Simply Magic (8 page)

“If you dare to patronize me,” she called to him, “by allowing me to win, I shall never forgive you.”

“Allow you to win?” He raised his eyebrows and waggled them at her. “How would I ever live with the shame of losing to a woman?”

He settled in to rowing just ahead of her again while the screams from the bank became fevered. He turned his head to grin at her again when the race was almost over, intending to put on a spurt and leave her at least a boat length behind. But he turned at just the wrong moment. A sudden gust of a breeze caught his hat and tipped it crazily over one eye. He lifted a hand hastily to save it from the ignominious fate of being blown into the water and lost his oar instead.

Oh, it did not exactly slip all the way into the lake, but it did get caught at an awkward angle in the rowlock and had to be wrestled into place again. In the meanwhile his boat had veered slightly off course.

Susanna Osbourne had also planned a final burst of speed, he soon discovered, and they were close enough to the bank that he had insufficient time to catch up.

She won by a hair's breadth.

They were both laughing helplessly as she turned to look at him in triumph—and she looked so dazzlingly vital that he would have conceded a thousand victories to her if she had asked it of him. Though he had not actually conceded that one, had he? It had been an honest win, though he might have made it impossible, of course, by doing less dawdling and grinning along the way.

The female vote, he discovered, had deserted him utterly in favor of their own champion. The ladies bore her off in triumph to the blankets, where the picnic baskets awaited them.

“Shall I die of mortification now?” Peter asked, grinning at Edgecombe, who held the boat while he stepped out. “Or shall I eat first?”

“I think you had better die now, Whitleaf,” Raycroft said. “Our sex will never live down the disgrace in this neighborhood, old chap. I would not be surprised if it makes the London papers and you will never be able to show your face there again.”

“But you have made the ladies happy,” Edgecombe said, slapping him on the shoulder, “and that is the best any man can ever hope for in this life. You had better come and eat or Frances will be offended.”

“I must say,” Crossley said, “that for such a small lady Miss Osbourne put on a jolly good show at the oars.”

The young ladies had taken pity on Peter by the time he sat down for tea. A group of them sat with him and assured him that he would certainly have won the race if his hat had not almost blown off. But the mention of that inglorious moment sent them off into peals of merry laughter as they all tried to outdo one another in a description of just how he had looked when it happened.

He laughed with them.

Susanna Osbourne was seated on one of the other blankets. He could not hear her talking, but he was aware of her at every moment. And finally he could wait no longer. The boat race did not count as time alone together. And soon after tea the guests might begin to take their leave. He would be quite out of sorts if he missed his chance and had to go a whole day without a private conversation with her.

He got to his feet and smiled down at the young ladies before any of them could get up too.

“I had better go and eat humble pie before Miss Osbourne,” he said.

She looked up as he approached her group, and smiled.

“Miss Osbourne,” he said, “you must come and walk with me, if you will, and allow me to congratulate you on your victory. I was soundly defeated.”

He held out a hand for hers and helped her up.

“Thank you,” she said, brushing the creases from her dress. “Yes, indeed you were.”

She laughed as she took his offered arm.

And suddenly, it seemed to him, the pleasure of the afternoon was complete. The sky seemed bluer, the sun brighter, the air warmer.

It was too bad—it really was—that a friendship between a man and a woman could not be conducted at long distance. They would not be able to correspond with each other after they both left here—it would not be at all the thing. And there were only five days of the two weeks left. It was very unlikely they would ever see each other again after that.

Dash it, but he would be sorry to say good-bye to her.

However, five days were still five days and not four—had he not described himself to her as a man with a half-full-glass attitude to life? And there was the rest of this afternoon too. He did not believe anyone would remark too pointedly upon his spending half an hour alone with the woman who had beaten him at the boat race.

Yes, he would allow himself the luxury of half an hour today.

He led her off in the direction of the bridge.

7

Susanna had thoroughly enjoyed the picnic, especially the final
boat race. She realized, of course, that Viscount Whitleaf could have reached the finish line long before she had even turned at the pavilion if he had chosen, though she knew too that he had had no intention of allowing her to win. The satisfaction of actually doing so had been immense.

She had enjoyed every moment of the afternoon, but, oh, she had to admit as she walked in the direction of the bridge, her hand drawn through the viscount's arm, that now her pleasure was complete. Finally she was to spend a short while alone with her new friend.

And she did indeed like him. There was always laughter and gaiety wherever he happened to be. And yet when he and she were together there was almost always more than
just
laughter and gaiety. She felt that she was getting to know him as a person and discovering that he was not nearly as shallow or self-centered as she had thought at first. And she felt that he was interested in
her
as a person and not just as another woman with a reasonably passable face.

There was magic, she thought, in discovering a new friendship in an utterly unexpected place.

“I suppose,” she said, “this afternoon was not the first time you have rowed a boat.”

“It was not,” he admitted.

“Though I do not suppose,” she said, “you were allowed to do it as a boy.”

