Mary Balogh - Simply Magic

“Oh, goodness,” she said, fumbling in her pocket for her handkerchief and managing to produce a shaky laugh, “what an idiot you will think me.”

There was a brief but disconcerting silence.

“Susanna,” Frances said then, “you have not fallen in love with Viscount Whitleaf, have you?”

Susanna jerked her head upward and gazed horrified at her friend, wet, reddened eyes and all.

“No!” she exclaimed. “Oh, no, Frances, of course I have not. Whatever put such a silly notion into your head?”

But the trouble was that her tears seemed to be beyond her control tonight. Her eyes filled again, and she felt two tears spill over onto her cheeks. She mopped at them hastily with her handkerchief and held it to her eyes.

“Ah, my poor dear,” Frances said softly.

“But you are quite wide of the mark. Oh, this is very silly of me,” Susanna wailed. “I am not in love with him, Frances. Truly I am not. But I do like him exceedingly well, you see. We have even become friends during these two weeks. And tonight I waltzed with him. But now that the assembly is all over, I cannot help remembering that the holiday is almost over, that within a few days I will be returning to Bath. Don’t mistake me-I look forward to going back. It is my home and my other friends are there. And the prospect of a new teaching year with some new girls and the return of the old is always exhilarating. But just at the moment I am contemplating the sadness of saying good-bye to you and Lord Edgecombe and everyone else here.”

“Including Viscount Whitleaf,” Frances said softly.

“Yes.” Susanna smiled wanly as she put her handkerchief away again. “Including him.”

“But he is just a friend?” Frances asked, frowning, her eyes looking troubled even in the candlelight.

“Yes,” Susanna assured her, making her smile brighter. “Of course that is all he is, you silly goose.”

Friends do not kiss.

He had kissed her under the elm outside the church. Or was it pathetic to call that brief brushing of lips a kiss? She knew, though, that she would remember it for the rest of her life as a kiss-her first and doubtless her last.

Friends do not kiss.

But they were friends.

There was nothing else between them but friendship, in fact.

She did not want there to be anything else.

There could be nothing else.

She rested her forehead on her knees again.

“Susanna.” Frances had got up from her chair and come to sit on the side of the bed. She set a hand between her friend’s shoulder blades and patted her back gently. “I am so sorry. I am so sorry.”

Susanna concentrated upon taking deep, steadying breaths and holding the tears at bay. She had never been a weeper. Tonight’s tears were quite uncharacteristic of her.

“He is just a friend,” she said when she could be sure her voice would be reasonably steady. “But friends can become very dear, Frances. My heart would break if I had to say good-bye to you or Anne or Claudia and knew it would be forever.”

“Your heart is breaking, then?” Frances asked.

“No. Oh, no, of course not,” Susanna said. “It is just a figure of speech. I will be sad when this fortnight is over. Very sad. And also grateful for the many happy memories. But it is not even quite over, is it? There are three more days to enjoy.”

“I feel so very helpless,” Frances said after a minute or two of silence. “I feel absolutely wretched for you, Susanna. But I do not know what to say or what comfort to offer.”

It was obvious that Frances did not believe any of her protestations concerning Viscount Whitleaf. And because Susanna did indeed feel miserable about having to say good-bye to him-though truly they were only friends-she bowed her head and said nothing for a minute or two longer.

“You have been a comfort to me just by being here,” she said firmly at last, getting off the bed to stand beside it. “By being a friend. It was a lovely evening, Frances-the most wonderful of my life, and it has been a lovely holiday. You must forgive me, please, for shedding a few sentimental tears because it is almost all over. Now, do go back to Lord Edgecombe. I need my beauty sleep even if you do not.”

Frances took her hands and squeezed them, kissing her on the cheek as she did so.

“That’s my girl,” she said. “That’s my brave Susanna. Good night, then. I do hope you will sleep well.”

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.

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.