Simply Magic

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.

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