Mary Balogh: Simply Magic

Mr. Raycroft, tall, loose-limbed, sandy-haired, his face good-humored more than it was handsome, had always been particularly amiable. Frances had once suggested, only half in jest, that Susanna set her cap at him. But he had shown no romantic partiality for her-and she had felt none for him. She felt no pang of regret to learn now of his betrothal, only a hope that Miss Hickmore was worthy of him.

He was gentleman enough to draw Susanna into the conversation, explaining that he was as ignorant as she of what such places as Vienna were really like, having never set foot outside the British Isles himself.

“It is undoubtedly a most lovely city,” he said, smiling kindly at her, “though I am sure it cannot surpass London in beauty. Are you familiar with London, Miss Osbourne?”

She determinedly tried to concentrate upon the conversation rather than upon the other thoughts that whirled in jumbled disorder through her mind.

“Only very slightly,” she said. “I spent a short time there as a girl but have not been since. I envy Frances’s having seen Vienna and Paris and Rome.”

“Lady Edgecombe,” one of the young ladies called from behind them, “do you suppose there will be any waltzes at the assembly the week after next? I shall simply die if there is one and Mama forbids us to dance it as she surely will. Is it really quite shockingly fast ?”

“I have no idea, Mary,” Frances said while Susanna turned her head to see who had spoken. “I did not even know of the assembly, remember, until you mentioned it a few minutes ago. But I hope there will be a waltz. It is a lovely, romantic dance and really not shocking at all. At least, it has never seemed so to me.”

And there he was in the middle of them, Susanna saw with a sinking heart, one lady on each arm as he had been when she first set eyes on him, the other two hovering about him as if he were the only man in the world of any significance-an opinion with which he undoubtedly concurred.

She was not inclined to think kindly of him, though she would concede that he could not be blamed for his name.

Viscount Whitleaf.

She turned suddenly cold at the remembered name-as she had done a few minutes ago when Frances introduced her to him.

He was without any doubt the most handsome gentleman she had ever set eyes upon-and she had thought so even before she was close enough to see that he had eyes of an extraordinary shade of violet. He looked as if his valet might well have poured him into his coat of dark blue superfine and his buff pantaloons. His Hessian boots looked supple and expensive, even with their shine marred by a light coating of dust from the lane, and his shirt was white and of the finest linen. His tall hat sat upon his dark hair at just the right angle to look slightly rakish but not askew. And he had the physique to display such clothes to full advantage. He was tall and slender, though his shoulders and chest were broad and his calves were shapely.

If there were any physical imperfection in his person, she certainly had not detected it.

The very sight of him among the Raycrofts and the Calverts had filled her with awed wonder.

Then Frances had mentioned his name.

And he had bowed with studied elegance-so out of place on a country lane-and smiled with practiced charm and paid her that lavish, ridiculous compliment while looking so deeply into her eyes that she would not have been surprised to discover that the hair on the back of her head was singed. He had white, straight, and even teeth to add to all his other perfections.

There had been delighted laughter from the other young ladies, but Susanna would not have known what to do or how to reply even if she had not still been stunned from hearing his name. Her mind had been paralyzed and it was only by sheer chance that her body had not followed suit.

Even if he could not help his name, Susanna thought now, remembering that it was not any Viscount Whitleaf against whom she held a grudge, nevertheless she already disliked him quite heartily. A gentleman ought to set about making a strange lady feel comfortable, not throw her into confusion. She did not know much about men, but she could recognize a vain and shallow one when she met him, one so wrapped up in the splendor of his own person that he expected every woman he encountered to fall prostrate at his feet.

Viscount Whitleaf was such a man. He lived up to his name.

She had accepted Mr. Raycroft’s offered arm with gratitude. But with every step she had taken along the lane since, she had felt the presence of Viscount Whitleaf behind her like a hand all along her spine. She resented the feeling and despised herself for allowing it.

Of course the name Osbourne would probably mean nothing whatsoever to him. And he could not really be blamed for that either. He had been only a boy…But he ought to remember. It ought to be a name burned on his brain as his was on hers.

She wished fervently now that Anne had not returned to Bath when she had and that she had not come to Barclay Court with Frances and the earl. She wished herself back in the safety of the school-in the dreary, endless safety.

Though why should she? And why should she allow her holiday to be ruined by a shallow, conceited, careless man who clearly thought he only had to look at a woman with those fine violet eyes for her to fall head over ears in love with him?

Susanna turned to face the lane ahead again, unconsciously squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin as she did so, and asked Mr. Raycroft where he would go if he could choose anywhere in the world. Would he choose Greece, as she would?

“Greece would be well worth a visit, I believe, Miss Osbourne,” he replied, “though I have been told that travel there is very uncomfortable indeed. I am a man who enjoys his creature comforts, you see.”

“I do not blame you at all,” Frances said. “And I can assure you that I have not yet seen a country to rival England in beauty. It feels very good to be home again.”

They reached the village soon after that and stopped to speak with Mrs. Calvert, who came outside the house to greet them, though they declined her invitation to step inside. When they continued on their way without the Calvert sisters, Viscount Whitleaf walked ahead with Miss Raycroft on his arm, and the two of them chattered merrily all the way to Hareford House, obviously very pleased with each other’s company.

The two visitors drank tea with the Raycrofts and exchanged civilities for half an hour before Frances got to her feet and Susanna followed suit.

“I do not suppose,” Frances said, “you would care to go walking again, Mr. Raycroft, after having been out once. Perhaps we may hope for you to call at Barclay Court tomorrow?”

“I seem to recall,” Viscount Whitleaf said, “that your original invitation included me too, ma’am. And indeed I would care to go walking again today. I look forward to paying my respects to Edgecombe. Raycroft, are you coming too? Or am I to enjoy the pleasure of having two ladies to myself for the walk to Barclay Court?”

Susanna’s eyes flew to Mr. Raycroft’s face. She was vastly relieved when he expressed himself ready for further exercise.

Her relief was short-lived, however. She desperately hoped to maneuver matters so that she would walk with Frances or Mr. Raycroft, but as fate would have it, he was saying something to Frances as they descended the garden path and it was natural that he should offer her his arm after they had passed out through the gate. That left Susanna to walk behind with Viscount Whitleaf.

She could hardly have imagined a worse fate. She glanced up at him in a sort of sick dismay and clasped her hands firmly behind her back before he should feel obliged to offer his arm.