Betraying Season (11 page)

“Are
you, Mr. Keating?” Pen asked demurely.

“Don’t tell anyone, but I feel like one just now. Won’t you come and play truant with me, Miss Leland? It’s a beautiful sunny day, and we don’t always have many of those this time of year. Can you pry yourself away from your Greek or whatever it is you’re studying and come for a walk?”

Pen didn’t let herself stop to think. “I’d love to, if you’ll give me a moment to get ready.”

“I’ll be generous and give you two, but no more than that or I’ll start to pine.” He pulled a long face.

Pen resisted the urge to reach down and ruffle his hair. “Yes, Master Boy.” She sketched a curtsey and turned to hurry back up the stairs.

She took five, but Niall was in no mood to complain. When she did appear in her new cloak, which made her eyes even more intensely blue, and slipped a gloved hand over the arm he offered her, all his banter fled, and he felt like a tongue-tied boy of sixteen.

Mother’s directives notwithstanding, this Penelope Leland intrigued him. How was it, in three years of travel in the most cosmopolitan countries on earth, that he’d never met anyone like her?

Most of the pretty girls he’d met were as empty-headed as they were attractive—or at least their interest in European politics was severely circumscribed. He supposed he couldn’t blame
them—sometimes his interest in it was severely circumscribed as well. But just imagine, this Miss Leland was voluntarily missing the London season in favor of studying. He wondered what it was she was studying so diligently.

She was a heady mix of straightforward enthusiasm and girlish reticence and intellectual gravity, all rolled into one charming package. And yes, she was quite charming. But Niall could see that she had yet to reach her full beauty; she was like a fruit that needed a touch of frost to fully ripen. When she was thirty-five, she would be magnificent. How he would love to see her then.

He wrenched his mind away from that train of thought. “Shall we walk along the river? The wind is on holiday today, and you won’t be blown to Blarney.”

“Ah, but if it does blow, I’m prepared.” She spread a fold of her new cloak and waved it at him. “And anyway, that might not be such a bad thing. Isn’t kissing the stone at Blarney supposed to confer eloquence of speech? I could have used some of that in my tutorial this morning.”

“Bad day?” But he scarcely needed to ask. Her irritation with Dr. Carrighar’s students was obvious in the sudden stiffness of her back and features. Mother needn’t have worried that they’d interfere with his wooing of her. If anything, they’d show him up in a better light. He’d have to reassure her on that point.

“Did you have a disagreement?” he continued. “Sometimes intellectual battles are even more virulent than personal ones.”

“I suppose so. But when they’re both intellectual and personal, they reach a whole new level of unpleasantness. Doherty spent class today staring at me as if he hoped I’d suddenly burst into flame and disappear. It was positively horripilatious.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh.” She colored prettily. “Horripilatious. My little brother says that all the time, and it’s infected the rest of the family as well.”

“You’re close to your family.”

“It’s hard not to be when you’ve got a twin. But yes, we are all close. I miss them a great deal,” she said softly.

He resisted the impulse to squeeze her arm. “What topic has Dr. Carrighar set you that’s roused such fervor?”

“It’s . . . it’s a little hard to explain. Oh, is that spire over there St. Anne’s Shandon? It seems as though it’s been shrouded in mist ever since I got here. How nice to actually be able to see it.”

Niall could hear the forced enthusiasm in her voice as she peered up at the cathedral’s tower, with its distinctive red and white stone faces. This was the second time she’d evaded discussing her studies, which seemed odd. Surely academics would be a safe, easy topic of conversation. Perhaps she was afraid of appearing to be too much the bluestocking.

“It’s a pity Dr. Carrighar’s scholars haven’t been more welcoming than they might have,” he said quietly. “Half of a university experience is the talk, among students as well as from the masters. But if they’re too busy resenting you because you’re female, or English, or some other silly reason, it can’t be very pleasant for you.”

She bowed her head so that he couldn’t see her face set back in the frame of her bonnet. “It’s lonely. I’ve always had my sister to study with. But now—”

That time he did squeeze her arm, very gently.

