He leaned his head against the settle’s high back and stared across the room at the peat turves glowing on the hearth. Why shouldn’t he overpay for weak tea from a not-too-clean cup? What else could he do with the pocket money Mother gave him? He sighed and curved his fingers around the earthenware mug to warm them.
What was Mother up to this time? What could yesterday’s chance meeting with an unknown young Englishwoman have to do with her schemes to unite him with his real father?
It was on his fourteenth birthday that Mother had told him the truth of his birth. She’d called him into her boudoir and showed him the portrait that went everywhere with her, from house to house, packed with the greatest of care. It was of a handsome, martial-looking man with large side-whiskers and a chest full of ribbons and decorations.
It had made Niall giddy at first to think that his real father was a royal duke, and that his grandfather had been the king of England. Mother had played on that reaction, filling him with stories of the glorious future that awaited him when he was grown and could take his place at his true father’s side. He had gone back to Harrow and studied hard, had gone on to Oxford and studied harder. He’d learned to fence and to shoot and spent a year studying military sciences with a retired drill sergeant from the duke’s own regiment, who’d wept like a sentimental old woman at times because of Niall’s resemblance to his former colonel.
But an Oxford degree hadn’t been enough. With the ink barely dry on his diploma, Mother had summoned him to the duke’s portrait once more and told him he was going to have a grand tour. For three long years, he’d toured Europe, ending up in Hanover for a course of study at the University of Göttingen. By the time he was through, though, he had changed. Or maybe being away from Mother for so long had made a difference.
“I don’t care how much I look like the duke,” he’d tried to argue with her on his return. “What use will he have for a son he can never claim? I have a home and an inheritance in Ireland. I should be learning how to live my life here, not chasing a dream.”
Mother had refused to listen, however. “His only other son is a blind invalid. When the duke sees you, how he’ll rejoice! With your education and experience of foreign life, you will be invaluable to him one day.” She’d smiled at him through sudden tears. “His very image! So tall and straight and fair. . . . Be patient a little longer, mo mhuirnin. Now that you are a man, I must write to the duke. We shall go to England later this summer and bring you to him.”
But no summons to London had ever arrived. Mother’s face grew closed and stony when Niall asked her about it. A quiet desperation slowly grew in his mind as they waited through summer and into autumn and, with it, anger.
Niall frowned, shifting in his hard seat, and took another gulp of tea. Was he going to wait forever for his life to begin? He was twenty-four now. No matter what happened with the duke, he would still inherit the ancient title of Baron Keating of Loughglass from Papa, as well as the nameless but more-ancient-still lordship of his mother’s lands at Bandry Court.
Sometimes he thought about going back to Loughglass, where Papa lived his invalid’s life, being wheeled around the gardens and conservatory by stolid male attendants. But that wouldn’t help. What would he say to him? Papa, I’m not really your son, but it’s time I started acting like I was? Niall didn’t think so. Besides, when had Papa ever had any control over Mother? Even if he once had, what could he do now?
It was time Niall embraced his Irish heritage. And more than time he slipped out from under his mother’s thumb.
But how? Mother had brought him up to be something other than a provincial, if wealthy, Anglo-Irish baron. Brought him up, hell—had drilled into him that one day he would take his place at the side of a royal father he’d never known. She held the purse strings and the power in their family. Niall knew she wanted what she thought was the best for him, and he had done as she had asked, studying and improving himself while other young men of his age and class wasted their time and money with drinking, gambling, and wenching. And he couldn’t help being at least a little intrigued at the thought of meeting his dynamic, powerful father.
So what should he do? Listen to his mother and hope her plans for him came to fruition, or go back to Loughglass and the man he called Papa, and take over the running of the estate?
There was, however, one more point to consider. One did not cross Nuala Keating lightly. Pouring tea without touching the teapot was the least of her powers. He knew she loved him deeply and completely, but if he were to deny her. . . . He shrugged his shoulders uncomfortably. Restlessness and rebellion thrashed and simmered beneath his always-polite exterior, like a dozing volcano slowly rumbling awake. The only difference between him and his sister Doireann was that she let her frustration with Mother out, while he kept his bottled in.
