Simply Magic

“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