Betraying Season (16 page)

Had Niall merely been flirting with her? A little shiver ran through her at the memory of the feeling of his hand on hers last night. It had gone far beyond flirtatious words or glances. Surely she should find it alarming.

And yet she could not believe he was what Mama would have referred to as a “rogue,” someone who viewed a young girl’s virtue as a challenge. He’d felt so comfortable, so sympathetic, so like a friend in their first interactions. She shifted irritably in her chair. Thoughts of him were making it impossible to get any studying done.

“I didn’t come here to fall in love,” she muttered aloud. There, she’d said it. The fact was, she was falling for Niall Keating, whether she wanted to or not. He was charming and handsome and educated and heir to a barony, no matter who his father really was. Papa and Mama would surely approve of him.

With a shake, she opened her book again. Something would have to be done, and soon.

That afternoon Niall was seated next to Charlotte Enniskean in the drawing room, hiding his boredom behind a veneer of languid agreeableness. It was a façade he’d learned to cultivate on his travels on the Continent, where the young ladies either seemed to be extremely shy and retiring or extremely predatory. It seemed to be nonalarming to the former and discouraging to the latter, and permitted him to navigate many a social event with a minimum of bother.

Unfortunately, Miss Enniskean seemed to be regarding it as a challenge. She’d never been quite this persistent when they were both children, but young women could change from sparrows to eagles overnight when in search of husbands. The amused looks the also-present Sir Percival Gorman kept casting in their direction weren’t helping, either. For the fifth time, Niall wished he’d found some pressing bit of business to take care of this afternoon, so that he could have avoided these courtesy calls from Mother’s dinner guests.

The reason he hadn’t was made clear shortly after, when Healy appeared in the doorway and announced, “Lady Keating, Miss Leland is here.”

Next to him, Miss Enniskean made a small sound that distinctly resembled an indignant hiss.

Mother rose and glided toward Pen. “Naughty girl,” she scolded. “You walked here, didn’t you? I should have sent Padraic with the carriage for you.” She softened her words, however, with an affectionate kiss.

“I enjoyed the walk. It’s turned into a lovely day,” Pen demurred as she returned the kiss and curtsied to Lady Enniskean and Sir Percival.

Niall saw her glance involuntarily toward the fireplace. He had told Healy to remove the alabaster vase that was mate to the smashed one, because he didn’t want to see it any more than she probably did. Damn it, Mother had gone too far that time. No wonder Doireann had still been glowering at breakfast this morning.

“Miss Leland.” Niall unfolded his frame from the sofa and came to bow over her hand. She colored slightly. Was she remembering how he’d held her hand last night?

Just as he’d relived it over and over, till he’d finally fallen asleep as dawn broke?

“I say, Miss Leland,” Edward Enniskean said eagerly. “We should be happy to drive you home again.”

“I daresay you would,” Mother replied before Pen could open her mouth. “Miss Leland’s just arrived, and you are about to leave, I’m sure, and I shall require her presence for a while yet.” She gave Lady Enniskean a bland smile. “Most kind of you to call today. Dinner was delightful last night, was it not? We must coax Dr. Carrighar into society more often, along with his charming guest.”

She spoke with such a tone of finality that Lady Enniskean was drawn to her feet and to the drawing room door before she quite knew it. Niall saw her look of bafflement as she and Mother bumped cheeks in farewell. It was classic Mother: If she’d been a man, she would surely have gone into politics or some other field where her talent for managing others could have been fully realized.

“Good day, Mr. Keating.” Charlotte managed to squirm past the embracing ladies and hold her hand out for Niall to bow over. “Now
don’t forget, you must take tea with us very soon. Edward’s quite keen to show you his botanical collection. Aren’t you, Edward?”

Niall looked over at Pen, who still wore a polite smile. But a faint glimmer of devilment in her eyes indicated that her thoughts were probably less polite. “Er . . . thank you, Miss Enniskean,” he replied. “I am . . . um . . . always delighted to spend time in the company of . . . er . . . beautiful flowers.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, he immediately wished them back. Pen’s brows had lifted ever so slightly, and the corners of her mouth quirked in . . . distaste? Damnation, why had he said something so stupidly flirtatious when Pen would dislike it and Charlotte would take it all too much to heart? He cringed as Charlotte laughed and shot a triumphant smirk at Pen.