But maybe all this was about to change.
Niall took a gulp of tea and looked at his watch again. Ten minutes. He’d better start back for home before their guest got too alarmed by Doireann. He rose, nodded to the landlord, and stalked back out into the March wind.
Mother hadn’t given him many hints about who this girl was, only that it was important for him to make a good impression on her and, if possible, to pique her interest. It was a far cry from her usual admonishments whenever he took an interest in a pretty girl.
“You must save yourself for someone worthy of you,” she would whisper fiercely to him if he danced more than once with the same girl at a ball. Hmmm. Could this girl have something to do with the duke? A court connection, perhaps? Someone who might be used to introduce him to his true father?
He bloody well hoped so, before he did something desperate.
“There ye are, sir.”
Niall was brought up short. Back already. Padraic the coachman was loitering on the pavement outside the house, communing with his horses still hitched to the carriage. He touched his cap respectfully as he spoke to Niall. “Her ladyship’s opened the curtains o’ the drawin’ room. That means she’ll be wantin’ you in there whenever you’re ready, sir. She told me to tell you as much.”
“Thank you, Padraic,” Niall replied, and turned toward the front steps. Mother hadn’t said whether this girl was pretty or not. He hoped she was. It would help him sound at least nominally sincere when he did his best, on Mother’s orders, to beguile Miss Penelope Leland.
Pen sat stiffly in her chair in Lady Keating’s green and gold drawing room. It wasn’t easy paying calls on her own. Last year she and Persy had always made formal calls with Mama, and if it was sometimes difficult not to be swamped in her formidable wake, it was also possible to let Mama do all the talking and fade into the wallpaper if she felt like it.
But she couldn’t get away with that today. As the only guest, she was the focus of two pairs of very green eyes as she sipped Lady Keating’s black china tea from a delicate porcelain cup and answered questions about her London season.
At least Lady Keating was being entirely charming today, so much so that Pen had begun to wonder if she had imagined her initial coldness yesterday afternoon. Lady Keating had greeted her with a kiss when she arrived and slipped an arm about her waist to guide her into the drawing room.
“You will have to excuse Niall. I told him to be on time, but he’s late, the rogue,” she laughed after presenting Doireann. “If there’s not any tea left for him by the time he returns, he’ll have to go without.”
“I rather doubt that,” Doireann murmured, gazing at nothing in particular. “Niall is not accustomed to stinting his appetites.”
Goodness! What a thing to say about one’s own brother! Pen murmured something noncommittal and saw Lady Keating shoot her daughter a dark look.
After twenty minutes of conversation, Pen still hadn’t been able to figure Doireann Keating out. She was a shorter, more fey version of her mother, with her green eyes and dark hair, but lacked Lady Keating’s self-assurance. And though Doireann’s manner was pleasant, if reserved, Pen could sens
e something underlying her civility. She reminded Pen of the lions in the Zoological Gardens in London, placidly dozing in the sun but always with one eye cracked open, waiting.
“And your twin sister was married at the end of her first season?” Doireann was saying now. “How very efficient of her.”
Pen couldn’t help laughing, though Doireann’s word choice was ever-so-slightly barbed. “Believe me, it wasn’t her plan at all. She would rather have stayed home with her books and studies. I was far more eager than she to go to London.”
“Her husband-to-be must have been very persuasive, then.” Lady Keating smiled.
“No, not particularly. He was nearly as shy as she was. I spent weeks trying to convince him to talk to her.” Pen smiled too, but a little sigh escaped her.
Lady Keating leaned forward and patted her hand. “At the sacrifice of your own pleasure, perhaps? Surely you weren’t so busy playing matchmaker for your sister that you had no chance to find a handsome young man to lose your own heart to?”
“Well, er. . . .” Blushing, Pen took refuge in a sip of tea. Was she that obvious? And that selfish?
