told you that despite my admission of a moment ago, I still think you beautiful beyond belief but also harsh in your judgments and without feelings, incapable of deep affection or love?”

She bristled.

“I would say that you know nothing about me or my life,” she said, trying in vain to move farther to her side of the seat.

“Precisely,” he said, a note of satisfaction in his voice. “We do not know each other at all, do we? How do you know that I am not worth knowing? How do I know that you are?”

She gripped the rail beside her more tightly.

“But surely,” she said, “we have no wish to know each other anyway. And so the answers to your questions do not matter.”

“But they do to me,” he said. “I certainly wish to know who Miss Susanna Osbourne is. I very much wish it, especially after discovering the surprising fact that she would love to race to Brighton in a curricle. That I would not have guessed about you in a thousand years.”

“I would not-” she began.

“Too late,” he said. “You have already admitted it in so many words. I have a strong suspicion that you might be interesting to know. And I feel the need to be known, to justify my existence to someone who believes me to be worthless.”

“That is not what I said!” she cried. “I would never say such a thing to anyone. But do you feel such a need with all the ladies you meet? Do you feel the need to know and make yourself known to the Misses Calvert and Miss Krebbs and Miss Raycroft?”

“Good Lord, no,” he said, and laughed.

“Why me, then?” she asked, turning her head to frown at him. “Only because I do not respond to your flatteries as other women do?”

“That is a possibility, I suppose,” he admitted. “But I hope there is another. There is a gravity about you when you are not laughing at the danger and exhilaration of riding in a curricle. I suspect that-horror of horrors-it stems from superior intelligence. Are you an intelligent woman, Miss Osbourne?”

“How am I to answer that?” she asked him in further exasperation.

“It is one of the things I need to discover about you,” he said. “The Countess of Edgecombe has invited you here out of friendship, not obligation-or so I have been led to believe. The countess is a woman of intelligence. I would imagine that her friends must be intelligent too. And of course you are a teacher and must have an impressive store of knowledge rattling around in your brain. But I need to discover for myself if I am right.”

She was speechless. And the reality of the situation suddenly hit her. It must be reality-none of her muddled and troubled dreams last night had conjured quite this scenario. Here she was talking quite freely with Viscount Whitleaf of all people and actually rather enjoying herself.

“Do you think, Miss Osbourne,” he asked her, “we could be friends if we tried very hard? Shall we try?”

She stared at his face in profile. But she could see no mockery there.

“It is not possible, even if you are serious,” she said. “We are from different worlds-almost from different universes. Besides, men and women do not become friends with each other even if they are of the same world.”

“You had better not tell Edgecombe or the countess that,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “Nevertheless, I might have agreed with you until yesterday. I am not in the habit of making friends of any of the women I have known. But you refuse to allow me to flirt with you, you see, and so you leave me with no alternative but to befriend you.”

“Or to ignore me,” she said sharply.

“That is not an option,” he told her, and he grinned.

“This is absurd,” she said. “Utterly absurd.”

“Then humor me,” he said. “Will you? Will you allow me to try to be your friend even if you will not be mine? I really do not think I can wax eloquent about the weather alone for twelve more days.”

She laughed unexpectedly. At the same moment she was aware that the curricle had slowed and looked up in some surprise to see that they had arrived at Miss Honeydew’s cottage.

“Ah.” He turned his head to look intently at her. “This is better. You are laughing again. I have been leading up-again-to asking you what it is about teaching that you so love. But-yet again-our arrival at a destination has thwarted me. You will give me the answer, if you please, during the return journey.”

“Lord Whitleaf,” she said as he jumped down from his seat and looped the ribbons over the top bar of a painted white fence that surrounded the garden, “you can have no possible interest in my teaching career.”

He raised both arms and lifted her to the ground before she could think of looking for safe foot- and handholds. He made her feel as if she weighed no more than a feather. He also made her feel as if she were running a slight fever.

“And you, Miss Osbourne,” he said, keeping his hands on either side of her waist, “can have no idea what would interest me. Can you?”

He waited for her answer.

“No,” she admitted.

He grinned at her and released her.

They both turned to greet Miss Honeydew, who had come to the front door to hail them. She was dressed in what was very obviously her Sunday best, and she was glowing with happiness.

Susanna was terribly afraid that Frances might be wrong after all. She was terribly afraid that Viscount Whitleaf might be very dangerous indeed.