Free Simply Magic by Mary Balogh

“There is nothing I find objectionable about your character—except that you do not take anything seriously.”
    â€œThat,” he said, “is very akin to those annoying pronouncements with which certain people preface nasty remarks: ‘I do not wish to be critical, old chap, but…’ Ah, the condemnation in that
but
. And in your
except that
. You think me a shallow man, then.”
    The words had not been phrased as a question, but he was waiting for an answer. Well, she was not going to deny it merely because good manners suggested that she ought. He
had
asked.
    â€œYes, my lord,” she said, gazing along the road and wondering when Miss Honeydew’s cottage would come into view. “I do.”
    â€œI suppose,” he said, “you would not believe me if I told you I sometimes entertain a serious thought or two and that I am not entirely shallow?”
    She hesitated.
    â€œIt would be presumptuous of me to call you a liar,” she said.
    â€œWhy?” He had dipped his head even closer to hers so that for a moment before he returned his attention to the road she could feel his breath on her cheek.
    â€œBecause I do not know you,” she said.
    â€œAh,” he said. “What would you say, Miss Osbourne, if I told you that despite my admission of a moment ago, I still think you beautiful beyond belief but also harsh in your judgments and without feelings, incapable of deep affection or love?”
    She bristled.
    â€œI would say that you know
nothing
about me or my life,” she said, trying in vain to move farther to her side of the seat.
    â€œPrecisely,” he said, a note of satisfaction in his voice. “We do not know each other at all, do we? How do you know that I am not worth knowing? How do I know that you
are
?”
    She gripped the rail beside her more tightly.
    â€œBut surely,” she said, “we have no wish to know each other anyway. And so the answers to your questions do not matter.”
    â€œBut they do to me,” he said. “I certainly wish to know who Miss Susanna Osbourne is. I very much wish it, especially after discovering the surprising fact that she would love to race to Brighton in a curricle.
That
I would not have guessed about you in a thousand years.”
    â€œI would not—” she began.
    â€œToo late,” he said. “You have already admitted it in so many words. I have a strong suspicion that you might be interesting to know. And I feel the need to be known, to justify my existence to someone who believes me to be worthless.”
    â€œThat is not what I said!” she cried. “I would never say such a thing to anyone. But do you feel such a need with all the ladies you meet? Do you feel the need to know and make yourself known to the Misses Calvert and Miss Krebbs and Miss Raycroft?”
    â€œGood Lord, no,” he said, and laughed.
    â€œWhy me, then?” she asked, turning her head to frown at him. “Only because I do not respond to your flatteries as other women do?”
    â€œThat is a possibility, I suppose,” he admitted. “But I hope there is another. There is a gravity about you when you are not laughing at the danger and exhilaration of riding in a curricle. I suspect that—horror of horrors—it stems from superior intelligence.
Are
you an intelligent woman, Miss Osbourne?”
    â€œHow am I to answer that?” she asked him in further exasperation.
    â€œIt is one of the things I need to discover about you,” he said. “The Countess of Edgecombe has invited you here out of friendship, not obligation—or so I have been led to believe. The countess is a woman of intelligence. I would imagine that her friends must be intelligent too. And of course you are a teacher and must have an impressive store of knowledge rattling around in your brain. But I need to discover for myself if I am right.”
    She was speechless. And the