Persy hadn’t been selfish. She’d concealed her search for the kidnapped Ally from Pen last year, so as not to get Pen in trouble and hurt her matrimonial chances with Lochinvar, who she thought admired Pen. But their comedy of errors had been resolved, and Pen was sincerely glad for Persy and Lochinvar. She was only eighteen, after all—well, nineteen, come May. There would be plenty of time to meet eligible young men next season, after she’d studied—
The drawing room doors flew open just then, banging back against the wall as if blown by a gust of wind. Startled, Pen turned in her chair.
A tall man strode across the room, hatless but still wearing his greatcoat. He carried a scent of fresh, cold air and peat smoke with him, and his fair hair was tousled and windblown above strong, regular features.
“Sorry I’m late, Mother. My watch needs to go to the clockmaker’s shop for a cleaning, I think.” His voice was low and musical, with a faint hint of Irish lilt underlying it.
Lady Keating shook her head in remonstrance, but her face was lit by a warm smile. “Naughty boy. Come and meet my guest. Miss Leland, this is my son, Niall Keating.”
Pen looked up into deep blue eyes set under straight brows. The eyes widened as they met hers, then crinkled in a slow smile that made her heart skip a beat.
“Miss Leland,” he said, bowing and clicking his heels. “Do forgive my lateness. Though I’m not sure I forgive myself, now that I see what I’ve been missing.”
“Yes, Mother did order a spectacular tea today, didn’t she?” Doireann delicately brushed a crumb of cream cake off her sleeve.
Niall Keating shrugged off his coat, took the empty chair next to Pen, and accepted a cup of tea from his mother. Neither he nor Lady Keating seemed to notice that Doireann had spoken.
Pen tried not to as well, but she couldn’t help feeling stung. Why was Doireann being so . . . so unfriendly to a stranger? Niall’s apology had been charming and gallant, delivered in a caressing tone that made her insides do a quick happy flutter. But his sister’s reply had made the sweetness suddenly seem overdone, like too-ripe fruit.
She stole a glance at Niall. The corners of his mouth quirked the faintest bit as he caught her looking at him. With a shrug, he rolled his eyes upward, then gave her a small, conspiratorial smile.
Pen stifled the urge to giggle. Niall Keating resembled his sister in neither looks nor temperament, it seemed.
“Are you fond of walking, Mr. Keating?” she asked politely.
“I am when it isn’t raining,” he replied. “Which isn’t often in Ireland, as you might have noticed, so I must take my walks when I can. Have you been in town long?”
Pen let him draw her into polite conversation about her visit and about her home in England. It was all such familiar territory, this courteous tea-table talk, that she was able to make the required responses with just half her attention, which allowed her to focus the rest on examining this splendid young man.
She could well believe the rumors Dr. Carrighar had mentioned concerning his paternity. She had seen portraits of the various sons and daughters of George III in Princess Sophia’s apartments in Kensington Palace last year and remembered the princes as being handsome, if fleshy, with fair hair and sleepy-lidded, come-hither blue eyes. Niall Keating would not have looked out of place among them. But his mother’s elegance of feature had refined the hearty Hanoverian in him—if the rumors were true, that is—and made him more attractive still. Pen hoped she wasn’t staring, but she couldn’t help it. He would have set the feminine hearts of London ablaze just by strolling through a ballroom and smiling that lazy white smile.
“Miss Leland is here to further her studies, Niall,” Lady Keating interjected. “She is staying with her former governess, who has married Dr. Carrighar’s son.”
Niall’s eyebrows rose. “You’re a scholar? How interesting. But London’s loss is our gain. Dr. Carrighar has a fearsome reputation as St. Kilda’s most carnivorous tutor. I hope he doesn’t chew you up as well.”
“He hasn’t yet, though I have noticed the occasional smear of blood in his study after a tutorial. But only one or two of his scholars have required medical assistance while I’ve been there,” Pen said, and felt faintly dizzy when Niall flashed a grin at her.
“Perhaps he draws his teeth for bouts with you, Miss Leland, lest the battle be too unequal,” Doireann said with a sugary smile.
Pen pretended to consider this. “No, I don’t think so. Though petticoats might provide some protection, I like to think that it is my own bite that has kept me unscathed so far.”
“I might venture to guess that you can give as good as you get, Miss Leland,” Niall added, a note of laughter in his voice.
