Simply Magic

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.

“Susa

Susa

“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,” Susa

“Including Viscount Whitleaf,” Frances said softly.

“Yes.” Susa

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

“Yes,” Susa

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.

“Susa

Susa

“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 A

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

“No. Oh, no, of course not,” Susa

“I feel so very helpless,” Frances said after a minute or two of silence. “I feel absolutely wretched for you, Susa

It was obvious that Frances did not believe any of her protestations concerning Viscount Whitleaf. And because Susa

“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 Susa

Susa

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.

10

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 Susa

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.