by Mary Balogh
“About the one hundred and two children?” he asked with raised eyebrows, “or about the first of those, who may already be on the way?”
“Oh, do be serious now,” she said. “About our marrying, Edmund. I want to tell them and your mother and Madeline and Lord Eden and Sir Cedric and Uncle William and Aunt Viola and every other person in the whole world. And James.”
He drew her to him and rested a cheek against the top of her head. “He will be all right, Alex,” he said. “I cannot pretend to know your brother or to understand him. There is much about him, I believe, that has not been told. But there is a strength in him, an instinct for survival, something. I don’t know quite how to explain it, but I feel it. He will come back, dear, when he has found himself, and you will have a chance to give him your love as he has given you his.”
She relaxed against him and allowed him to seek out her mouth with his. “Thank you,” she said. “You know how very important he is to me, don’t you?”
“Of course,” he said. “Quite as dear as Dominic and Madeline are to me. And this is Dominic’s last day at home, Alex. We must make the most of it.”
“Yes,” she said, smiling up into his eyes and moving back from him. She reached out a hand for his. “Take me home, Edmund.”
He set his hand in hers and closed his fingers around it in a warm clasp. “There,” he said. “You are home already, love. And so am I. Let’s go back to Amberley.”
MARY BALOGH is the New York Times bestselling author of Simply Unforgettable and the acclaimed Slightly novels: Slightly Married, Slightly Wicked, Slightly Scandalous, Slightly Tempted, Slightly Sinful, and Slightly Dangerous, as well as the romances No Man’s Mistress, More Than a Mistress, A Summer to Remember, and One Night for Love. A former teacher, she grew up in Wales and now lives in Canada.
ALSO BY MARY BALOGH
SIMPLY LOVE
SIMPLY UNFORGETTABLE
THE SECRET PEARL
SLIGHTLY DANGEROUS
SLIGHTLY SINFUL
SLIGHTLY TEMPTED
SLIGHTLY SCANDALOUS
SLIGHTLY WICKED
SLIGHTLY MARRIED
A SUMMER TO REMEMBER
NO MAN’S MISTRESS
MORE THAN A MISTRESS
ONE NIGHT FOR LOVE
Read on for a sneak peek at the next breathtaking novel in Mary Balogh’s series featuring the teachers at Miss Martin’s School for Girls
Simply Magic
Coming in spring 2007 from Delacorte Press
Simply Magic
On sale spring 2007
SUSANNA OSBOURNE HAD THOUGHT SHE WAS not going to be able to come to Barclay Court and had been disappointed even though she had tried to tell herself that it did not really matter.
She had remained at the school in Bath all summer with Claudia Martin to care for the charity pupils, who had nowhere else to go during the holiday. Anne Jewell, the other resident teacher, had gone to Wales for a month with her son, David, at the invitation of the Marquess of Hallmere, an old acquaintance of hers.
But while Anne was still away, Frances Marshall, Countess of Edgecombe, a former teacher at the school herself, had stopped off in Bath with the earl, her husband, on the way back to their home, Barclay Court in Somerset. They had been away for a few months in Austria and other European countries, where Frances had been engaged to sing. They had come to invite Claudia or Anne or Susanna to go home with them for two weeks. The three of them were still Frances’s dearest female friends even though she had been married for two years.
Claudia had urged Susanna to go. She could manage the girls perfectly well alone, she had said, and there were always the non-resident teachers to appeal to if necessary. Besides, Anne would surely be back any day. But Susanna had a loyal heart. Claudia Martin had given her employment five years before when she had still been a charity pupil at the school herself, and she would not easily forget her gratitude or the obligation she felt to set duty before personal inclination.
She had told Frances without any hesitation at all that no, she would not go this time. And of course, Frances had not argued. She had understood. But then, just the day before Frances and the earl were to leave, Anne had come home and there had been no further necessity for Susanna to stay too.
And so here she was in Somerset during a particularly sunny and warm spell in late August. It was not the first time she had been here, but the wonder of such visits would never pall, she had been sure. Barclay Court was stately and spacious and lovely. Frances was as dear as ever, and the earl was exceedingly kind. The neighbors, she remembered, were amiable. She knew that Frances would go out of her way to entertain her royally. Not that any effort was necessary. Just the rare enjoyment of being on holiday was entertainment enough especially when the setting was so luxurious.
She and Frances were out for a visit to the Raycrofts, whom Susanna had particularly liked when she first met them. They had decided to walk rather than take a carriage since the weather was lovely and they had been traveling all of yesterday. When they were scarcely half a mile on their way, they had heard cheerful, laughing, youthful voices and had seen that the younger Raycrofts and Calverts were out walking too.
