Mary Balogh - Simply Magic

She had always made a joke with her friends of her determination to snare a duke one day. She smiled and then rested her forehead on her up-drawn knees.

“It is lovelier than any other dance,” Frances said with a sigh. “It is so…oh, romantic.”

“Yes.” Susanna closed her eyes and remembered the glorious wonder of it. It had seemed to her that she had almost floated over the boards beneath her feet without actually touching them. It had seemed as if waltzing and her dream of flying free had become one and the same. Except that waltzing had not been done alone, but with a man who had held her in the circle of his arms and smelled of musk cologne and masculinity. For the space of that one set of dances dream and reality had touched and merged and she had known complete happiness-one of those rare interludes in any life.

It had been sheer magic.

She would always remember-half with wonder, half with a sort of pain. For a while, she feared, the pain might outweigh the wonder.

And then, quite unexpectedly and ignominiously, the tears were back and soaking into her robe and she uttered a quite audible hiccough as she tried to control them.

“Oh, goodness,” she said, fumbling in her pocket for her handkerchief and managing to produce a shaky laugh, “what an idiot you will think me.”

There was a brief but disconcerting silence.

“Susanna,” Frances said then, “you have not fallen in love with Viscount Whitleaf, have you?”

Susanna jerked her head upward and gazed horrified at her friend, wet, reddened eyes and all.

“No!” she exclaimed. “Oh, no, Frances, of course I have not. Whatever put such a silly notion into your head?”

But the trouble was that her tears seemed to be beyond her control tonight. Her eyes filled again, and she felt two tears spill over onto her cheeks. She mopped at them hastily with her handkerchief and held it to her eyes.

“Ah, my poor dear,” Frances said softly.

“But you are quite wide of the mark. Oh, this is very silly of me,” Susanna wailed. “I am not in love with him, Frances. Truly I am not. But I do like him exceedingly well, you see. We have even become friends during these two weeks. And tonight I waltzed with him. But now that the assembly is all over, I cannot help remembering that the holiday is almost over, that within a few days I will be returning to Bath. Don’t mistake me-I look forward to going back. It is my home and my other friends are there. And the prospect of a new teaching year with some new girls and the return of the old is always exhilarating. But just at the moment I am contemplating the sadness of saying good-bye to you and Lord Edgecombe and everyone else here.”

“Including Viscount Whitleaf,” Frances said softly.

“Yes.” Susanna smiled wanly as she put her handkerchief away again. “Including him.”

“But he is just a friend?” Frances asked, frowning, her eyes looking troubled even in the candlelight.

“Yes,” Susanna assured her, making her smile brighter. “Of course that is all he is, you silly goose.”

Friends do not kiss.

He had kissed her under the elm outside the church. Or was it pathetic to call that brief brushing of lips a kiss? She knew, though, that she would remember it for the rest of her life as a kiss-her first and doubtless her last.

Friends do not kiss.

But they were friends.

There was nothing else between them but friendship, in fact.

She did not want there to be anything else.

There could be nothing else.

She rested her forehead on her knees again.

“Susanna.” Frances had got up from her chair and come to sit on the side of the bed. She set a hand between her friend’s shoulder blades and patted her back gently. “I am so sorry. I am so sorry.”

Susanna concentrated upon taking deep, steadying breaths and holding the tears at bay. She had never been a weeper. Tonight’s tears were quite uncharacteristic of her.

“He is just a friend,” she said when she could be sure her voice would be reasonably steady. “But friends can become very dear, Frances. My heart would break if I had to say good-bye to you or Anne or Claudia and knew it would be forever.”

“Your heart is breaking, then?” Frances asked.

“No. Oh, no, of course not,” Susanna said. “It is just a figure of speech. I will be sad when this fortnight is over. Very sad. And also grateful for the many happy memories. But it is not even quite over, is it? There are three more days to enjoy.”

“I feel so very helpless,” Frances said after a minute or two of silence. “I feel absolutely wretched for you, Susanna. But I do not know what to say or what comfort to offer.”

It was obvious that Frances did not believe any of her protestations concerning Viscount Whitleaf. And because Susanna did indeed feel miserable about having to say good-bye to him-though truly they were only friends-she bowed her head and said nothing for a minute or two longer.

“You have been a comfort to me just by being here,” she said firmly at last, getting off the bed to stand beside it. “By being a friend. It was a lovely evening, Frances-the most wonderful of my life, and it has been a lovely holiday. You must forgive me, please, for shedding a few sentimental tears because it is almost all over. Now, do go back to Lord Edgecombe. I need my beauty sleep even if you do not.”

Frances took her hands and squeezed them, kissing her on the cheek as she did so.

“That’s my girl,” she said. “That’s my brave Susanna. Good night, then. I do hope you will sleep well.”

Susanna folded back the bedcovers as soon as she was alone, snuffed the candle, and climbed into bed. She pulled the sheet up to her chin and closed her eyes.

And was again waltzing with him.

And sharing dreams with him in the refreshment room and strolling with him in the fresh air outside, her arm linked through his, their hands clasped, their fingers laced together.

And again she was reliving that brief kiss.

In three days’ time she was going to be saying good-bye to him.

Her dear, dear friend.

Which was really a very foolish way of thinking about him when she had known him for less than two weeks and had not spent much longer than half an hour with him during any of those days. And when he was Viscount Whitleaf of all people.

Friendship. It does not seem a strong enough word, does it? Are we not a little more than just friends?

She could hear him speak those words-just before he touched his forehead to hers and then kissed her.

But she did not want to remember those words-or that kiss. She did not want to believe that they were anything more than friends. There would be just too much pain to bear if…

She turned over onto her side and slid one hand beneath the pillow. She drew up her knees and tucked the sheet beneath her chin.

Once more she was twirling about the dance floor, enclosed in his arms and music and magic.

Once more she was feeling his lips touch hers.

Peter could not think back upon the last hour or so of the assembly with any great pleasure.

He remembered it with considerable discomfort, in fact.

He had broken several of his own strict self-imposed rules.

He had waltzed with Susanna Osbourne and then had supper with her-tête-à-tête when he might have joined other people at one of the larger tables-and then gone walking outside with her, also'tête-à-tête. He had spent at least an hour exclusively with her-more than twice as long as he ever allowed himself to spend alone with any lady who was not his sister.

He had not even been content to draw her arm through his as they walked. He had also held her hand-and actually laced his fingers with hers. It had bordered very closely on impropriety. No, actually it had slipped beyond the border. Well beyond.

And then-the pièce de résistance of atypical behavior for him-he had kissed her. Honesty compelled him to admit that that brief meeting of lips could be called nothing less than a kiss.

It was all enough to make him break out in a cold sweat-because of course he could not simply obliterate the memories. On the contrary. They kept poking accusing fingers into his conscious thoughts.

He had trifled with her feelings. It was all very well to try telling himself that it was of no real significance, that he would forget within a week. Perhaps he would. But he also knew very well-good Lord, he had five sisters-that women remembered such things far longer than men did and set far more store by them.

He had always been aware of that, and he had always respected feminine sensibilities-except perhaps on one memorable occasion. And except on the evening of the assembly.

He had the uneasy feeling that Susanna Osbourne might just possibly be more hurt when they said the inevitable good-bye than she would otherwise have been.

Which was perhaps a conceited thought, he was willing to admit, but even so, she was the last person he would ever want to hurt.

And the worst of it-surely the very worst of it-was that that wretched apology for a kiss had surely been her first.

Dash it all, he was not proud of himself. He was downright ashamed if the truth were told.

And of course he could not court her even if he wanted to, which he did not-he liked her, that was all. There was an insurmountable gap between them socially.