Simply Magic by Mary Balogh

older neighbors. In answer to their questions she told them something of her recent singing tour of Europe.
    The sky was blue and cloudless, the sun warm without being oppressively hot. There was a very light breeze. It was a perfect summer day.
    The boats were proving popular. There were four of them, each designed for no more than two persons, one rower and one passenger, though Peter found himself with two ladies squeezed onto the seat facing him every time he was at the oars. He made no complaint. Why should he when there was a pair of ladies to admire each time instead of one? In their flimsy summer finery and bonnets, they all looked good enough to eat. And they were all clearly enjoying the rare treat of a lovely summer day coinciding for once with an outdoor social event.
    â€œThe last time we were invited to a picnic,” Miss Mary Calvert said, trailing one hand in the water, “it rained cats and dogs all day and all night. Do you remember, Rosamond? It was for the retirement of the old vicar and we all had to be crammed into the vicarage and pretend that we were not hugely disappointed.”
    Peter did not speak with Susanna Osbourne for all of the first hour or so. Each day since their visit to Miss Honeydew’s he had found himself looking forward to spending some time with her, but each day he had felt the necessity of having to keep their encounters short since he could not simply include her in the crowd of young ladies who often hung about him for long spells at a time—she would not have appreciated the frivolity of the group conversation. Having an actual lady
friend
was a novel venture for him, but he was very aware that his interest in her might be misconstrued by others if he was not careful. And so he
was
careful never to single her out immediately at any entertainment, and even when he did, to spend no more than half an hour with her.
    Earlier in the afternoon he had bowed to her on the terrace when he arrived, made some deliberately bland observation about the weather just to see the light of amusement in her eyes, and turned his attention elsewhere. And then he had proceeded to enjoy himself—as had she.
    The Reverend Birney, the fair-haired, fresh-faced young vicar, took her for a row on the lake and engaged her in earnest conversation the whole time—Peter watched them.
    Dannen, that prize bore, took her walking along the near bank with Raycroft and the countess. And then he kept her standing close to the water for all of fifteen minutes after the other two had returned to the picnic site. Peter knew because he timed what was obviously a monologue.
    Crossley, a widower in his forties, fetched her a glass of lemonade on her return and sat with her for a while, pointing out features of the view with wide arm gestures. Peter knew because he watched.
    It struck him suddenly that her own assessment of her marriage prospects was quite possibly overpessimistic. Poor and dowerless as she must be, she had not failed to catch the eye of almost every eligible bachelor in the neighborhood. But she was surely far too sensible to marry Dannen and too lively to consider Birney. And Crossley was too old for her—he could be her father, for God’s sake.
    In fact, the very thought of her marrying any of the present prospects made Peter quite unreasonably irritable. And he
was
being unreasonable. Surely any half-decent marriage was preferable to life as a spinster schoolteacher. At least, that was what he knew any of his sisters would tell him.
    But even as he was wool-gathering with such thoughts and neglecting the ladies who chattered about him, someone suggested a game before tea, and a chorus of enthusiastic voices was raised with a dizzying variety of suggestions, which ranged from cricket to hide-and-seek. Cricket could not be played, however, unless someone dashed back to the house for all the necessary—and bulky—equipment. Besides, Miss Moss complained with the obvious