“You don’t know how grateful I am to Lady Keating for being so very civil to me,” she said in a rush. “I enjoy Dr. Carrighar’s conversation very much, but he’s not Persy. And with Ally ill and wrapped up
in—in her condition . . .” She peeked at him sideways, blushing. “With Ally ill, I don’t have anybody. It’s so kind of your mother to make the effort to befriend me.”

“It’s no effort at all. And Mother doesn’t do anything that she doesn’t want to.” Niall smiled wryly to himself. That was bloody well true. “She wants to be your friend. We all do.” He let his voice drop and soften till it sounded like a caress. “
I
do.”

He heard her sudden soft intake of breath and felt her hand tighten involuntarily on his arm. A twinge of guilt lanced through him. Had he gone too far? Could Mother be mistaken about her experience?

But devil take it, he was just following orders. If he ever wanted to get anywhere, he would have to go along with Mother’s plans for this girl, whatever they were. If he was supposed to make her fall for him, then he might as well get down to business.

“That is . . . most kind of her,” Miss Leland said, sounding a little breathless. “I—I value her friendship highly. Isn’t it remarkable how one can feel so drawn to new friends after just a short acquaintance, Mr. Keating?”

He smiled down at her averted face. Was she flirting back? “I had noticed that very same thing, Miss Leland,” he said. “Quite drawn.”

“Oh!” she breathed, so quietly that he barely heard it.

It made him smile again, but with less pleasure. If she had been flirting with him, she should have given him a sidelong look and a faint smile just then, not that half-shocked, half-pleased monosyllable.

Mother was wrong. This girl may have had a London season, but she was no experienced coquette. Blast. She was going to get hurt if he kept going down this path. A mental picture of her beautiful blue
eyes, raised to his in pain and anguish, struck him so forcibly that he nearly stopped dead in the street.

“Are you all right?” Miss Leland looked at him as he stumbled slightly.

“I’m fine. Stone in my shoe, that’s all.” He patted her hand, smiled, and tried to ignore the small voice in the back of his mind jeering “Liar!”

For dining at the Keatings’, Dr. Carrighar made a concession to fashion and wore clothes of more modern cut than his usual long, loose coat and breeches. Tonight, Pen thought with amusement as she surveyed him seated across from her in the gig, he at least looked nineteenth century. Beau Brummel or the Prince Regent might have worn a similar coat once.

She smiled down at her hands, encased in delicate lace mitts. Persy had sent them to her, along with a length of pale gold organdy for a gown and an enthusiastic request that Pen indeed send her an Irish cloak. Pen would be glad to; it would give her an excuse for another outing with Lady Keating to her modiste, and perhaps time with Niall. . . .

There she went again. How many times did she need to be reminded to keep her mind where it belonged—on her studies?

But even Pen’s interior scold was starting to sound halfhearted, at least on the subject of Niall Keating. Snippets of his conversation on their walk last Saturday kept sounding in her mind—not so much his words as the tone and timbre of his voice. It made her feel slightly warm and breathless, as if her corset were too tight.

It also left her hungry for more. She hadn’t seen him since that day, though she had gone driving once with Lady Keating. Would he have more to say to her tonight?

“I am sorry Melusine did not feel up to coming with us.” Dr. Carrighar’s baritone rumble broke into her thoughts. “It would have been a good opportunity for her to get to know more of Cork society.”

Pen shushed Niall’s voice in her mind. “At least she’s feeling better than she was.” She then asked, “Do you think it’s proper for her to be sleeping so much? I mean, is it healthy?”

Over the last few days, Ally had spent twenty out of each twenty-four hours asleep. She was actually eating now—toast and soft-boiled eggs or Cook’s milk puddings, mostly—and keeping down what she ate. As soon as she finished breakfast, she eagerly drank a glass of water with Lady Keating’s elixir and drifted off to sleep until late afternoon. Then, after a light supper, another dose sent her back to sleep until morning. Her color was better and her face less wasted, but still . . . it seemed strange to see the energetic Ally so indolent.

