by Mary Balogh
Mr. Crossley was silenced.
Viscount Whitleaf held out a hand and Susanna placed her own on top of it. He led her out onto the empty dance floor. They were the first there. They could probably have waited five minutes longer, but, oh, she was glad he had not waited. This was the moment she had anticipated eagerly ever since he had asked her yesterday. She was going to waltz. With him. The happiness of it all was almost too much to bear.
“Well?” he said when they were alone together-though they were, of course, surrounded by their fellow guests. “What is your verdict on your first assembly? Not that I really need to ask, I believe.”
“It is that obvious?” She pulled a face. “But I really do think it is splendid, and I do not care how gauche I sound to you. This is my very first ball-at the age of twenty-three-and I am not even going to pretend to be indifferent to it all.”
“Ah, but it is splendid,” he said, holding her eyes with his own-as he had done with each of his partners. “Far more splendid, in fact, than any other ball or assembly I have ever attended in my twenty-six years.”
Which was a Banbury tale if ever she had heard one. She laughed again.
“Oh, but I believe you did not complete that thought,” she said. “Were you not supposed to add that it is more wonderful because I am here?”
“I was going to say that,” he told her, “but I thought you would accuse me of flattery and flirtation.”
“Indeed I would,” she said. “But really, are you enjoying yourself? I know that all the other young ladies are thrilled that you are here.”
“The other young ladies,” he said, setting one hand over his heart. “Not you too?”
But she laughed and fanned her face. Talking nonsense, even mildly flirting, could be enjoyable after all, she thought, when both parties were well aware that it was nonsense they spoke.
“I will remember this,” she said, “all my life.”
“This assembly?” he asked her. “Or this waltz?”
The smile was arrested on her face for a moment.
“Both, I hope,” she said. “Unless I fall all over your feet during the waltz. But then I suppose I would remember all the more.”
Other couples were gathering around them. The orchestra members were tuning their instruments again.
“If you fall over my feet,” he said, “it will be because of my unpardonable clumsiness and I shall atone by going home and burning my dancing shoes. No, correction. I shall atone by burning my dancing shoes and then walking home.”
She laughed once more.
And then stopped laughing.
He had set his right hand behind her waist and taken her right hand in his left. She lifted her left hand to set on his shoulder. She could smell his cologne. She could feel his body heat. She could hear her heartbeat throbbing in her ears.
His violet eyes gazed very directly into her own-they smiled slightly.
Ah, she thought, the magic of it.
The sheer wonderful magic.
Then the music began.
It occurred to her afterward that a number of other couples had taken to the floor with them. She even had one fleeting memory of seeing the Earl of Edgecombe twirling Frances about one corner of the room, holding her rather closer than Mr. Huckerby would approve of. She could recall the swirling colors of the ladies’ gowns, the warm glow of the candles, the sounds of voices and laughter, the sight of a number of people gathered at the sidelines, watching.
But at the time she was oblivious to it all. She was aware only of the music and the dance and the man who held her. She performed the steps faultlessly if a little woodenly for the first couple of minutes, and she held her body stiff and as far distant from his as the positioning of their arms allowed. But then came the moment when she raised her eyes from his intricately tied neckcloth to look into his own eyes-and he smiled at her and she relaxed.
“Oh,” she said a little breathlessly, “I do remember how.”
“And so,” he said, “do I. I hope I live up to the exacting standards of your Mr. Huckerby.”
She laughed. “Yes, I would have to say you do.”
They did not speak after that, but it seemed to her afterward that they gazed into each other’s eyes the whole time they danced. It ought to have caused intense discomfort. Gazing into another person’s eyes from such a short distance even when conversing always gave her the urge to take a step back or to glance away from time to time. But she felt no such urge with Viscount Whitleaf. They danced, it seemed to her, as if they were one harmonious unit.
She remembered the quickly suppressed mental image she had had almost two weeks ago of waltzing in his arms. That dream had come true after all.
And, ah, it was exhilarating beyond words.
But it could not last forever, of course. Eventually she could sense that the music was coming to an end.
“Oh,” she said, “it is over.”
She had been quite unaware of the passing of time.
“But it was lovely,” she added after the music had stopped altogether. “Thank you, my lord. Will you take me to Frances?”
She must not be greedy, she told herself. She might well have been doomed to watch everyone else waltz while she pretended to be enjoying herself as an onlooker. She would always have this memory of her first-and probably her last-waltz.
“It is customary, you know,” he said, leaning his head a little closer to hers, “for a man to lead his partner at the supper dance into the refreshment room. Will you take supper with me?”
“Is it suppertime already?” she asked as she looked about to see that yes, indeed, the room was fast emptying. “Oh, I am so glad. Yes, I will. Thank you.”
And so, she thought happily as he led her off to the refreshment room, her half hour with him was to be extended, even if they were to sit with other people.
What a very precious evening this was. With only three days left of her stay at Barclay Court, it had become a fitting finale for a memorable holiday.