“Then we’ll have to have Miss Leland as well,” Edward put in quickly.

Was that a snort from Doireann? Niall glanced at her, but her head was bent over an embroidery frame.

“Charming.” Mother swept back toward Pen and herded her and Niall to the sofa as Healy bowed the Enniskeans out of the room. She gave him a meaningful look as she settled next to Sir Percival.

Niall seated himself on the sofa by Pen. Should he apologize for making such a stupid remark, or would that make him look even more foolish? Devil take it, he was a grown man, and here he was, acting like a tongue-tied boy of sixteen. “Miss Leland,” he began.

She leaned forward as if she hadn’t heard him. “Sir Percival, I am quite convinced that you must be a font of stories about Dr. Carrighar’s youth. I would be most obliged if you would tell us a few of the most unflattering ones that I might store away for use as ammunition at some point.”

Sir Percival laughed. “How could I refuse so irresistible a request? But I fear I will incriminate myself in the process.”

“We will grant you a witness’s immunity from prosecution in return for your cooperation, will we not, Lady Keating?” Pen smiled at Mother.

She managed to keep Sir Percival chatting for the next thirty minutes, much to Niall’s annoyance. When she rose to leave, scant minutes after Sir Percival left, Mother stepped in.

“I know you won’t let me call the carriage, but you must allow Niall to accompany you home. No, no protests! It’s totally selfish of me—I couldn’t live with myself if something unpleasant should happen to you when walking alone. And I had hoped you might accompany us to a concert on Wednesday night. It’s at the home of a dear friend I should like you to meet.”

Pen stiffened slightly, then seemed to take herself in hand. “Thank you, ma’am, for both offers.” She cast a cool look at him. “And thank you, Mr. Keating.”

Clouds had begun to gather once again as they set out, but a soft, watery sunshine still brightened the streets. Niall noticed that Pen had tied her bonnet loosely, so that she could tip it back a little. As they set off down the street, he saw her peek around the edge of it. Up close, her eyes looked tired. Had she sat up as late as he had?

“Mr. Keating,” she said abruptly, after a few moments of silence.

Here it came. “Yes, Miss Leland?”

“Last night before we parted, I was under the impression that you wished to say something to me.”

He kept walking, staring straight ahead. Now that the chance had come for them to talk, really talk, his mind was void of anything
but his awareness of her slim gloved hand on his arm and her nearness. “Um . . . did I?”

“I thought you did—oh!”

A sudden impact cut off her words and sent her crashing into him. He staggered but managed to hold on to Pen’s arm and keep her from falling.

A young man, tall and redheaded, had evidently tried to hurry past her and misjudged his footing, bumping hard into her left shoulder. He too staggered, trying to regain his own balance, and his hat tumbled off and landed at their feet.

“Sorry,” he muttered, bending to retrieve it. “In a rush.” Then he rose. “Good God, it’s you!” he blurted, staring at Pen. His face turned an alarming shade of crimson that clashed horribly with his hair.

“Er, good afternoon, Mr. Doherty. Is your hat all right?” Niall heard her struggle to make her voice sound cordial as she rubbed her shoulder.

He stared at her for the space of several breaths, then seemed to recall himself. “What? Oh, it’s fine.” He glanced at Niall and scowled. Jamming his hat back on, he turned on his heel and hurried ahead of them without another word. In another few yards, he paused, glanced back at them, and scowled again, then ducked into a doorway and vanished.

“Are you all right?”

She was still rubbing her shoulder and staring after the young man. “Oh, um, yes, I’m fine. Thank you.”

“An acquaintance of yours?” He held his arm out again and they resumed walking.

“I suppose you might say so. He’s one of Dr. Carrighar’s students
with whom I’m supposed to be studying, but he usually either ignores me or disagrees with whatever I say.”

They drew abreast of the door the young man had entered, and he saw a small, discreetly lettered sign above it that read
YOUNG CORK READING ROOM—MEMBERS ONLY
. Ah, that would explain a great deal. “It would appear your friend Mr. Doherty is politically minded,” he said to her.

“Friend?” Pen shook her head. “Hardly. And what makes you say he’s political?”

