Betraying Season (13 page)

“An admirable barrister,” he repeated. “Perhaps it was kindness or, as you called it, chivalry. But might it not have been something else, too?” His tone had gone from wary to caressing.

“Such as?”

“Such as . . . pleasure?”

“You are a dangerous man, Mr. Keating.” Pen ignored the fluttering sensation that danced in her middle at the way the word
pleasure
had slipped from his lips. There was no doubt; now he
was
flirting with her.

What was Niall? Was he the grinning boy who had asked her to go walking last week and who had apologized for his lack of social polish, or the worldly man whose dinner conversation was making her feel warm and breathless? And which one of them had been holding her hand in the library? She half wished they would stop so she could think about it all . . . and at the same time, she wanted to see how far it would go.

“Why?” He leaned toward her slightly as he spoke. “What is wrong with combining concern for others with one’s own enjoyment? Must one’s motives be purely selfless? Was it wrong of me to take pleasure from giving you the reassurance you needed? Surely there would be more kindness in the world if both the donors and receivers of kind actions received equal gratification.”

“A good deed is its own reward.”

“You make good deeds sound like castor oil—good for you, but not necessarily palatable.”

“I did not say that, Mr. Keating. You did,” she returned, and then felt . . . tired. Perhaps she wasn’t cut out to be a flirt. It took far too much energy to maintain a conversation on multiple levels. “I am grateful for your kindness upstairs and must confess that I, too, found it . . . pleasurable as well as comforting. I must leave it up to you to decide what your feelings on the topic are and what they mean.” She turned her attention to her soup.

“I am sorry, Miss Leland. I see that I have . . . have . . .”

She looked up. The bantering edge to his voice had slipped, and
when she met his eyes they were narrowed ever so slightly, as if he were uncomfortable. There it was again—was he merely pretending to be forward? Did he find keeping up this two-edged conversation as tiring as she did?

“Offended me?” she finished for him.

“Have I?”

She sighed and reached for her wineglass. “No. Confused me, perhaps, but not offended.”

“Then I apologize again. Barristers do not like to be confused, I know.” Niall smiled and, lifting his wineglass, held it up in a salute to her before drinking.

She hesitated, then sipped from her own. Turn and turn again. Would their entire evening be like this?

But he was quiet after that, and remained quiet through the remaining dinner courses until it was time for the ladies to leave the men to their after-dinner port.

Over tea and coffee in the now-tidied drawing room, Lady Keating, Lady Whelan, and Lady Enniskean were talkative enough that all Pen had to do was answer their questions politely and smile a great deal, which seemed to satisfy them. Pen was grateful; the last thing she felt like doing just now was chatting. Fortunately, the Enniskeans’ daughter, Charlotte, seemed as disinclined to conversation as Pen was, and Doireann had somehow vanished en route from the dining room.

Pen took her cup of coffee in Lady Keating’s exquisite china and thought about casting a mild cloaking spell over herself, just to keep from being drawn back into the group of ladies on the sofa. But Ally had always disapproved of using magic in social situations apart from emergencies, so instead she wandered over to examine a
display cabinet of curios. It had the added benefit of being as far from the chimneypiece as it was possible to be. She rather doubted she’d ever be able to sit in Lady Keating’s drawing room again without remembering the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach at the sight of the heavy urn falling toward Doireann’s bare, unprotected head.

What should she feel about Niall Keating now? More to the point, what did he feel about her? Was she overdramatizing everything that had passed between them? And if she was, what did that mean about how she felt? Could her train of thought grow any more circular? She managed a smile at her silliness, but it was a small one.

She could not help liking him a great deal. Nobody could help liking him—she had noticed Charlotte Enniskean glance at him frequently during dinner with a small, simpering smile on her pretty face, hoping to catch his eye. She hadn’t, which pleased Pen in a most uncharitable way. Which, in turn, made her feel slightly cross with herself. After all, it wasn’t as if she cared if he noticed Miss Enniskean . . . did she?