“How did you guess?” He grinned down at her. “Not when I was at home, at least. I did all sorts of things at school and university that had never been allowed at home, on the theory that what my mother and sisters did not see would not cause them grief.”

She remembered how one of his sisters had pulled him away from the bank of the lake where he had been trying to fish with her line, horrified that he might fall in and die. An eager, active little boy had not even been allowed to sit at the water's edge with a fishing line in his hand.

“I cannot remember the last time I was vanquished in a boat race,” he said as they stepped onto the bridge. “Accept my most heartfelt congratulations!”

She laughed. “Someone has to keep you humble.”

“Unkind,” he said. “I
did
admit to having lost a curricle race, if you will remember.”

“By a long nose,” she said. “I wonder how long. An elephant's trunk stretched on the rack, perhaps?”

“Sometimes,” he said, “I believe that your tongue must be sharp enough to slice through a slab of tough beef.”

She laughed again.

“And had
you
rowed before this afternoon?” he asked her. “Please say yes. My humiliation will be complete if the answer is no.”

“A few times long ago, when I was a child,” she said. “But I have not tried it since.”

“And where was that?” he asked.

“Oh, where I grew up,” she said vaguely.

They stopped by unspoken consent when they reached the middle of the bridge. She had crossed it before, on her last visit to Barclay Court, but there had been no opportunity this afternoon until now. The sun beamed down upon them from a cloudless blue sky. A slight breeze cooled her face. She could hear the river rushing beneath the bridge. If she turned her head she would see the sunlight sparkling on the lake water behind them.

All her senses were sharpened. She could feel his body heat. She could smell his cologne. It was an intensely pleasurable feeling. She felt awash in contentment.

“I noticed,” he said, “when I sat inside the pavilion earlier that the reflection of the house is perfectly framed in the lake water. That particular spot was obviously chosen with great care by the landscape artist. He must have been a master of his art.”

“Oh, yes,” she agreed. “I am sure he was.”

“Do you suppose that waterfall has been as artfully positioned as the pavilion?” he asked. “Is it there in that exact spot for maximum visual effect from here?”

“Perhaps it was the bridge that was deliberately placed,” she suggested.

“Or both,” he said. “My money is upon its being both.”

“But can nature be so ordered?” she asked him.

“Assuredly so,” he told her. “Do we not often plant flowers and vegetables in ruthlessly regimented rows and beds for our own convenience and pleasure? And can we not create a waterfall if we wish? We manipulate nature all the time. In fact, we often make the mistake of believing that we are its masters. And then a storm blows in from nowhere and lifts the roofs off our houses and floods them and reminds us of how little control we have and how helpless we are in reality. Have you noticed that once-mighty structures that have been abandoned are soon taken over by nature again? Wildflowers grow in the crevices of once-impregnable castle walls, and grass grows on palace floors where kings once entertained the elite of an empire.”

“I find that thought reassuring more than frightening,” she said. “I have heard of how ugly some parts of the country are becoming with the slag heaps from coal mines and other waste products of industry. I do not suppose those activities will end anytime soon. But when they do end—if they ever do—perhaps nature will reclaim the land and erase the man-made ugliness and create beauty again.”

“I have an uneasy feeling,” he said, “that if we continue to stand here, someone or other is going to feel invited to join us. I do not wish to be joined, do you?”

“No.” She looked up at him, her cheeks warming at the admission.

“And if we walk toward the pavilion, the same thing might happen,” he said. “I can see that there is a path beside the river on the other side of the lake. My guess is that it goes as far as the waterfall.”

“It does. And beyond,” she told him. “It is part of the wilderness walk that begins close to the house and extends all about the lake. I have walked along parts of it with Frances, but I have never been to the waterfall. The path is rather rugged in that area and there had been a lot of rain just before I came here last time. The earl thought it might be unsafe.”

He looked down at her thin shoes.

“Is it
too
rugged,” he asked, “for someone who just won three separate boat races, including, to my eternal shame, the final one?”

“I have always thought,” she said, “that the walk must be at its wildest and loveliest by the waterfall.”

“We will walk there and back, then,” he said, “and hope that no one else is adventurous enough to follow us.”

She took his arm again, and they proceeded on their way.

Susanna wished as they walked that she could seal up every minute in a jar and take them all with her into the future. She did not believe she had ever been as happy as she was when they turned onto the river path and she could feel confident that they would be alone together for at least half an hour.

She could not think of anyone with whom she would rather share such beauty and solitude.

“Ah, magnificent!” Viscount Whitleaf said, stopping on the path when they were in the shade of a forest of tall trees and looking back to where the waters of the river bubbled and foamed beneath the bridge to join the calmer lake water, which was indeed sparkling in the sunshine.

He was genuinely admiring the scenery. It was something that just a week ago she would not have expected of him. She had judged him to be a man who could be happy only when surrounded by adoring females.

“I think Barclay Court must be one of the loveliest estates in England,” she said. “Not that I have seen many others.”

“Or any?” He turned his head and his eyes smiled at her.

“One other,” she said, stung. “The place where I grew up.”

