Simply Magic (19 page)

He thought she was going to refuse him. Dash it, what an unexpected humiliation that would be—but one he doubtless thoroughly deserved.

“Yes,” she said then and licked her lips. “Yes, thank you, my lord.”

He held out his hand, palm-up, and she placed her own on it.

And he was immediately assaulted by familiar words speaking loudly and distinctly in his head—though one word was different from usual.

Here she is,
the voice said.

And it was quite indisputable, was it not? Here she was indeed, her hand on his, about to waltz with him.

         

Susanna had been trying to convince herself for the past two and a half months that she was not nursing a broken heart.

Now, finally, she had succeeded.

Viscount Whitleaf was in no way worthy of the tears she had shed over him, the painful dreams she had woven about him, the guilty memories of him in which she had sometimes indulged.

He ought not to have come without any warning like this. He must have
known
that she would be here. What interest could he possibly have in Anne? Or in Anne's husband either, even if Mr. Butler
was
Viscountess Ravensberg's brother-in-law?

When she had looked around the tearoom after hugging Anne, feeling completely happy for once because it had been instantly apparent to her that Mr. Butler did indeed care for Anne and that Anne was happy and that even
David
was happy—when she had looked around and seen Viscount Whitleaf standing in the shadow of the doorway at the far side of the room, she had…

Ah, but it was impossible to put into words what had been a purely physical reaction. Her knees had turned weak, her heart had hammered at her throat and in her ears, her hands had become clammy, her breath had seemed suspended. It had taken her brain a second or so longer to catch up.

And then he had stridden confidently into the room, and he had been
smiling,
as if he did not have a care in the world—as doubtless he did not. He had approached with his cousin on his arm and turned his smiles on Anne and Mr. Butler. He had even paid attention to David, lest one person in the tearoom not become his adoring admirer. When he had come to speak to
her
and spend a few brief, polite moments standing by her table, he had turned on the full force of his charm, especially upon Claudia—and had then gone away to sit with his back to them all through tea.

A man without a care in the world, indeed. He probably scarcely remembered her.

Claudia had not been taken in by his charm.

“There is a gentleman who thinks a lot of himself,” she had said as he walked away from the table.

“Ah, but I believe he is genuinely amiable,” the Earl of Edgecombe had said.

“I have always found him unfailingly cheerful and courteous,” Miss Eleanor Thompson, the duchess's sister, had added.

Susanna had said nothing—though she had been feeling inexplicably grateful to the earl and Miss Thompson.

Neither had Frances.

The whole tea, to which Susanna had looked forward so eagerly for a whole week, had been ruined for her. She had been quite unable to swallow more than a few mouthfuls of food or to relax into the pleasure of being in a room with her three closest friends again, Frances and Claudia at the same table with her, Anne not far away with her new husband, looking flushed and very happy. She had not been able to marvel in peace that she was in the same room and at the same entertainment as the Marchioness of Hallmere, whom she had recognized instantly as that long-ago prospective employer.

It was simply not fair.

And now—ah,
now
he had asked her to waltz with him and she had said yes.

She had come into the ballroom with Claudia and Miss Thompson, smiling brightly and knowing that she was going to have to stand and watch Anne waltz with Mr. Butler and Frances with the earl. She had been feeling more wretchedly bleak than she had felt since the end of August, especially knowing that
he
was in the ballroom too and would probably dance with one of the other ladies.

And now?

Now, as she turned to face Lord Whitleaf on the dance floor and fixed her eyes on a level with his chin, a smile on her lips, she felt nothing at all—except happy to know that her heart was not broken after all.

His hand came behind her waist, and she lifted her hand to his shoulder. His other hand clasped hers.

He still wore the same cologne, she noticed.

The waltz was already in progress. They moved into it without further delay.

The memory of that other waltz was still precious to her despite everything. She did not want it to be overlaid with
this
memory. But now it forever would be, she supposed.

It was not
fair
. He ought not to have come. And now she would remember him harshly because he
had
come, without any regard to her feelings—probably not even remembering that there was anything about which she might have feelings.

And yet, she thought, if that last afternoon at Barclay Court had proceeded differently—if Frances and the earl had come with them, if they had kept walking across the bridge and down to the waterfall instead of sitting on the hill, if she had said
stop
instead of
don't stop
—if any of those things had happened, she would have been very happy to see him this afternoon. She would not have blamed him at all for coming. He would have been no more than her dear friend.

She lifted her eyes to his as he twirled her about one corner of the ballroom and found that he was looking back, a smile on his own face too. But how could they
not
smile? They were surrounded by wedding guests.

“Susanna,” he said softly, “you look as lovely as ever.”

“Is the day warmer and brighter for my presence in it?” she asked him, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

He tipped his head slightly to one side as he gazed back into her eyes.

“You are not happy to see me,” he said.

“Ought I to be?” she asked him.

“I thought perhaps you would not be,” he admitted. “But it was a wedding celebration, you see, and involved a number of people whom I know and like. How could I have resisted coming?”

And that was the trouble with him, she thought. He could not resist being blown along by any wind that happened in his direction. She had once told him that he was a kind man. But was it kind of him to come here today only because there was to be a party and congenial company?

“You knew I would be here, then?” she asked him as they twirled about another corner.

“Yes,” he said. “It is why I came.”

And now he was contradicting himself. Was there any firmness of character in him at all?

“Susanna,” he asked even more softly than before, “are you with child?”

If she had been, the child would surely have turned over in her womb. Every other part of her insides seemed to somersault as she drew breath sharply and stumbled slightly. He drew her closer until she had regained her balance and fitted her steps to his again.

