But a painful churning in her stomach warned her not to say any more-or think any more-about that.
“Now, Miss Osbourne,” he said with mock severity, “one of the cardinal rules of friendship is that one withhold nothing from the friend.”
“But that is not so,” she told him. “Even friends need private spaces, if only within the depths of their own soul, where no one else is allowed to intrude.”
He was looking fully at her, obviously pondering the truth of what she said.
“There are deep, dark secrets from your past that you would rather keep, then, are there?” he said, waggling his eyebrows. “Very well, then. But you grew up on an estate, did you? As a daughter of the house?”
“As daughter of a…a servant of sorts,” she said. “He was a gentleman, but he was without property or fortune and so had no choice but to work for a living. And so I suppose I am a lady by birth even if only just. Are you satisfied?”
He smiled slowly, and it struck her that the creases at the corners of his eyes would be permanently etched there when he was older. They would be an attractive feature.
“That I have not made a friend of a chimney sweep’s offspring?” he asked her. “That would have been enough to send me off into a fit of the vapors, would it not? The path slopes upward rather sharply from here, I see, though there are several large, flat stones to act as steps. Are you sure you are up to the climb?”
“Are you?” She laughed at him.
“Earlier on,” he said, “I thought I heard the echo of something you told me several days ago, though it might have been my imagination. You are not a games teacher, by any chance, are you, Miss Osbourne? In a girls’ school?”
“I am,” she said. “I teach games, and sometimes I cannot stop myself from participating in them. I was always good at them when I was a pupil myself. Yes, there are girls’ schools that teach more than embroidery and deportment.”
“Heaven help us,” he said, wincing. “I was about to play the gallant and offer my hand for the climb instead of my arm. I will still do so, in fact. If I do not need to haul you up the path, you can haul me.”
He took her hand in a firm clasp and she thought for one absurd moment that she might well weep. It seemed to her that no one had ever held her hand before, though surely her father must have done so when she was a child. There was such intimacy in the gesture, such an implied bond of trust.
His hand was slender and long-fingered. It was also strong and warm and somehow very masculine. Something tightened in her breasts, and her inner thighs suddenly ached though they had not even begun the climb yet. Something fluttered low in her abdomen.
She had, she admitted, grown very fond of him very fast. Belatedly it occurred to her that perhaps it had not been a good idea after all to agree to be his friend. Next week, when she was back in Bath, she was going to miss him, and she knew that the missing him would bring considerable pain, even grief.
But there was no point in thinking of that now. It was too late to make a different decision and keep her distance from him. And she was not sure she would have decided differently even if she had known then what she knew now. Her life had been so very sheltered. She must not regret walking out into the sunshine, even if only for a brief while.
And he was someone about whom the sun seemed to shine.
Hand in hand they clambered up the steep path even though it was not in any way treacherous and she did not really need his support-or he hers. They stood hand in hand and breathless when they stopped halfway up to look down over the steep bank to the fast-flowing water below. The dappled surface of the river and the lights and shades cast on the greenery by the sun shining through tree branches created a stark contrast with the bright, open, calm lake still fully visible off to their left.
The magic of it all assaulted her anew-the beauties of nature at their finest and a new friend.
They did not exchange a word. They did not need to. Their thoughts were in perfect harmony-she could sense that. After a few minutes they resumed the climb while the rushing sound of the waterfall drowned out all other sounds-except, she noticed, the shrill song of an invisible bird.
They scrambled the last few feet to the crest of the rise, on a level with the top of the waterfall. The view was breathtaking. Susanna could feel droplets of water cool on her face. Although the lake was still in view-as well as the other picnickers-there was an air of wild seclusion here. Perhaps it had something to do with the sound of the water.
They stood hand in hand gazing at the waterfall until Viscount Whitleaf looked behind him.
“Ah,” he said, “a grotto built artfully into the hillside to look like a natural cave. I almost expected to see it there. And of course it is facing in just the right direction. Capability Brown and his ilk could always be relied upon to provide such conveniences on wilderness walks. Shall we sit for a while?”
“It ought to be cool in there,” she said hopefully. Climbing had been a warm business even though the trees had protected them from the direct sunlight for much of the way.
The grotto was provided with a wooden bench that circled the inner wall. It was the perfect shelter from sun or wind or rain or simple weariness, a place to sit and feast the senses on the beauties provided by nature-even if man had lent a helping hand. The opening to the outside world was framed on three sides with lush green ferns.
The waterfall was centered in their line of vision, just as the reflection of the house was from the pavilion on the lake. Ferns grew thick on the steep banks on either side and trees stretched above. There were the smells of water and greenery and earth. And of course there was the sound of rushing water-and of the song of the lone bird.
“I like friendship,” he said softly, after they had sat in silence for several minutes. “It enables one not to talk.” He chuckled. “Does that make sense?”
“Yes,” she said. “Silence is an uncomfortable thing between casual acquaintances or strangers.”
“Like you and me the day we met,” he said. “ Were you uncomfortable?”
“Very,” she admitted.
“Why?”
She had taken her hand from his when they sat down in order to settle her skirts about her. Now she realized her hand was in his again, though she did not know how it had got there. Their clasped hands were lying on her skirt on the bench between them.
“You were Viscount Whitleaf,” she said, “handsome, fashionable, obviously wealthy, sure of yourself, a man of the world.”
“Shallow,” he added, “conceited, flirtatious.”
“I judged too hastily,” she said.
She was aware for several silent moments that he was looking at her.
“And there was another reason,” she said hastily. “You were Viscount Whitleaf. I grew up not far from Sidley Park.”
“Good Lord,” he said after a moment or two of silence. “ Osbourne. He was Sir Charles Markham’s secretary for years when Markham was a government minister. I thought of him when you were introduced to me, but Osbourne is not an entirely uncommon name. I did not dream…When I come to think of it, though, I recall that he did have a daughter. You?”
“Yes,” she said, considerably shaken. She had really not intended telling him who she was.
“Did we ever meet?” he asked.
“Once,” she said. “You came down to the lake, where I was playing with Edith, but two of your sisters came and took you away. One of them did not like the fact that you were playing with me, and the other was afraid you would fall in and drown.”