Simply Magic

by Mary Balogh

  She was also as skilled as any courtesan-though no, perhaps that was not quite so. Perhaps it was just that he was very ready to be aroused by her. But however it was, she had overcome the modesty that had caused her to hesitate to remove his breeches earlier. Her hands roamed all over him, stroking, caressing, pausing, rubbing, teasing in all the right places, and her mouth and her tongue and her teeth followed suit.

  He lay still for a while, his hands flat on the mattress on either side of him, enjoying the sheer perfection of her touch, marveling at her boldness, at her instinctive knowledge of how best to arouse him without driving him too early to madness. But when she suckled one of his nipples, biting it lightly with her teeth, laving it with her tongue, his hands came up to sink into her soft auburn curls, and he groaned and then laughed softly.

  “Mercy, woman,” he said.

  She lifted her head and smiled down into his face, her cheeks flushed, her eyes heavy with desire.

  “But I have no wish to show mercy,” she said, her voice low and throaty as she brought her lips to his and teased them with the tip of her tongue.

  This was beginning to be agonizing.

  And then she brought herself right over him, straddling him with her legs, her knees on either side of his hips, her hands supporting herself on either side of his head.

  He skimmed his hands down the lovely curve of her back to spread over her firmly rounded buttocks. She had lovely breasts, not overlarge but firm and nicely shaped. He felt the hardened nipples brush against his chest as she lowered her mouth to his again. With the lower part of her body she rubbed lightly over his erection.

  Agony had passed its beginning, but this was her lovemaking-he would proceed at her pace.

  “Witch,” he murmured.

  She raised herself then onto her knees, holding herself above him and biting on her lower lip as she took him in one hand, set him against her opening, and brought herself down on him.

  Ah!

  She was hot and wet, and her inner muscles clenched about him as she drew him deep.

  He set his hands lightly on her hips and drew a slow breath. There was a certain type of agony that was also exquisite, and this was it. He would not spoil it with urgency. He smiled slowly up at her.

  “To repeat myself,” he said, “there is nowhere I would rather be.”

  She set her hands on either side of his waist, hugged his hips more tightly with her knees, lifted herself almost away from him, brought herself down again, and repeated the motion over and over again. She closed her eyes and lowered her chin to her chest.

  Good Lord, he thought, before sensation engulfed him, she was riding him. He let her ride for a while, awash in pleasure and desire, and then his hands pressed more firmly on her hips, and he rode with her for a few minutes until they both broke rhythm, she to press downward, he to thrust upward, both to shatter into fulfillment at the same moment.

  It was beyond extraordinary.

  It was beyond bliss.

  And it was not sex, he thought as she came downward to lie on top of him and he covered them both with the bedcovers. Not just sex.

  It was love.

  He had never before seen much connection between the two.

  He held her for several minutes, not sleeping, knowing that she did not sleep either, knowing that she was telling herself that this was the end.

  It was not the end. If someone cared to bring on a whole regiment of dragons, all of them armed to the fangs with fire and brimstone and other assorted deadly weapons, he would take on the lot of them bare-handed.

  This was not the end.

  This was the end, Susanna thought, her shoulder pressed to Peter’s, drawing some warmth from him as the curricle turned onto the driveway leading to Fincham Manor. Oh, she would quite possibly see him again after today. It was even probable that she would have to go to the ball at Sidley that he had mentioned earlier, though she would not even think about that yet.

  But really today was the end. The end of an affair of the heart that could have no future. Now was the end.

  It was also the beginning of something else. She wondered if her grandparents had arrived yet.

  Her grandparents.

  She still felt partly numbed at the unfamiliar thought.

  Today she was going to meet three people who were closely connected to her by blood after believing for eleven years that she was all alone in the world.

  But they were strangers.

  Would they even like her?

  Would they hold it against her that she was the product of a marriage that ought never to have been?

  But they were coming here, were they not?

  Would she like them?

  How would she even greet them?

  “It looks,” Peter said, “as if the visitors have arrived.”

  And sure enough, there was a large old carriage standing outside the stable block. Her heart sank.

  “Afraid?” he asked, turning his head to look down at her.

  “Very.” She drew her cloak more tightly about her.

  “Is it not strange,” he said, “how life can plod along placidly for years and then, for no clear reason, can be suddenly filled with one turmoil after another? And it has happened for us both in differing ways-and began for both of us at the same moment, when we arrived together at the fork in a narrow lane in the quiet Somerset countryside one summer afternoon. Such a seemingly innocent encounter! And here we are as a result of it all, and you are facing an ordeal that has nothing really to do with me. May I come in with you?”

  “Please do,” she said as he drew the curricle to a halt before the doors into the house and jumped down to assist her.

  She thought as she entered the house a few moments later that perhaps she ought to have said no. Perhaps her grandparents would recognize the name Whitleaf as she had during the summer. But it was too late now. Besides, she could not bear to say good-bye to him and then have to go upstairs to the drawing room alone.

