Therecould benothing else.
She rested her forehead on her knees again.
“Susanna.” Frances had got up from her chair and come to sit on the side of the bed. She set a hand between her friend’s shoulder blades and patted her back gently. “I am so sorry. I amsosorry.”
Susanna concentrated upon taking deep, steadying breaths and holding the tears at bay. She had never been a weeper. Tonight’s tears were quite uncharacteristic of her.
“Heisjust 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 Anne or Claudia and knew it would be forever.”
“Your heart is breaking, then?” Frances asked.
“No. Oh, no, of course not,” Susanna said. “It is just a figure of speech. I will besadwhen this fortnight is over. Very sad. And also grateful for the many happy memories. But it is not even quite over, is it? There are three more days to enjoy.”
“I feel so very helpless,” Frances said after a minute or two of silence. “I feel absolutely wretched for you, Susanna. But I do not know what to say or what comfort to offer.”
It was obvious that Frances did not believe any of her protestations concerning Viscount Whitleaf. And because Susanna did indeed feel miserable about having to say good-bye to him—though truly they were only friends—she bowed her head and said nothing for a minute or two longer.
“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. Itwasa 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 Susanna. Good night, then. I do hope you will sleep well.”
Susanna folded back the bedcovers as soon as she was alone, snuffed the candle, and climbed into bed. She pulled the sheet up to her chin and closed her eyes.
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 ViscountWhitleafof 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 assemblywith 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 Susanna Osbourne and then had supper with her—tête-à-tête when he might have joined other people at one of the larger tables—and then gone walking outside with her, also tête-à-tête. He had spent at least an hour exclusively with her—more than twice as long as he ever allowed himself to spend alone with any lady who was not his sister.