Though there were still three days left.
9
Peter found them two seats wedged between the teapot and the window before going to the food table. One thing a person could always count upon at a country assembly, he thought appreciatively as he filled plates for them both, was plenty of good food.
“Where will you go when you leave here?” Miss Osbourne asked him after he had set down their plates and fetched some tea and seated himself opposite her at their small table. “Will you go home?”
“To Sidley Park?” he said. “Not immediately. I do not wish to intrude upon the end of my mother’s latest house party there.”
“There is a house party at your own home, yet you are not there to host it?” She raised her eyebrows as she selected a small cucumber sandwich and bit into it.
“The thing is,” he said, “that my mother is desperately trying to marry me off. There is someone there whom she wishes me to court-and all the other guests would have been well aware of the fact if I had gone there.”
“You do not wish to marry?” she asked him.
“I most certainly do not,” he assured her. “Or at least, I do not wish to be trapped into a marriage not entirely of my own choosing.”
Her eyes laughed into his.
“I absolutely do not want my mother choosing my bride,” he said.
“I daresay,” she said, “she loves you.”
“She does,” he agreed. “But love can sometimes be a burden, you know. She first tried to marry me off when I was twenty-one years old and still wet behind the ears.”
“You did not love the girl?” she asked.
“I did.” He grimaced. “I was head-over-ears in love with her-because I was expected to be, of course. I was a cocky boy, Miss Osbourne, and was thoroughly convinced that I was my own man. But in reality I did everything I was expected to do. I thought I loved her.”
“But you did not really?” She set one elbow on the table against all the rules of eti
quette and rested her chin in her hand. She gazed steadily at him. “What happened?”
Oh, good Lord, he was not prepared to go there with her. He smiled, though the expression felt somewhat crooked.
“One could say that I had an awakening,” he said. “It was really quite spectacular. I woke up one morning an innocent, cheerful babe, my head in the clouds, stars in my eyes, and I went to bed that same night a cynical old man, with my eyes opened to all the ugly realities of life. My almost-engagement was the biggest casualty. The woman I had loved so devotedly but no longer loved at all left the next morning with her family and I never saw any of them again. Fortunately, they live far to the north of England and seem never to come near London. Though I did hear that she married less than six months later.”
The loss of Bertha was not the biggest casualty, though, was it? His relationship with his mother was that. He had never been what can only be described as a mother’s boy, but he had loved her totally. She had been perfect in his eyes. When all was said and done, though, all he had really discovered about her on that day was that she was human.
And dash it all, had he actually been talking about that event, no matter how vaguely, to Susanna Osbourne? He never spoke about that episode. He rarely even thought about it. He grinned sheepishly at her.
“I was left with a rather rakish reputation as a breaker of female hearts,” he said. “Entirely undeserved. She did not have a heart.”
She continued to gaze at him.
“And so my mother’s ongoing…concern over my marital state-or my un marital state-is a continual burden,” he said, “though she means well.”
“One’s family can be a burden,” she said softly, “even if one’s mother died at one’s birth and one’s father died when one was twelve.”
His eyes sharpened on hers, but she was gazing through him rather than at him, he thought.
“Was there no other family for you,” he asked her, “on either side?”
It had seemed strange to him, when he thought about it after the picnic, that the Markhams had not found anyone of her own to take her in-or, failing that, that they had not done something themselves to make provision for her. She had been only twelve years old, for the love of God. And he had never thought of the Markhams as heartless people. What the devil had she been doing alone in London, looking for employment at the age of twelve?
“I do not really know,” she said, her eyes focusing on him again. “My father had…quarreled with his family and would never even talk about them whenever I asked. He would never talk about my mother or her family either. Perhaps, like me, he did not enjoy memories of the past.”
Who did when those memories were painful? And yet it seemed odd, even cruel, that Osbourne had not told his daughter anything about her heritage. Perhaps he had not expected to die young. No one did really, did they? Perhaps he had had no warning of his impending heart seizure. And so Susanna Osbourne had no one. Her mother had died at her birth, and Osbourne had told her nothing that would in any way have brought her mother alive for her. In her childhood dreams she had never been able to put a face on her mother-even an imaginary one.
He must remember Susanna Osbourne the next time he thought to complain about the number of sisters’ and nieces’ and nephews’ birthdays he was expected to remember.
“Will you go home after the house party is over, then?” she asked.
“I planned to go home the very day after I met you,” he said. “Finally, after five years of being away from it as much as I could, I was going back. But a couple of hours before you and I met I had my mother’s letter telling me of the house party she had planned in my honor-complete with eligible marriage prospect.”
“And so you are not going after all?” she asked.
He shrugged. Was he going to go? He was no longer sure. Sidley was his mother’s home as well as his, as it had been since her marriage to his father. And she ruled it with firm efficiency as she always had done. He was not sure they could both live there now-he was no longer her biddable little boy. He was even less sure, though, that he was prepared to ask her to leave or even insist that she make her home in the dower house at Sidley.