“Most of the radical Catholic anti-Unionists have gone underground since the Emancipation Act gave them the vote. Just because they can vote and stand in Parliament doesn’t mean they’re happy being joined to England. For now they gather in ‘clubs’ or ‘reading rooms’ like that one and discuss how to rid Ireland of outside rule.”

“Oh.” Pen glanced back at the innocuous-seeming door. “I can’t say I’m surprised. I’m not sure if Eamon Doherty hates me more for being English or for being female.”

Niall gave a short laugh. “If he does hate you, I’d have to say it’s the former. The look he gave you just now wasn’t one you give someone you find loathsome.” It hadn’t been. Niall had felt the man’s shock and resentment, but it had been directed at him, not her. The look he’d given Pen, though—

She almost stopped walking. “It pleases you to jest.
Loathsome
is probably the word he would use. I’m trying not to let his resentment interfere too much with my studies.”

“I do not joke, Miss Leland. It was me he scowled at, not you. If he does bear you any resentment, it’s probably because he can’t keep his mind on his studies when you’re there.”

That time Pen did halt. “Stop it, Mr. Keating. If this is more of
your . . . your banter like last night, stop it at once. I had thought we would be friends, and I . . . I was pleased, because I’m”—she swallowed—“because I’m lonely. I don’t want to play games, or flirt, or whatever you choose to call it. I have serious work to do while I’m here and don’t want to waste my time or my . . . my heart on empty flirtation. If that is what you wish our acquaintance to consist of, then it might be best if we cease our . . . attentions to one another.”

Damn, damn! She was going to confront him now. Penelope Leland was not going to let him get off easily, was she? Why couldn’t she have turned out to be silly and empty-headed like Charlotte Enniskean, so that he could make her fall in love with him and not worry about hurting her? Why did she have to be challenging and spirited and so damned attractive that he felt like a moth fluttering around a candle?

Because then she wouldn’t have been herself. Would he want her to be any other way?

He swallowed and stared down at his boots. “Miss Leland, I don’t quite know what to say.”

She resumed walking, but her step had lost its spring. “I see.”

“No, you don’t. I’ve never—that is, I don’t—is this the new fashion in London?” he challenged, glancing sideways at her. “For the sexes to be open and forthright with each other?”

She was silent for a moment, and he thought he saw her jaw tighten, as if she were struggling to contain some strong emotion. “I apologize, Mr. Keating,” she finally said. “But I saw enough posturing and hiding behind words in London last season to last me a lifetime. An inability to talk forthrightly nearly kept my sister . . . that is, made her life miserable. It may run counter to how the rest of the world works, but I choose not to be that way. I take my studies very
seriously, and if I am going to be distracted from them, it won’t be merely to play a game with you. Do I make myself clear?”

Their eyes met for a swift second before he turned his head. This was it. He could no longer put her off with banter, nor could he lie. She would know.

A strange emotion—part defiance, part exhilaration—swept through him so that he felt almost dizzy for a moment. Mother be damned. He would go along with her plan and encourage Pen Leland to fall in love with him.

But he was going to do it honestly. If he had to take her heart, he’d give her his in return. Who knew? When it had all worked out and he’d achieved what Mother wanted for him, maybe he’d be in a position to choose his own wife.

Pen began to speak again, in a high, uncomfortable voice. “I believe that making small talk would be an appropriate thing to do just now. Are you politically minded, Mr. Keating? What precisely do these reading clubs of Mr. Doherty’s hope to accomplish?”

“Penelope.” Even in his own ears his voice sounded desperate.

“I beg your pardon?” She sounded surprised at his sudden use of her given name.

“I was never very good at games. They quite despaired of me at school because of it.”

“Mr. Keating, that’s not what I meant—”

“I know,” he interrupted. “I’m just trying to find some way to tell you that as far as I’m concerned, if you’re going to be distracted, it won’t be for the sake of a game. My . . . my intentions are serious.”

He tightened his arm so that her hand resting on it was trapped against him. Very carefully, he reached with his other hand and covered hers, glancing down at her as he did. She walked looking
straight ahead, but that beautiful rosy flush of hers had crept up her cheeks. More important, she had not removed her hand from his.

“I—thank you, Mr. Keating. It makes me feel . . . I mean, thank you.”