“Within the bounds of maidenly propriety, of course,” she replied. Oh, this was fun! She hadn’t been able to dance verbally with anyone like this since she’d left Persy behind at home. And the admiration she saw in Niall’s eyes made it even sweeter.
But she was suddenly aware of a shift around the table, as if the air had somehow changed. She looked up and saw Doireann glance at her mother with a sardonic lift to her eyebrows. Lady Keating frowned at her daughter, then bent forward and placed her hand on the teapot.
“Please ring for the maid, Doireann,” she commanded. “The tea has gone cold.”
Niall leaned a little closer to Pen. “That’s not all that has,” he murmured out the corner of his mouth as he reached past her for a cake.
“Shh,” she whispered back, but it was hard not to laugh at his conspiratorial wink.
“What was that?” Doireann asked sharply, half risen from her chair.
“I was just commenting to Miss Leland that we seem to have gone back to winter with this cold wind,” he said blandly, straightening and biting into a pastry.
“It did seem to go right through my cloak today,” Pen agreed, matching his tone. She tried not to meet his eyes, lest she giggle.
“It’s an oceanic wind here, Miss Leland,” Lady Keating explained. “London modistes don’t know how to defeat it. I must bring you to mine so that you can order an Irish cloak. We can’t have you freeze.”
Doireann returned to her seat. “Miss Leland would look quite handsome in one,” she observed. Pen remembered the lions, amiable one minute and snarling the next.
Then the maid came in, bringing a fresh pot of hot tea, and conversation returned once more to conventional lines. Except now Pen was even more aware of Niall Keating next to her, as if he had bound her to him with that quick wink and their shared humor. She felt his eyes on her through the rest of that visit, his regard almost as tangible as the Irish cloaks Lady Keating had spoken of; she was warmed, rather than alarmed, by his attention. When she stole glances at him, he was sitting back in his chair, stroking his curling side-whiskers absentmindedly as he watched her, the way one would pet a cat. It was an endearing gesture.
Perhaps too endearing. This was not why she had come to Ireland. She needed to keep her mind off handsome Irish men and on Irish magic.
But it wasn’t just his looks. It was the expression in his eyes that made her feel as if they already knew each other very well. She got the feeling that if they were to sit there without speaking, even their silence would be companionable.
A friend. She missed Persy and her chuckleheaded brother, and she was looking for friends. She had rather hoped Doireann could become a friend. Now that she’d met her, though, Pen wasn’t at all sure she cared to spend more time than was necessary with her. But Doireann’s brother . . .
When the maid came to announce that the coach was ready to bring Pen home at the hour she’d specified, Lady Keating rose and took Pen’s hands. “Must you go so soon?”
“I don’t like to leave Ally—I mean, Mrs. Carrighar—alone too long while she’s feeling unwell,” Pen explained. Lady Keating’s hands were warm on hers. She wore a curious ring on her right hand, made of heavy silver wire elaborately braided around a cloudy, pale green stone.
Lady Keating tsked in sympathy. “Such a pity she’s ill. Is it our climate?”
“No. That is, I expect she’ll be over it in a few months,” Pen replied without thinking, then winced inwardly. Had that been too bald a reference to Ally’s condition in front of strangers? She withdrew her hands from Lady Keating’s and pulled her gloves on. Then Niall unobtrusively helped her on with her mantle, and she forgot her embarrassment in awareness of his proximity and warm, clean scent.
Lady Keating nodded. “Of course. Then it is all set. I shall pick you up at two on Thursday and bring you to my dressmaker so we can order you a proper cloak, and bring you back here for tea again so that Mrs. Carrighar can have her rest.”
Pen blinked. When had that been decided? But now Niall Keating was bowing to her again, his eyes sparkling.
“It sounds good to me, Mother,” he said cheerfully. “May I see you out to the carriage, Miss Leland?”
When Niall came back into the drawing room, Lady Keating was pacing the room, her face aglow. “You were perfect, my love! Simply perfect!” she cried, taking his hands and squeezing them. “Miss Leland could not help but be smitten with you.”
Betraying Season Page 3
