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 hadfivesisters—that women remembered such things far longer than men did and set far more store by them.
He had always been aware of that, and he had always respected feminine sensibilities—except perhaps on one memorable occasion. And except on the evening of the assembly.
He had the uneasy feeling that Susanna Osbourne might just possibly be more hurt when they said the inevitable good-bye than she would otherwise have been.
Which was perhaps a conceited thought, he was willing to admit, but even so, she was the last person he would ever want to hurt.
And the worst of it—surely theveryworst of it—was that that wretched apology for a kiss had surely been her first.
Dash it all, he wasnotproud of himself. He was downright ashamed if the truth were told.
And of course he could not court her even if he wanted to, which he did not—helikedher, that was all. There was an insurmountable gap between them socially.
Such differences ought not to matter, but of course they did. He lived in a society in which titled gentlemen were expected to choose brides from their own select upper circles. And there were sensible reasons for such exclusivity beyond simple snobbery. The wives of titled men had duties to perform for which their upbringing must have prepared them, and they had social obligations in the fulfillment of which they must be adept and comfortable.
It all sounded like weak enough reasoning when verbalized in his mind, but really it was not. It was all part of the fabric of society with which he had grown up and in which he had lived since his majority.
There was only one thing for it, he decided during the largely sleepless night that followed the assembly. He must keep his distance from Miss Susanna Osbourne for the three days that remained of her stay in Somerset—he was to leave the day after her. He must prevent himself from saying or doing anything that he might regret. Or anythingelse,anyway.
It was an eminently sensible resolve, and he kept it for two days. On the first, he was invited with the Raycrofts and a number of other neighbors to dine at Barclay Court and play charades and cards afterward. He did not ignore Susanna Osbourne—how could he? She was on the opposing team to his at charades, and she threw herself into the game with much the same energy and enthusiasm she had demonstrated at the boat races. She fairly sparkled with exuberant high spirits and made him believe—to his relief—that he must not have seriously upset her on the night of the assembly after all. He certainly did not ignore her or avoid her. He spoke with her and laughed with her and competed against her. But they did it all in the setting of the larger group and spent not even a minute alone together.
The following day, as the result of a suggestion made by Miss Moss at the Barclay Court dinner, a large party of young people drove into Taunton in four carriages for a look around the shops and a picnic on the banks of the River Thone. Peter deliberately did not ride in the same carriage as Susanna Osbourne, and though they were often close enough during the few hours in Taunton to exchange a few remarks and smiles, they were never alone together.
And then on the third day he awoke with a start at least an hour earlier than usual to the almost panicked realization that this was her last day at Barclay Court, and that they had wasted two whole days when with a little ingenuity they might have contrived to spend some time enjoying each other’s exclusive company.
Dash it, hewishedhe had not kissed her. Or walked along the village street with her, their hands clasped, their fingers laced together.
It would be altogether wiser, he decided as he made his way down to breakfast some time later, to avoid being alone with her for one more day. Tomorrow she would be gone, and he would be getting ready to leave.
Raycroft and his sister, he discovered at breakfast, were going to walk over to Barclay Court during the morning to bid farewell to Miss Osbourne. They were to call for the Calvert sisters on their way.
“You simply must come with us, Lord Whitleaf,” Miss Raycroft said. “Is it not sad that Miss Osbourne will be leaving so soon?”
Going with them would present him with the perfect opportunity to do the polite thing—take his own leave of her—but to do it from within the safety of a largish group. Yes, it would be eminently sensible. And he would have the congenial company of four young ladies for the walk to Barclay Court and back again.
But when he opened his mouth to reply, the words he spoke were not the ones he had intended to say.
“I have promised to call upon Miss Honeydew this morning,” he said—though in fact he had done no such thing. “It is almost my last day here too, you know, and I have grown fond of the lady. I will try to call at Barclay Court sometime this afternoon.”
Miss Raycroft pulled a face, but she did not suggest—as he thought she might—that the planned walk to Barclay Court be postponed until the afternoon so that they might all go together after all.
And so she and Raycroft set off without him, and he spent the morning chopping wood for Miss Honeydew, despite her vociferous protests, a task for which he was rewarded with effusive thanks, a few tears, and an insistence that he eat half a dozen of her housekeeper’s special cakes, which this time were suspiciously black at the bottom and nearly rock-hard in the center. He took the dog for a run before driving his curricle back to Hareford House.
The morning had been cloudy—one of those days that could not make up its mind whether to dissolve into rain or open out into sunshine. If it had rained, he might have persuaded himself to remain at the house to play chess with Raycroft’s father, who was always eager for a game with someone who could at least come close to beating him.
But the sky cleared off instead and the sun shone. The outdoors beckoned.
Peter rode over to Barclay Court. He left his horse in a groom’s care at the stable and strode across the terrace and up one branch of the horseshoe steps. The butler was already in the open doorway and informed him that his lordship and the ladies had just finished luncheon and would surely be delighted to receive him in the drawing room.
He would, Peter decided as he followed the butler up the stairs, stay for fifteen or twenty minutes and then leave. He would wish Susanna Osbourne a pleasant journey and a happy autumn term at school. Perhaps he would kiss the back of her hand—or perhaps he would merely bow over it.
Good Lord, such self-conscious planning was quite uncharacteristic of him, he thought ruefully. The appropriate good manners normally came so naturally to him that he did not have to think them out in advance.