“No,” she said.

His eyes found hers and searched them. His smile had slipped, she noticed. So had hers. She donned it once more.

“I am glad,” he said.

“No doubt.”

She lowered her eyes and tried to recapture some of the magic she had felt the last time they waltzed. She deliberately let her attention move to their fellow dancers and could see Anne and Mr. Butler dancing with surprising grace despite the fact that his right arm was missing. Anne was looking a little less slender than usual, especially below the high waistline of her dress. The duchess was laughing up into the austere face of the duke, whom Claudia detested so fiercely. His pale silver eyes looked back at her with a total absorption that spoke of emotions burning just behind the autocratic façade. Frances twirled in the earl's arms, and it was obvious that they had eyes for no one but each other.

The world was filled with happy couples, it seemed—and her very lone self.

Ridiculous, self-pitying thought!

“You are bitter,” Viscount Whitleaf said.

Was she? She had no reason to be, had she? He had not seduced her. He had given her the opportunity to stop him. He had asked her afterward to go away with him and had promised that he would look after her even when all was over between them. She had said no. They had parted as friends. Ah, that parting—that memory of him riding away across the terrace and down the lane until he was out of sight. It was a memory that had always gone deeper than pain because she had thought she would never see him again.

Now she was waltzing with him once more in the Upper Assembly Rooms in Bath. The reality of it, she felt, had still not quite hit her.

“Silence is my answer,” he said. “And I cannot blame you. It would be trite of me to say I am sorry. But I do not know what else
to
say.”

“You need not say anything.” She looked back into his eyes. “And you need not feel sorry—any more than I do. It happened. Our friendship had to end anyway. Why not that way?”

“
Did
it end?” he asked her.

She gazed back at him and then nodded. Of course it had ended. How could they even pretend to be friends now?

“Then I really
am
sorry,” he said. “I liked you, Susanna—I
like
you. And I thought you had come to like me.”

She swallowed.

“I did.”

“Past tense?” he said, and after a short silence between them, “Ah, yes, past tense.”

They stopped dancing for a few moments while the orchestra ended one waltz tune and prepared to play the next one in the set.

Did she not even like him now, then? Because he had come here today to disturb her peace again? He had come because she was to be here. He had come to ask her if she was with child.

What would he have done if the answer had been yes? Would he have gone away again faster than he had come? She knew he would not have.

She looked up at him again as they resumed their dance.

“I do not dislike you,” she said.

“Do you not?”

He was smiling—no doubt for the benefit of those around them. She smiled too. And then, because they were still looking at each other, both their smiles became more rueful—and then more genuine.

“I have told myself,” he said, “that it would have been far better for me—and considerably better for you—if I had left Hareford House two days after your arrival at Barclay Court, as I had originally planned. I would have remembered you, if at all, as a rather straitlaced, disapproving, humorless schoolteacher.”

“Is that how I appeared to you?” she asked him.

“And as someone who made an already glorious summer day seem warmer and brighter.” He whirled her twice about a corner, startling a laugh out of her. “But then another part of myself answers with the assertion that I would hate never to have got to know you better.”

She looked about with leftover laughter on her face. Mr. Huckerby, she could see, was watching her feet—to see if she remembered the steps correctly, no doubt. She caught Claudia's eye as she danced past and smiled at her.

“Do
you
wish,” Lord Whitleaf asked her, “that I had left when I intended to do so?”

Did she? She would have been saved from a great deal of heartache—and from a great deal of vividly happy living.

“No,” she said.

“Why not?” He bent his head a little closer.

“You once told me,” she said, “that in your childhood you were surrounded by women. It is what has happened to me since I was twelve. I have had almost no social contact with men. I have been shy with men, unsure how to talk or behave with them. I was terrified when I first met you because you were handsome and self-assured and titled. And then I learned that you were amiable and kind and really rather easy to talk with. And then I came to genuinely like you and look forward to seeing you each day and spending a short while in conversation with you. Knowing you brightened my life for a time and provided me with memories that will give me pleasure in future years—riding in a curricle with you, racing a boat against you, climbing to the waterfall with you, waltzing with you.”

Kissing you.

Making love with you.

“I am not sorry you stayed,” she said.

“Are we friends again, then?” he asked her.

She smiled back at him and then laughed softly.

“Oh, yes, I suppose so,” she said, “for what remains of this afternoon, anyway.”

Though it struck her that the celebration would probably not go on much longer and that then she would go back to school and he would go away somewhere with the Ravensbergs and that that would be the end of it—the real end this time.

And there would be pain all over again.

But pain was something that life inevitably brought with it. If there was no pain, there was no real living and therefore no possibility of happiness. She had been happy—truly, exhilaratingly happy—on a few occasions in her life, almost all of them with Viscount Whitleaf. She must remember that. She
must
. There were two particularly perfect incidents that had drawn her so completely into happiness that no
un
happiness had been able to intrude. One had occurred at the assembly rooms when she had waltzed with him. The other had occurred on the hill above the river and the little bridge when they had made love.

It was so easy to remember that lovemaking as the worst thing that had ever happened to her—because it had brought her a far deeper unhappiness than she would have felt otherwise in saying good-bye to him. But actually it was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened too.

It was. That had been easily the happiest half hour or so of her life.

Now she was waltzing again—with the man who had waltzed with her then, and with the man who had been her lover on that hill. And if she was not perfectly happy now, the reason was that she was allowing past pain and future unhappiness to encroach upon the magic of the moment.