Dr. Carrighar sighed. “I don’t know, Penelope. This stage of gestation is a prodigious labor for women, and most tend to be somnolent. And at least when she is asleep she’s not uncomfortable. The one day we tried to go without Lady Keating’s remedy, poor Melusine reverted to her old distressed state. I don’t see that the sleep is harmful, but I understand your unease. It’s not like her, is it? Remind me this evening to ask Lady Keating what is in her elixir, won’t you? I am sure it is entirely harmless, whatever it is. Yet . . .”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.” It would be easier for Dr. Carrighar to ask
such a question than for her. Pen didn’t want to offend Lady Keating, after all her kindness. Or jeopardize seeing Niall.

Idiot girl. Did all her thoughts have to come back to him? She laughed inwardly at herself.

The Keating house was ablaze with light, though evening was not yet fully fallen. As soon as their carriage drew to a stop, the front door opened to reveal Lady Keating herself, in deep blue silk and a turban, smiling and nodding as Pen and Dr. Carrighar ascended the stairs and entered the house.

“My dear Doctor! This is indeed a great honor.” She curtseyed slightly as she held out her hand to him. “And our sweet Penelope. Welcome!”

Lady Keating’s musky perfume seemed to reach out and surround Pen in a cloud of scent. Or was it simply the force of her personality, somehow made physical? But Pen had begun to rather like her distinctive fragrance, now that she was used to it. She inhaled it appreciatively as Lady Keating enveloped her in a warm embrace, then held her at arm’s length and looked at her.

“How perfectly lovely you are,
cinealta
Penelope. That warm rose color suits you so well.” She slipped an arm around Pen’s waist. “Doctor, I can’t imagine your scholars get much work done when Penelope is part of the class.”

“It can be a struggle for them,” Dr. Carrighar replied with a straight face. Pen just managed to keep herself from sticking her tongue out at him.

“I should think so. Niall, dear, our guests are arriving,” Lady Keating called. “Where are you?”

“Here, Mother.” Niall appeared on the staircase landing, exquisite in a dark green coat and green-and-gold-striped waistcoat. The
lamplight glinted on his carefully combed hair and cast his strong features into dramatic, sculpted relief.

Pen watched him as he descended the broad stair and crossed the hall toward them. There was an unusual grace and strength about his movements that she loved. So many of the young men she’d observed last year in London had walked like animated lumber, stiff and unbending, as if their leg joints didn’t work correctly. Others plodded flatfooted, like well-dressed ducks. Niall moved with an ease that was nearly feline. He would probably be a wonderful dancer, too. Would she ever have the chance to dance with him?

As she met his eyes, he broke into a slow smile that made her knees weak. Virtuous thoughts about the reading she had to do after tonight’s dinner fled; she knew she’d be too busy replaying in her mind how he’d looked tonight, admiring each perfect detail. Couldn’t they just skip dinner and let her sit and stare at Niall all evening instead? Especially if they could have another conversation like their last one. . . .

“Niall, why don’t you take Dr. Carrighar into the library for a few moments, until the rest of our guests arrive?” suggested Lady Keating. “I’d love for him to see that folio of artists’ reconstructions of the palace at Newgrange. Don’t worry, you can monopolize Miss Leland afterwards.”

“I’ll hold you to that promise, Mother.” Niall’s grin flashed at them. “This way, sir. It’s an interesting volume, and only a few dozen printed, by subscription.”

Dr. Carrighar good-naturedly followed Niall across the broad hall and back up the stairs, while Pen swallowed her disappointment and let Lady Keating lead her into the drawing room. She would
have liked to see whatever book it was, too, if only to have kept close to Niall.

Doireann was bent, poker in hand, over a crackling, snapping fire in the drawing room’s large, black marble fireplace. She straightened when they entered, and gave Pen a radiant smile as she set the poker on the chimneypiece and shook out the folds of her pale green gown. Evidently she was in a good mood tonight.