Read Online Simply Magic by Mary Balogh - Free Book Online Page B

be pointed out that all the gentlemen had an equal opportunity to gather at the pianoforte and turn pages of music.”
    She could not think of an answer to that one.
    â€œIs this a
racing
curricle?” she asked.
    â€œThe thing is, you see,” he said, “that no self-respecting gentleman below the age of thirty would want to purchase for himself a curricle that could
not
race.”
    â€œAnd I suppose,” she said, “you
do
race in it?”
    â€œNow what would be the point,” he asked her, “in owning a racing curricle if all one did with it was crawl about country lanes as I am doing now?”
    â€œIs this
crawling
?” she asked. She had been finding the speed exhilarating and had been feeling very daring indeed.
    â€œMy poor chestnuts,” he said, “will never forgive me for the indignity of this journey.”
    She laughed.
    He turned his head again to smile down at her.
    â€œWhat?” he said. “I am not about to find myself at the receiving end of a lecture about the danger of risking my neck and those of my horses by dashing fruitlessly along the king’s highway merely for the sake of winning a race? The last one, by the way, was from London to Brighton, and honesty forces me to confess that I lost it by a longish nose.”
    â€œWhy should it concern me,” she asked him, “if you risk your neck?”
    â€œNow that, Miss Osbourne,” he said, “was unkind.”
    â€œI suppose,” she said wistfully, “it is the most glorious feeling in the world to fly along as fast as your horses can gallop.”
    Or simply to fly. She had a recurring dream in which she was a bird, free to soar into the blue and ride the wind.
    â€œI have a curious suspicion,” he said, “that my first impressions of you were quite, quite inaccurate, Miss Osbourne.”
    His words jolted her into a realization that she had actually been
talking
with him—and even rather enjoying herself. And already they were passing through the village. They were halfway to Miss Honeydew’s cottage.
    â€œYour silence speaks loudly and accusingly,” he said as he touched his whip to the brim of his hat and she raised her free hand to wave to Mr. Calvert, who was walking along the village street in the direction of his home. “Obviously you believe that your first impressions of me
were
accurate.”
    Did
she? He enjoyed spending his time flirting with young ladies. He owned a racing curricle and had raced it all the way from London to Brighton. She had seen nothing that suggested there was any substance to his character—though he
had
sat with Miss Honeydew last evening and been kind to her.
    â€œYou still dislike me,” he said with a sigh, though it seemed to her that he was amused rather than upset in any way.
    â€œI do not—” she began.
    â€œAh, but I believe you do,” he said. “Do you not teach your pupils that it is wicked to lie? Is it something about my looks?”
    â€œYou know very well,” she said sharply, “that your looks are perfect.”
    It was only after the words were out that she wished, wished,
wished
that she could recall them. Goodness, she must sound like a besotted schoolgirl.
    â€œOh, I say,” he said, laughing, “is that true? My eye color is not effeminate?”
    â€œYou know very well it is not,” she said indignantly. How had the conversation suddenly taken this uncomfortably personal turn?
    â€œI have a cousin,” he told her, “who has the same color eyes. I have always thought they look so much more appropriate on her.”
    â€œI would not know,” she said, “since I do not know the lady.”
    â€œIt is not my looks, then,” he said, “unless you happen to have a bias against perfection. There would be little logic in that, though. It must be my character, then.”
    â€œI do not dislike you,” she protested.