It was time, as her younger brother, Charles, had once said, provoking a storm of hilarity, to take the bull by the tail and face the situation. She was falling in . . . in, well, in
something
with Niall Keating. How could she not, when he was as fascinating and as obviously interested in her as he seemed to be? The question was, where would it lead?

If he was just looking for a flirtation to while away his time, then he could look somewhere else. She had a job to do while she was in Ireland, and it didn’t involve amusing bored young men. But what if there was something else behind his charm? Something that might, with nurturing, grow into a deeper, truer emotion?

And how,
how
was she supposed to tell the difference? Could she
dedicate the time and attention her studies required and still be able to explore this friendship with Niall? What if she became too distracted by him, only to discover that his feelings were all on the surface? On the other hand, what if she stuck to the straight and narrow path and ended up missing the love of her life?

Voices in the hall distracted her. The gentlemen had cut short their time over port and cigars and were returning to the ladies. Charlotte Enniskean hurried over to a pair of Louis XV bergères set tête-à-tête in a corner and settled herself on one. It didn’t take much work to guess who she hoped would join her.

Feeling slightly defiant, Pen kept her back to the door and pretended to be absorbed in examining the porcelain figurines in the cabinet as the men came in, followed by Healy and a footman with more coffee. It was not good manners, and Mama would have been scandalized, but Mama was not here. Besides, there was no one she particularly cared to—

“May I get you more coffee, Miss Leland?” Niall murmured behind her.

Mama’s training won out. She turned away from the cabinet and bowed slightly. “No thank you, Mr. Keating.” There, that would do. She would be perfectly correct, but it would be up to him to set the tenor of their conversation.

After several minutes, it did not appear that there would be any conversation. Niall stood beside her, hands behind his back, smiling and bowing whenever anyone caught his eye, neither speaking nor showing any inclination to stir from her side. From the corner of her eye, Pen saw a pouting Charlotte Enniskean watching them. On the other hand, Lady Keating only smiled at them whenever she glanced their way. It was very odd, and increasingly awkward.

After several more minutes, Pen couldn’t stand it anymore. “Don’t let me keep you from playing host, Mr. Keating,” she murmured.

“You’re not,” he replied. “Aren’t you a guest?”

She wanted to pour the remainder of her coffee over his shoes in exasperation. “Yes, but . . .”

He reached up and rubbed his head, tousling the thick blond locks into boyish disarray. “You are gently pointing out to me that I should be circulating among my mother’s guests making amusing conversation, but I can’t. I can’t even say what I want to say to you right now, so I’m forced to stand here staring at you and make the both of us uncomfortable with my silence.”

Was this more of his banter? She swallowed and asked, “What did you want to say to me, sir? I beg you, please do not say anything unless it is for a reason. Even barristers tire of words after a while, if they’re empty ones.”

The chill little “sir” she couldn’t resist adding seemed to pain him. “You’re not making it any easier, you know,” he almost growled, under his breath.

“Making
what
easier? Mr. Keating, I don’t know—”

“My dear Penelope.” Dr. Carrighar suddenly appeared beside them. “I’ve just asked for the gig to be brought round. Might you be ready to leave shortly?”

She glanced up at Niall and saw his brows draw down in an expression half pleading, half relieved, and wondered if her own face mirrored it. Why couldn’t Dr. Carrighar have waited just two more minutes, so she could have finished this enigmatic conversation? “Yes, of course. Will you excuse me, Mr. Keating?”

Pen saw Miss Enniskean’s face light up when Healy brought their
wraps. Good luck to her if she hoped to extract any lively conversation from Niall.

Lady Keating accompanied them to the door, protesting that it was far too early for them to leave. Dr. Carrighar demurred. “I’m an old man and not used to socializing.”

