Simply Magic

by Mary Balogh

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 ot
her 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.

  5

  After the first flurry of greetings was over-they must have lasted a good fifteen minutes, by Peter’s estimation-he went back outside to tend his curricle and his horses. Then, having discovered several loose boards in the fence but no handyman on the premises, he went in search of a hammer and nails, found them in the stable that doubled as a garden shed, left his coat there, and made the repairs himself despite the fact that the housekeeper gawked at him as if he were the unfortunate possessor of two heads when she came to the door to see what was creating the noise.

  And then, because a scruffy little terrier dog had barked incessantly at him since his arrival and danced about him and even attempted to nip his wrists and ankles until informed that it would do so at its own peril, he decided that the animal needed more exercise than a prowl about the garden provided. He found an old leather leash in the shed, brushed it free of cobwebs, attached it to the dog, and took it for a brisk walk along some narrow country lanes until, on the way back to the cottage, he removed the leash so that it could dash about in all directions, beside itself with exuberant glee at discovering such wide open spaces and the freedom to explore them.

  The stable, which had been built to accommodate three horses and a small carriage, would only just take his two horses. The curricle had to remain outside. Peter set about tidying the area and creating more space. And then, because the new space looked as if it had not seen either a broom or a pail of water in some time, he gave it both before spreading some fresh, clean-smelling straw, which he had found piled up behind the building.

  By the time he entered the house by the kitchen door, he was feeling grubby and sweaty and really rather pleased with life. This was turning into the most pleasant afternoon he had spent since coming to Hareford House.

  He washed his hands and his arms up to the elbows in water the flustered housekeeper poured for him, rolled down his shirtsleeves, and shrugged back into his coat-not an easy task without the assistance of his valet-and stepped into the sitting room, where Miss Osbourne was reading aloud but quietly while Miss Honeydew sat in a chair nearby, her head resting against the cushioned back, her eyes closed, her cap askew, her mouth wide open, snoring softly.

  His eyes met Miss Osbourne’s.

  He stepped back out into the corridor, cleared his throat, scuffed his boots on the wood floor, called out a second, more effusive thank-you to the housekeeper for the water, and reappeared in the doorway.

  Miss Osbourne was closing the book and Miss Honeydew was sitting erect and wide awake. She was straightening her cap and beaming with happiness.

  “What a wonderful reading voice you have for sure, Miss Osbourne,” she said. “I could listen to you all day long. And how splendid to have two young persons come to tea. I do hope the afternoon has not been a tedious one for you, Lord Whitleaf, though I daresay it has. I cannot tell you how much your kindness and Miss Osbourne’s has meant to me. You must both be ready for your tea.”

  “It has not been a tedious afternoon by any means, ma’am,” he said, seating himself. “I was thinking to myself only a few moments ago that I have enjoyed this afternoon more than any other since I came into Somerset.”

  “Oh, what a rascal you are!” Miss Honeydew clapped her hands with glee and laughed heartily.

  Susanna Osbourne looked back at him reproachfully.

  “You will surely fry for your sins,” she told him an hour later after they had waved good-bye to Miss Honeydew in the doorway of her cottage and were on their way back to Barclay Court. “The most enjoyable afternoon of your stay here indeed! I heard you hammering at the fence, and the housekeeper came and whispered to me that you were cleaning out the stable and wanted to know what she ought to do about it.”

  “I took the mutt for a run too,” he said with a chuckle. “I thought its yapping might well drive you insane.”

  “Why did you do it all?” she asked, sounding rather cross.

  “Because I cannot stand being idle?” he said. “But no, you would not believe that, would you? You believe me to be nothing but idle. Perhaps I wished to impress you.”

  “And you flattered Miss Honeydew without ceasing for almost an hour,” she said. “She was delighted even though she did not believe a word you said. She will doubtless live on the memory for days or weeks to come.”

  “Is there anything wrong with that?” he asked her. “She is lonely, is she not?”

  “There is nothing wrong with it,” she said, still sounding cross. “You are kind. You are very kind.”

  Ah, she was cross because she had been proved at least partly wrong about him, was she?

  “But frivolous and idle too,” he said, realizing suddenly that the elusive perfume he had tried to identify all the way to the cottage was not perfume at all but soap. It was very enticing nevertheless. So were the soft warmth of her thigh and her arm.

  She did not reply and he chuckled.

  “It is quite unsporting of you not to contradict me, Miss Osbourne,” he said. “Shall we use the return journey to discover if there is anything about each other that might make it possible for us to be friends?”

  “Or impossible,” she said.

  “I perceive,” he said, “that you are of the half-empty-glass school of thought, Miss Osbourne, while I am of the half-full school.”

  “Then we are quite incompatible,” she said.

  “Not necessarily so,” he said. “Some differences of opinion will provide us with topics upon which to hold a lively debate. There is nothing more dull than two people who are so totally in agreement with each other upon every subject under the sun that there really is nothing left worth saying.”

  But why the devil it had popped into his head earlier and even last
evening that he wanted her as a friend, he had no idea. Except that he knew he could not make her into a flirt, perhaps. She would not allow it-and neither would he. He would flirt with his social equals, with those who knew the rules of the game. He would not flirt with an indigent schoolteacher-she had been a charity pupil at the school where she now taught, for the love of God-whom he might inadvertently hurt.

  But he could not simply ignore her. Good Lord, what was it he had thought two days ago when he first set eyes on her?

  There she is.

  The words still puzzled him and made him strangely uneasy.

  It would be a novel challenge to try again to make a friend of a young woman-one who did not particularly like him and one who claimed that they were closer to being universes apart than worlds.

  Well, challenges were meant to brighten the dull routine of life.

  Not that routine was always dull. Sometimes he longed for it. It was what he had grown up with and expected of the rest of his life-a quiet routine, a fulfillment of duty that was self-imposed rather than enforced from above as it had been all through his boyhood. He had expected very little of his life really-only a sort of heaven of home and hearth and domestic contentment. Most of his current friends would cringe if they knew that of him. Even Raycroft, his closest friend, would be astonished.

  “Tell me what you like so much about teaching,” he said.

  He felt rather than saw her smile.

  “It is something I am capable of doing well,” she said, “and something I can constantly work upon to improve. It is something useful and worthwhile.”

  “Educating girls is worthwhile?” he asked only because he guessed the question would provoke her into saying more.

  “Girls have minds just as boys do,” she said firmly, “and are just as hungry for knowledge and just as capable of learning and understanding. It is true that most of them grow up to lives in which they do not need to know very much at all, but then I suspect that holds true of most men too.”

  “Like me?” he asked.

  “I believe there is a saying,” she said tartly, “that if the shoe fits one ought to wear it.”