She had accepted Mr. Raycroft’s offered arm with gratitude. But with every step she had taken along the lane since, she had felt the presence of Viscount Whitleaf behind her like a hand all along her spine. She resented the feeling and despised herself for allowing it.
Of course the nameOsbournewould probably mean nothing whatsoever to him. And he could not really be blamed for that either. He had been only a boy…But heoughtto remember. It ought to be a name burned on his brain as his was on hers.
She wished fervently now that Anne had not returned to Bath when she had and thatshehad not come to Barclay Court with Frances and the earl. She wished herself back in the safety of the school—in the dreary, endless safety.
Though whyshouldshe? And whyshouldshe allow her holiday to be ruined by a shallow, conceited, careless man who clearly thought he only had to look at a woman with those fine violet eyes for her to fall head over ears in love with him?
Susanna turned to face the lane ahead again, unconsciously squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin as she did so, and asked Mr. Raycroft where he would go if he could choose anywhere in the world. Would he choose Greece, as she would?
“Greece would be well worth a visit, I believe, Miss Osbourne,” he replied, “though I have been told that travel there is very uncomfortable indeed. I am a man who enjoys his creature comforts, you see.”
“I do not blame you at all,” Frances said. “And I can assure you that I have not yet seen a country to rival England in beauty. It feels very good to be home again.”
They reached the village soon after that and stopped to speak with Mrs. Calvert, who came outside the house to greet them, though they declined her invitation to step inside. When they continued on their way without the Calvert sisters, Viscount Whitleaf walked ahead with Miss Raycroft on his arm, and the two of them chattered merrily all the way to Hareford House, obviously very pleased with each other’s company.
The two visitors drank tea with the Raycrofts and exchanged civilities for half an hour before Frances got to her feet and Susanna followed suit.
“I do not suppose,” Frances said, “you would care to go walking again, Mr. Raycroft, after having been out once. Perhaps we may hope for you to call at Barclay Court tomorrow?”
“I seem to recall,” Viscount Whitleaf said, “that your original invitation included me too, ma’am. And indeed Iwouldcare to go walking again today. I look forward to paying my respects to Edgecombe. Raycroft, are you coming too? Or am I to enjoy the pleasure of having two ladies to myself for the walk to Barclay Court?”
Susanna’s eyes flew to Mr. Raycroft’s face. She was vastly relieved when he expressed himself ready for further exercise.
Her relief was short-lived, however. She desperately hoped to maneuver matters so that she would walk with Frances or Mr. Raycroft, but as fate would have it, he was saying something to Frances as they descended the garden path and it was natural that he should offer her his arm after they had passed out through the gate. That left Susanna to walk behind with Viscount Whitleaf.
She could hardly have imagined a worse fate. She glanced up at him in a sort of sick dismay and clasped her hands firmly behind her back before he should feel obliged to offer his arm.
Whatever were they to talk about?
She was horrified to discover that she couldfeelhim down her right side like a fever, even though there was a foot of air between their shoulders. Her stomach muscles were tied in knots—not to mention her tongue.
She despised the fact that she could feel none of the ease that Miss Raycroft and the Calvert sisters had felt with him earlier. He was only a man, after all—and a shallow man at that. He was not anyone she would wish to impress. All she need do was be polite.
Not a single polite topic presented itself to her searching brain.
She was twenty-three years old and as gauche as a girl just stepping out of the schoolroom for the first time. But then she never had stepped outside the schoolroom, had she?
She was twenty-three years old and had never had a beau.
She had never been kissed.
But such sadly pathetic thoughts did nothing to calm her agitation.
She might have spent the past eleven years in a convent, she thought ruefully, for all she knew about how to step into the world of men and feel at ease there.
By the time they were halfway to Barclay Court by Peter’s estimation, he had spoken six words and Miss Osbourne had spoken one.
“What a lovely day it is!” he had said as a conversational overture at the outset, smiling genially down at her—or at the brim of her bonnet anyway, which was about on a level with his shoulder.
“Yes.”
She walked very straight-backed. She held her hands firmly clasped behind her back, an unmistakable signal that she did not want him to offer his arm. He wondered if she simply had no conversation or if she was still bristling with indignation because he had compared her to a summer’s day—though he was in good company there, was he not? Had not Shakespeare once done the same thing? He rather suspected that it was indignation that held her mute, since she had been speaking in more than monosyllables with Mrs. Raycroft less than half an hour ago—though he would swear her eyes had never once strayed his way. He would have known if they had since his eyes had scarcely strayed anywhere elsebutat her.
He had been puzzling—he still was—over that strange thought he had had when his eyes first alighted on her.
There she is.
Therewhowas, for the love of God?
