Free Simply Magic by Mary Balogh Page A

reality of the situation suddenly hit her. It must
be
reality—none of her muddled and troubled dreams last night had conjured quite this scenario. Here she was talking quite freely with
Viscount Whitleaf
of all people and actually rather enjoying herself.
    â€œDo you think, Miss Osbourne,” he asked her, “we could be friends if we tried very hard?
Shall
we try?”
    She stared at his face in profile. But she could see no mockery there.
    â€œIt is not possible, even if you are serious,” she said. “We are from different worlds—almost from different universes. Besides, men and women do not become friends with each other even if they are of the same world.”
    â€œYou had better not tell Edgecombe or the countess that,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “Nevertheless, I might have agreed with you until yesterday. I am not in the habit of making friends of any of the women I have known. But you refuse to allow me to flirt with you, you see, and so you leave me with no alternative but to befriend you.”
    â€œOr to ignore me,” she said sharply.
    â€œThat is not an option,” he told her, and he grinned.
    â€œThis is absurd,” she said. “Utterly absurd.”
    â€œThen humor me,” he said. “Will you? Will you allow me to try to be your friend even if you will not be mine? I really do not think I can wax eloquent about the weather alone for twelve more days.”
    She laughed unexpectedly. At the same moment she was aware that the curricle had slowed and looked up in some surprise to see that they had arrived at Miss Honeydew’s cottage.
    â€œAh.” He turned his head to look intently at her. “This is better. You are laughing again. I have been leading up—again—to asking you what it is about teaching that you so love. But—yet again—our arrival at a destination has thwarted me. You will give me the answer, if you please, during the return journey.”
    â€œLord Whitleaf,” she said as he jumped down from his seat and looped the ribbons over the top bar of a painted white fence that surrounded the garden, “you can have no possible interest in my teaching career.”
    He raised both arms and lifted her to the ground before she could think of looking for safe foot- and handholds. He made her feel as if she weighed no more than a feather. He also made her feel as if she were running a slight fever.
    â€œAnd you, Miss Osbourne,” he said, keeping his hands on either side of her waist, “can have no idea what would interest me. Can you?”
    He waited for her answer.
    â€œNo,” she admitted.
    He grinned at her and released her.
    They both turned to greet Miss Honeydew, who had come to the front door to hail them. She was dressed in what was very obviously her Sunday best, and she was glowing with happiness.
    Susanna was terribly afraid that Frances might be wrong after all. She was terribly afraid that Viscount Whitleaf might be very dangerous indeed.

5
    After the first flurry of greetings was over—they must have lasted
a good fifteen minutes, by Peter’s estimation—he went back outside to tend his curricle and his horses. Then, having discovered several loose boards in the fence but no handyman on the premises, he went in search of a hammer and nails, found them in the stable that doubled as a garden shed, left his coat there, and made the repairs himself despite the fact that the housekeeper gawked at him as if he were the unfortunate possessor of two heads when she came to the door to see what was creating the noise.
    And then, because a scruffy little terrier dog had barked incessantly at him since his arrival and danced about him and even attempted to nip his wrists and ankles until informed that it would do so at its own peril, he decided that the animal needed more exercise than a prowl about the garden provided. He found an old leather leash in the shed, brushed it free