He raised his eyebrows. “And where was that? You have never spoken of your childhood, have you—except that you missed your mother?”

“It does not matter,” she said.

She wondered what he would say if she told him and he realized that they had once been neighbors of sorts. She wondered if he would have any memory at all of that day by the lake when he had visited with his mother and sisters and they had met briefly. And she wondered if he would remember everything that had happened later.

But a painful churning in her stomach warned her not to say any more—or
think
any more—about that.

“Now, Miss Osbourne,” he said with mock severity, “one of the cardinal rules of friendship is that one withhold nothing from the friend.”

“But that is not so,” she told him. “Even friends need private spaces, if only within the depths of their own soul, where no one else is allowed to intrude.”

He was looking fully at her, obviously pondering the truth of what she said.

“There are deep, dark secrets from your past that you would rather keep, then, are there?” he said, waggling his eyebrows. “Very well, then. But you grew up on an estate, did you? As a daughter of the house?”

“As daughter of a…a servant of sorts,” she said. “He was a gentleman, but he was without property or fortune and so had no choice but to work for a living. And so I suppose I am a lady by birth even if only just. Are you satisfied?”

He smiled slowly, and it struck her that the creases at the corners of his eyes would be permanently etched there when he was older. They would be an attractive feature.

“That I have not made a friend of a chimney sweep's offspring?” he asked her. “That would have been enough to send me off into a fit of the vapors, would it not? The path slopes upward rather sharply from here, I see, though there are several large, flat stones to act as steps. Are you sure you are up to the climb?”

“Are you?” She laughed at him.

“Earlier on,” he said, “I thought I heard the echo of something you told me several days ago, though it might have been my imagination. You are not a
games
teacher, by any chance, are you, Miss Osbourne? In a
girls'
school?”

“I am,” she said. “I teach games, and sometimes I cannot stop myself from participating in them. I was always good at them when I was a pupil myself. Yes, there
are
girls' schools that teach more than embroidery and deportment.”

“Heaven help us,” he said, wincing. “I was about to play the gallant and offer my hand for the climb instead of my arm. I will still do so, in fact. If I do not need to haul you up the path,
you
can haul
me
.”

He took her hand in a firm clasp and she thought for one absurd moment that she might well weep. It seemed to her that no one had ever held her hand before, though surely her father must have done so when she was a child. There was such intimacy in the gesture, such an implied bond of trust.

His hand was slender and long-fingered. It was also strong and warm and somehow very masculine. Something tightened in her breasts, and her inner thighs suddenly ached though they had not even begun the climb yet. Something fluttered low in her abdomen.

She had, she admitted, grown very fond of him very fast. Belatedly it occurred to her that perhaps it had not been a good idea after all to agree to be his friend. Next week, when she was back in Bath, she was going to miss him, and she knew that the missing him would bring considerable pain, even grief.

But there was no point in thinking of that now. It was too late to make a different decision and keep her distance from him. And she was not sure she would have decided differently even if she had known then what she knew now. Her life had been so very sheltered. She must not regret walking out into the sunshine, even if only for a brief while.

And he
was
someone about whom the sun seemed to shine.

Hand in hand they clambered up the steep path even though it was not in any way treacherous and she did not really need his support—or he hers. They stood hand in hand and breathless when they stopped halfway up to look down over the steep bank to the fast-flowing water below. The dappled surface of the river and the lights and shades cast on the greenery by the sun shining through tree branches created a stark contrast with the bright, open, calm lake still fully visible off to their left.

The magic of it all assaulted her anew—the beauties of nature at their finest
and
a new friend.

They did not exchange a word. They did not need to. Their thoughts were in perfect harmony—she could sense that. After a few minutes they resumed the climb while the rushing sound of the waterfall drowned out all other sounds—except, she noticed, the shrill song of an invisible bird.

They scrambled the last few feet to the crest of the rise, on a level with the top of the waterfall. The view was breathtaking. Susanna could feel droplets of water cool on her face. Although the lake was still in view—as well as the other picnickers—there was an air of wild seclusion here. Perhaps it had something to do with the sound of the water.

They stood hand in hand gazing at the waterfall until Viscount Whitleaf looked behind him.

“Ah,” he said, “a grotto built artfully into the hillside to look like a natural cave. I almost expected to see it there. And of course it is facing in just the right direction. Capability Brown and his ilk could always be relied upon to provide such conveniences on wilderness walks. Shall we sit for a while?”

“It ought to be cool in there,” she said hopefully. Climbing had been a warm business even though the trees had protected them from the direct sunlight for much of the way.

The grotto was provided with a wooden bench that circled the inner wall. It was the perfect shelter from sun or wind or rain or simple weariness, a place to sit and feast the senses on the beauties provided by nature—even if man had lent a helping hand. The opening to the outside world was framed on three sides with lush green ferns.

The waterfall was centered in their line of vision, just as the reflection of the house was from the pavilion on the lake. Ferns grew thick on the steep banks on either side and trees stretched above. There were the smells of water and greenery and earth. And of course there was the sound of rushing water—and of the song of the lone bird.