  The newly arrived visitors were there and expecting her, the butler informed her as he took her cloak and bonnet from her and she fluffed up her curls and brushed her hands over her dress. He turned to lead the way.

  She did not take Peter’s arm. If she did, she might cling. This was something she must do herself, even if she had chosen to have him accompany her for moral support.

  Lady Markham, Edith, Mr. Morley, Theodore-they were all in the drawing room, Susanna saw as soon as she had crossed the threshold. So were three strangers, all of whom got to their feet at sight of her. Theodore came striding toward her.

  “Susanna,” he said, taking her hand in both of his and squeezing it before letting it go, “you must come and meet Colonel and Mrs. Osbourne and the Reverend Clapton, your grandparents.”

  The lady was slender almost to the point of thinness, with white, carefully coiffed hair, a lined face, and a sweet mouth. The colonel was broad-chested and tall and very upright in bearing. He was bald and had a thick white mustache, which drooped past the corners of his mouth almost to his chin. He looked very distinguished. He looked like an older version of Susanna’s father. The clergyman was shorter and thinner. He had fine gray hair and eyeglasses and supported himself with a cane.

  Her grandparents, Susanna thought, gazing one at a time at the three strangers.

  She dipped into a curtsy.

  And then the lady came hurrying toward her, both hands outstretched, and Susanna set her own in them.

  “Susanna,” the lady said. “Oh, my dear, I believe I would have known you anywhere. You look just like your mother, though surely you have something of the look of my son too. Oh, my dearest, dearest girl. I knew you were not dead. All these years I have said it, and now I know that I was right.”

  Her chin wobbled and her eyes filled with tears.

  “Please do not cry, ma’am,” Susanna said, hearing a gurgle in her own throat. “Please do not.”

  “Grandmama,” the lady said. “Call me Grandmama. Ple
ase do.”

  “Grandmama,” Susanna said.

  And then of course, there was no way of stopping the tears of either of them from flowing-and somehow they had their arms about each other, Susanna and this stranger who was not a stranger at all but Papa’s mother.

  Peter was clearing his throat, though not in an attention-seeking way. So was the Reverend Clapton, who was leaning on his cane with both hands. Lady Markham and Edith were smiling with happiness. Mr. Morley looked as if he were in raptures. Theodore was beaming genially.

  The colonel withdrew a large white handkerchief from a pocket of his coat, blessing his soul rather fiercely as he did so, held the handkerchief to his nose, and blew into it loudly enough to wake the dead.

  24

  “This is very pleasant, Peter,” his mother said, sinking into the best chair, which he had drawn near the fire in the library. “Just the two of us together for a cozy chat. It does not happen often enough.”

  He seated himself across from her. He had asked her to join him in the library after almost everyone else had retired for the night and only a few of the younger people were still amusing themselves in the music room.

  “You are warm enough, Mama?” he asked her.

  “I am,” she said. “My love, it was very naughty of you to leave the house this morning to deliver one of your invitations and not return until late in the afternoon. However, you were very attentive to Miss Flynn-Posy this evening. She is a sweet girl, is she not?”

  “Very,” he agreed. “And doubtless she will make some man a wonderful wife someday soon. But she will not be mine.”

  She looked a little surprised at such a categorical statement. But she smiled as she relaxed back against the cushions.

  “You may well change your mind during the coming days,” she said.

  “I will not change my mind,” he told her. “I have already chosen the woman I wish to marry.”

  He watched her eyes light up with interest.

  “Peter?” She clasped her hands to her bosom and sat up straighter.

  “I am just not sure she will have me,” he said.

  “Oh, but of course she will have you, whoever she is,” she cried. “You know you are one of the greatest matrimonial prizes-”

  He held up a hand.

  “Mama,” he said, “she is Susanna Osbourne.”

  “Who?” She sat back again, all the animation draining from her face.

  “William Osbourne’s daughter,” he said. “I love her, and I mean to have her if she will have me. I met her during the summer-she was staying with the Countess of Edgecombe not far from Hareford House. I saw her again in Bath when I went there with Lauren and Kit to attend Sydnam Butler’s wedding breakfast. And I have been with her today. She is at Fincham Manor for Christmas. Her grandparents have come there to meet her. I have invited them all to the ball here on Christmas night.”

  She licked her lips. Her hands, he noticed, were gripping the arms of the chair.

  “I suppose she set her cap at you,” she said. “If she has you believing she will not have you, Peter, that is just her cunning, believe me. You cannot seriously-”

  “She wanted to have nothing to do with me during the summer,” he said, “after she had heard my name.”

  Her lips moved, but she did not speak.

  “Mama,” he asked, and it was an enormously difficult question to ask, “what was your relationship with Mr. Osbourne?”

  “My?-” She bristled suddenly. “You are surely being impertinent, Peter. I am your mother, I would have you remember, even if you are now grown up.”

  “You were lovers,” he said.

  “How dare you!” Her eyes widened.

  “Just as you and Grantham were,” he said. “Except that then you told me it was the only time it had happened since my father died and that it had happened because you were lonely and could not help yourself. And yet it had been going on for a long time, and on the occasion when I saw the two of you together, you were here, in my home, with both Bertha and her mother as my guests under the same roof.”

