Simply Magic

that too, I suppose. Did I?”

Foolish question. Could the answer be anything but yes? And could he expect her to say anything but no?

“No,” she said. “No, you did not.”

“I have felt dashed guilty,” he told her. “I have never done anything to compare with it in infamy either before or since, I swear. I am not a seducer-or was not.”

“You did not seduce me,” she said firmly as they turned to walk across the Pulteney Bridge. “What happened was by mutual consent.”

They were reassuring words, and of course he knew there was truth in them. But they were essentially meaningless words, nonetheless. What else could she say? He sighed aloud.

“But it is not good enough,” he said. “Dash it all, it just is not. Will you marry me, Susanna? Will you do me the great honor of marrying me?”

The words seemed to come out of their own volition. And yet he felt an enormous relief that he had spoken them. They should have been spoken up on that hill. They should have been spoken the next day-he should have hurried over to Barclay Court before she left. He should have followed her to Bath instead of going first to London and then home and then to Alvesley. He should have spoken the words the day before yesterday in the Upper Assembly Rooms.

Will you marry me?

He knew suddenly that he had done the right thing at last, that he had wanted to say those words for a long time. He knew that finally he had done the honorable thing, and the thing he wished to do-he wished to protect this woman, who had somehow become his very dear friend, perhaps his dearest friend. The fact that she was not with child did not lessen his obligation to her.

She continued walking at his side, their footsteps echoing along the deserted Great Pulteney Street. He began to think she would not answer at all. He even began to wonder if he had asked the question out loud or only in his thoughts.

“No,” she said at last. “No, of course I will not.”

“Why not?” he asked after another short silence while they continued on past Lady Potford’s house.

“A better question might be why, ” she said. “You cannot marry someone simply because you feel guilty.”

Was that his reason? If he had not dishonored her at Barclay Court, would the idea of marrying her ever have crossed his mind? It was a foolish question, of course. The point was that he had dishonored her. And it was surely more than guilt that had impelled him to ask the question.

As they turned into Sutton Street, she laughed softly.

“When you say your prayers tonight, Lord Whitleaf,” she said, “you must give special thanks for the narrow escape you have just had.”

“You still believe, then,” he said, curling his fingers around hers, “that I am incapable of any deep emotion?”

“I know you are not, ” she said. “But I know that kindness is one of your most dominant attributes-that and gallantry to ladies. You cannot-or ought not to-contract a marriage on such things alone. You need to look deeper into your own heart. You need to learn to like yourself too.”

Her words smote him deeply. Despite her denials she had looked at him and seen a man incapable of any deeper feeling than kindness. She did not believe that the offer of his heart was a significant enough gift. But did he believe it? He had not offered his heart, had he?

He had lost all confidence in love several years ago. He had given all the love of his eager young heart to Bertha Grantham and had made a prize idiot of himself as a result.

Was the real problem that he had lost confidence in himself? In his ability to love or be loved? Had he stopped liking himself? He had felt like an idiot-a gullible, naive fool. But did that mean he had stopped liking himself?

It was such a novel-and disturbing-thought that he said nothing as they approached the school and their footsteps slowed.

“You must not think you owe me marriage,” she said, her voice gentle now, as if he were the one who needed consolation, “just because you believe I was hurt in the summer and imagine that I am lonely and unhappy with my life as it is. Even if all those things were true-which they are not-they are no reason for a marriage. Not on either side. You owe me nothing.”

“I see,” he said as they stopped walking. His mind was paralyzed. He could think of nothing else to say to her. It was actually a relief when the door opened even before he could knock upon it, and the ever-present porter peered out at them.

But he could not let her go this way. He could not say good-bye like this.

“Tomorrow is Saturday,” he said. “There are no classes, are there?”

“Except the usual games class in the morning,” she said. “I always supervise it out in the meadows unless it is raining.”

“May I see you tomorrow afternoon, then?” he asked her. “We can go walking- perhaps in Sydney Gardens if the weather permits. And perhaps we can go somewhere for tea afterward- somewhere public, of course, so that the proprieties may be observed.”

It would be altogether better, he thought-for both of them-if she said no. But he willed her not to refuse him. He did not want this to be good-bye. He wanted the chance to laugh with her once again before they went their separate ways forever.

She had drawn her hand free of his arm. She took him completely by surprise now when she drew off one of her gloves and set her fingertips gently against his cheek.

“Yes,” she said. “I would like that.”

He swallowed and turned his head to brush his lips against her palm. But only for a moment. That porter had not moved back out of sight. Peter half expected that he would growl at any moment-or open his mouth and spew out a stream of fire.

“I shall see you tomorrow, then,” he said, stepping back. “Good night.”

“Good night. And thank you for walking back with me,” she said, before turning and hurrying inside.

The door closed with a click behind her.

…you must give special thanks for the narrow escape you have just had.

He ought to agree with her. He tried to imagine his mother’s reaction and his sisters’ if he had proceeded to present Susanna Osbourne to them as his chosen bride. They would not be happy.

But dash it all, he could not agree.

And devil take it, if this was what being in love felt like, he had been wise to guard his heart for the past several years.

With a deep sigh he turned to begin the long walk back to his hotel.

17

“I am glad you are not too late home,” Mr. Keeble said, just as