Susanna had felt her heart lift with gladness. Life had seemed very good indeed.
Until it no longer did.
Frances and Mr. Raycroft were talking about Vienna. Frances had been there very recently, and Mr. Raycroft’s betrothed, Miss Hickmore, had just gone there with her parents to spend the autumn and winter months.
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 pantaloo
ns. 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 amongst 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.
Whatever were they to talk about?
She was horrified to discover that she could feel him down her right side like a fever, even though there was a foot of air between their shoulders. Her stomach muscles were tied in knots—not to mention her tongue.
She despised the fact that she could feel none of the ease that Miss Raycroft and the Calvert sisters had felt with him earlier. He was only a man, after all—and a shallow man at that. He was not anyone she would wish to impress. All she need do was be polite.
Not a single polite topic presented itself to her searching brain.
She was twenty-three years old and as gauche as a girl just stepping out of the schoolroom for the first time. But then she never had stepped outside the schoolroom, had she?
She was twenty-three years old and had never had a beau.
She had never been kissed.
But such sadly pathetic thoughts did nothing to calm her agitation.
She might have spent the past eleven years in a convent, she thought ruefully, for all she knew about how to step into the world of men and feel at ease there.
BY THE TIME THEY WERE halfway to Barclay Court by Peter’s estimation, he had spoken six words and Miss Osbourne had spoken one.
“What a lovely day it is!” he had said as a conversational overture at the outset, smiling genially down at her—or at the brim of her bonnet anyway, which was about on a level with his shoulder.
“Yes.”
She walked very straight-backed. She held her hands firmly clasped behind her back, an unmistakable signal that she did not want him to offer his arm. He wondered if she simply had no conversation or if she was still bristling with indignation because he had compared her to a summer’s day—though he was in good company there, was he not? Had not Shakespeare once done the same thing? He rather suspected that it was indignation that held her mute since she had been speaking in more than monosyllables with Mrs. Raycroft less than half an hour ago—though he would swear her eyes had never once strayed his way. He would have known if they had since his eyes had scarcely strayed anywhere else but at her.
He had been puzzling—he still was—over that strange thought he had had when his eyes first alit on her.
There she is.
There who was, for the love of God?
It was a novel experience to be in company with a lady who clearly did not want to be in company with him. Of course, he did not usually find himself in company with lady schoolteachers from Bath. They were, perhaps, a different breed from the women with whom he usually consorted. They were quite possibly made of sterner stuff.
“You were quite right,” he said at last, merely to see how she would respond. “This summer day was not really made warmer and brighter by your presence in it. It was a foolish conceit.”
She darted him a look, and in the moment before her bonnet brim hid her face from view again he was dazzled anew by the combination of bright auburn hair and sea green ey
es—and by the healthy flush the fresh air had lent her creamy, flawless complexion.
“Yes,” she agreed, doubling her contribution to their conversation since leaving Hareford House.
So she was not going to contradict him, was she? He could not resist continuing.
“It was my heart,” he said, patting it with his right hand, “that was warmed and brightened.”
This time she did not turn her face, but he amused himself with the fancy that the poke of her bonnet stiffened slightly.
“The heart,” she said, “is merely an organ in the bosom.”
Ah, a literalist. He smiled.
“With the function of a pump,” he agreed. “But how unromantic a view of it. You would put generations of poets out of business with such a pronouncement, Miss Osbourne. Not to mention lovers.”
“I am not a romantic,” she said.
“Indeed?” he said. “How sad! There are no such things, then, you believe, as tender sensibilities? There is no part of one’s anatomy or soul that can be warmed or brightened by the sight of beauty?”
He thought she was not going to answer. They came to the fork in the lane where they had met a couple of hours ago and followed Raycroft and Lady Edgecombe onto the branch that led to Barclay Court.
“You make a mockery of tender sensibilities,” Miss Osbourne said so softly that he bent his head toward her in case she had more to say.
She did not.
“Ah,” he said, “you think me incapable of feeling the gentler emotions. Is that what you are saying?”
“I would not so presume,” she said.
“But you would. You already have so presumed,” he said. He was rather enjoying himself, he discovered, with this curiously serious, prim creature who looked so like an angel. “You told me I made a mockery of tender sensibilities.”
“I beg your pardon,” she said. “I ought not to have said such a thing.”
“No, you ought not,” he agreed. “You wounded me to the heart—to that chest organ, that mundane pump. How differently we view the world, Miss Osbourne. You listened to me pay you a lavish and foolish compliment and concluded that I know nothing about the finer human emotions. I on the other hand looked at you, serious and disapproving, and felt—ah, as if I had stepped into a moment that was simply magic.”