  “Peter!” She looked ashen.

  She had admitted only that one lapse to him at the time. He had learned differently from other people, but he had never confronted her with his knowledge. She had been quite broken up, and he had been distraught. Good God, she was his mother.

  “Lady Grantham doubtless knew about the affair,” he said, “but all her lady’s education had taught her to turn a blind eye. Heaven knows what suffering and what humiliation she bore in silence. Bertha certainly knew even before I was fool enough to blurt out to her what I had just discovered. But she had been trained by her mother and had accepted her father’s infidelity long before I told her about it.”

  Worse, Bertha had gazed at him uncomprehendingly as he spoke and had then asked him if all men were not like her father. When he had assured her that he was not, that he would be faithful to her until death, she had actually recoiled from him and told him what a child he was-though he was two years her senior. She had no intention, she had told him, of tying herself to him for life once she had performed the duty of presenting him with a son, perhaps two. He surely could not be so naïve as to ask it of her.

  “And my uncles knew,” he said, “and were only chagrined that you had neglected to lock your door.”

  They had told him in no uncertain terms that it was time he accepted some of the realities of life. And yet they were the ones who had sheltered and educated him all through his boyhood. He was a naïve child, they had told him-the same words Bertha had used-and had better keep his mouth shut about what he had seen and get ready to announce his engagement the following day, as planned. It was time he grew up.

  Instead he had summoned every member of the house party to the drawing room within the hour and announced that there was to be no engagement and that they would all kindly leave Sidley before noon the next day. He had told his uncles that they were absolved of all future obligations toward him since he was now an adult and was no longer in need of either their guardianship or their advice.

  His mother he had left to her tears-and to Sidley. He had bolted only one day after his guests.

  He had not excused her. He had not even believed her lie-he had accepted that her affair with Grantham was of long standing. But he had believed that she had loved Grantham. Now he wondered if that had been so, or if it had mattered anyway. Grantham had been a married man -and the two of them had been prepared to arrange a marriage between their offspring.

  She was clinging tightly to the arms of her chair now, gazing at him with wide-eyed indignation.

  “But it is not about Grantham that I wish to speak,” he said. “It is about Mr. Osbourne. You did have an affair with him, did you not? But something happened to end the liaison. My guess is that he ended it. Had he told you about his past before then? Or did you find it out some other way? However it was, you threatened to go to Sir Charles with your knowledge.”

  He had no proof of any of this, it struck him suddenly. It would be terrible indeed if he were wrong and had made such accusations against his own mother. And yet he longed to be proved wrong.

  “Peter,” she said, “if this is what that woman has been telling you, I will do all in my power to free you from her evil clutches. You have always been-”

  “Susanna did not tell me,” he said. “She told me about the contents of the letter her father had written her and the one he had written Sir Charles, but she did not name his blackmailer.”

  “William wrote a letter to her?” his mother asked.

  He stared bleakly at her.

  “Just before he shot himself,” he said. “He felt that suicide was the only protection he could offer her. If he had lived, she would have been exposed to all the ugly consequences he would have faced from the charge of rape.”

  She recoiled.

  “How can you use that word in your own mother’s hearing?” she asked him. But then she sank back in her chair again, loo
king suddenly smaller and older. “I said only that he had harassed and molested me, not that…And it was true. I told Sir Charles so after William’s death. I would never have…Peter, you must believe me.”

  He felt his shoulders slump. He had been hoping, despite everything, that perhaps he had been wrong, that perhaps it had been someone else. But he had remembered during the ride back to Sidley from Fincham that it was about the time of Osbourne’s death that the coolness had developed in the relations between his mother and the Markhams.

  “I did not know he would kill himself,” she said. “How could I have known that? How could he punish me so?”

  “But you would have taken away his reputation, his character, his freedom, Mama,” he said. “Whatever he had done in the past he had surely lived down. He had a child to support.”

  “I condescended,” she said, her voice jerky and rather breathless. “I condescended to his level. And then, when I went to London on one occasion because he was there, he let me know that he was not pleased. And then he started avoiding me even at Fincham and finally told me it was all over between us. The presumption, Peter. The humiliation! You must understand. I loved your papa, but my life was very empty without him. I was willing to allow that man…”

  Ah, just the explanation she had given five years ago when he had confronted her.

  “You drove him to his death,” he said quietly. He felt physically sick.

  “He was foolish!” she cried. “He must have known that I was just upset with him, that I would not really have ruined him.”

  “And yet,” he said, “after he had been to Sir Charles and confessed about his past, you were very ready with new threats.”

  “I would not have-” she began.

  “Wouldn’t you?” he asked her. “He obviously thought you would. He staked his life on it.”

  She spread her hands over her face, and he sat staring at her, appalled at what he had learned today, at what he had guessed, at what she had now confirmed. And at the knowledge that she had twice been prepared to wreak havoc with other people’s lives because of her sexual needs and her loneliness.