She was his mother. And cruelty had never come easily to him.
“Your finest asset and your greatest problem,” Susanna Osbourne said, “is that you are very kind.”
He realized, startled, that he had spoken his thoughts out loud.
“That sounds very like weakness,” he said, embarrassed, as he tackled the food on his plate.
“Kindness is not weakness,” she said firmly.
“It was kind to stay away from her party?” he asked.
She gazed at him, her chin in her hand again. The food on her plate had hardly been touched, he noticed. She sighed.
“What you need,” she said, “is a dragon to slay.”
He chuckled. “And a helpless maiden to rescue?”
“Tell me your dreams,” she said.
“Those bizarre wisps of things that flit through my head when I am asleep?” he asked, grinning at her.
But she did not smile back. She would not allow him to make light of the question.
“Your dreams, ” she said.
He pushed his plate away from him and thought for a few moments.
“They are not grand things at all,” he said. “I dream of tramping about my own land with a stout staff in my hand and dogs panting at my heels. I dream of knowing the land from the inside out, working it, knowing the feel of its soil between my fingers, the thrill of seeing crops I have helped plant poke green and fragile above the earth. I dream of knowing my workers and their families, of knowing their dreams and working with them to bring harmony to all our lives and aspirations. I dream of being master of my own home and my own life at last. I dream of knowing my neighbors in such a way that I can drop in on them at any time of the day or evening or they can feel free to drop in on me without any discomfort. I dream of a time when being Viscount Whitleaf does not set me apart from most other mortals who live in the vicinity of my home. There-is that enough?”
“Yes,” she said, smiling. “I am glad you convinced me that we could be friends. I am glad to have known you. I like you.”
He felt strangely touched by her words.
“Well, now.” He laughed softly. “That is praise indeed. Miss Susanna Osbourne likes me.”
She sat back in her chair and lowered her hands to her lap.
“I was not being sarcastic,” he told her. “I have always assumed that most people of my acquaintance like me-I do not believe I am a difficult fellow to get along with. But I do not recall anyone’s actually saying so. The words coming from you warm my heart-that pumping organ in my chest.”
Her smile held genuine amusement this time.
“Tell me your dreams,” he said.
She looked instantly wistful.
“Oh,” she said, “I have no dreams, really. I am contented with what I have.”
“If that is true,” he told her, “it is the saddest thing I have heard in a long while. We all need dreams. But I do not believe that you have none. I can see from your eyes that you have plenty.”
“From my eyes?” She looked suddenly wary. “Eyes cannot speak.”
“There you are wrong, Miss Literalist,” he said. “Eyes can be very eloquent indeed, yours more than most. Tell me your dreams. I have told you mine, and we are friends, are we not? I am not likely to shout with derision or stand on my chair to announce your secret dreams to the whole company.”
“They are as humble as yours,” she said, smiling again. “A home of my own. I lived in someone else’s house for my first twelve years and since then I have lived at the school in Bath. I dream of a home of my own in a place like this, where there are neighbors and friends. It does not have to be large. A cottage would suffice. And a small garden where I could grow flowers and vegetables and create beauty and plenty around me. And…Oh, and my ultimate dream.”
She
stopped and bit her lower lip. But she continued when he said nothing.
“A husband and a few children, a family of my own to cherish and be loved by,” she said. “I do not dream of wealth or grandeur-only of love. There, you did insist. Those are my dreams.”
And they were indeed humble ones. No woman, he thought, should be denied her own home and family if she wished for them, and yet she believed they were impossible dreams for her. Were they? She was beautiful beyond belief and sweet-natured. And yet where, apart from here, would she ever go to meet eligible men? Perhaps he could…
But no. He could not. He certainly could not. There was no point in beginning to plot or scheme. Besides…Well, besides nothing.
Both their cups of tea, he noticed suddenly, had a grayish film of coldness covering the surface. Both their plates were still almost full of food.
“Let me get you a fresh cup of tea,” he suggested.
But her face showed surprise when she looked beyond him and, glancing over his shoulder, he could see that they were alone. Sounds of music and merriment were coming from the main room. The final set of the evening was already in progress.
“Good Lord!” he exclaimed. “Are you engaged to dance this set?”
“No,” she said.
“Neither am I,” he said in some relief. “It is exceedingly warm in here, is it not?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Shall we stroll outside,” he suggested, “until everyone else is ready to leave?”
She hesitated for only a moment.
“That would be pleasant,” she said.
And so five minutes later they were strolling along the village street, past the crush of carriages and servants waiting to pick up their respective passengers, past the shop, the churchyard, and the vicarage, and the church itself. She had taken his arm, and after a few minutes he clasped her hand in his, lacing their fingers and pressing her arm to his side.
“Being here for these last two weeks has reminded me of how very much more I enjoy the country than London or Brighton or any other large center,” he said. “I think I really must go home as soon as my mother’s house party has ended. Perhaps I will not have missed the whole of the harvest. And perhaps…Well, never mind.”