“Well, you must get used to it, sir,” Lady Whelan boomed gaily from the drawing room doorway. “I’ve decided to have a dance in a week or two, and Miss Leland must surely be there.”

“And I had hoped you would attend our party as well,” Lady Enniskean added from over her shoulder, glancing at her son and then at Pen with a meaningful smile.

Dr. Carrighar stiffened, but his tone remained gallant. “All the more reason for me to rest up now. Good night, Lady Keating.”

Pen embraced Lady Keating and bowed to Doireann, who had reappeared as unexpectedly as she had vanished. Niall stepped forward and bowed over her hand. But he did not give it a clandestine squeeze, as she half expected him to. Instead he met her eyes steadily for three or four seconds, then looked away.

In the gig Dr. Carrighar leaned his head back and sighed. “No wonder I do not usually go out in society. It’s deuced hard work, having to be polite for such an extended period. I am more accustomed to verbally abusing my scholars than making parlor conversation.”

Pen smiled at him. “You’re a fraud, sir. You’re never anything but courteous at all times.”

“Ah, but you don’t know what I am thinking while I’m being courteous, do you? And verbal abuse is much more effective, not to mention amusing, when done politely. Well, I suppose I feel a little better about Nuala Keating after tonight.”

“A little better?”

“Yes, a little. I still think she bears watching. There are wheels, there, turning, but I don’t think you’re in any immediate peril from the Keatings.”

Oh, yes she was. At least from one Keating. Botheration, what had he wanted to say to her? She put that thought aside. “From their household ornaments, perhaps. It was me that made sure Doireann Keating wasn’t brained by that vase, you know. I was worried she or Lady Keating had noticed that I pushed it aside with magic, but I don’t think they did.”

“So that’s why you had a guilty look on your face when you came into the library. No, they wouldn’t notice. No one ever does, so I hope you weren’t expecting gratitude from Miss Keating.” He closed his eyes and sighed again. “I’ve earned my rest tonight.”

Pen stared out the window at the dark waters of the river Lee’s North Channel as the coachman—Norah’s brother James, who took care of Dr. Carrighar’s horse and gig when he wasn’t packing butter at the Exchange—drove them across Griffith Bridge. No, she supposed she hadn’t been expecting thanks from Doireann. But it might have been nice.

She pictured Doireann smiling broadly, poker in hand, when Lady Keating had brought her into the drawing room, and gave herself a little shake. Doireann would probably never talk to her again, because she’d—

The poker. In the dark carriage Pen’s eyes widened. Doireann had set her poker down on the chimneypiece when she’d come in, hadn’t she?

So how had the vase managed to fall, without knocking the poker off, too?

Niall was relieved when the Whelans, who never seemed to know when a party was over, finally left. He ushered them to the front hall and exchanged a wry glance with Healy as the door closed behind their backs. Too bad it hadn’t been Miss Leland who’d lingered so late instead. He’d desperately wanted to drag her back to the library and hold her hand again and tell her . . . tell her what? He shook his head at himself and turned toward the stairs as Healy locked the front door.

What had possessed him to behave the way he had tonight? At first it had been instinct: Miss Leland had been visibly shaken by the falling vase incident, and he simply wanted to comfort her. Then it had seemed like a good opportunity to forward Mother’s plan. And then . . .

Then it had turned into something else entirely. All at once Niall had wished everyone in the room would go away so that he could crush Miss Leland . . . Pen . . . to his breast and kiss her till he had no breath left. At dinner he’d said the first things to come into his head—outrageous things, he knew—both because Mother was watching him and because he couldn’t help himself. And finally in
the drawing room he’d been seized by remorse for his waywardness at dinner and wanted to kneel at her feet and confess. Was Doireann right? Was he starting to take his wooing of Pen seriously?

Healy cleared his throat, and Niall realized he’d been standing on the bottom step, one hand on the banister, for the last several seconds. “I’m sorry, Healy. Woolgathering. Was there something you wanted?”