Betraying Season

by Marissa Doyle

  “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.

  “Pen, you’re here! I say, you look just splendid in that dress,” she called cheerfully. “Come see these pinecones my old nanny sent, won’t you? They wash up on the beaches in Aran. When you put them on the fire they make it burn purple and green. Fun, isn’t it? I’ve been tossing them in for the last hour, just to watch the colors.”

  Good heavens. Doireann actually sounded glad to see her. “How curious! I’ve never seen anything like that before.” Pen slipped from Lady Keating’s arm and approached Doireann cautiously. “Is it the salt from the ocean that makes the colors?”

  Doireann shrugged. “Probably. Nanny would have said they were from pines that grew in the Summerlands, but your explanation is a little more likely. Here, you do one.” She held out a pinecone to Pen with a grin surprisingly like Niall’s.

  Pen felt herself warm toward her under the influence of that smile. Was Doireann finally starting to like her? Maybe they could be friends after all. “What fun! Thank you,” she said, crossing the last few feet between them and reaching out to take the knobby lump.

  A small grating sound made her stop and glance up. Among the other ornaments there, a pair of large alabaster vases stood sentinel on either end of the high chimneypiece. One of them was slowly tipping over.

  Pen froze, watching the heavy vase tip as if time had slowed, directly above Doireann’s glossy black curls. In a scant second it would strike the vulnerable back of her head, quite likely killing her.

  “Ponere!” she gasped, sweeping her hand as if to knock the vase aside. The vase jerked as if it were on a wire and crashed to the ground several feet behind Doireann, shattering in an explosion of white shards on the polished parquet floor.

  “Wha—” Doireann gasped too and whirled around, staring at the broken remains of the vase.

  “The vase, it started to fall. . . .” Pen wished she could sit down. Her heart pounded so hard in her breast that she could practically hear it. “Are—are you all r-right?” she stuttered. Doireann’s face was as white as the pieces of alabaster scattered around them.

  “The vase—good heavens above! My dear Penelope, you just saved Doireann’s life! How providential that you saw it fall and warned her to jump out of the way.” Lady Keating threw her arms around Pen’s neck and embraced her, then drew back to look at her with sparkling gemstone eyes. “You dear, clever girl!” There was an odd, thrumming note of excitement in her voice.

  “Are you all right, Doireann?” Pen asked again as her mind raced. Thank goodness Lady Keating had taken her translocation spell for a shout of warning. Hopefully Doireann would be so shocked at her narrow escape that she would too. But how had the vase fallen? Had Doireann knocked it with her poker somehow? And why was Lady Keating here fussing over her? She should be at Doireann’s side, making sure that her daughter was all right, comforting her.

  “Providential?” Doireann still stared around her at the fragments on the floor. When she finally looked up at Lady Keating, her face was still and strained, as if she were holding some vast emotion back lest it choke her. “Providential?” she repeated through clenched teeth.

  “Indeed it was.” Lady Keating embraced Pen once more before letting her go. “We are most fortunate to have found Penelope, aren’t we?”

  There was a discreet cough from the doorway. Pen glanced up and saw Lady Keating’s butler trying not to look alarmed as he surveyed the remains of the vase.

  Lady Keating did not turn around. “Healy, one of the vases fell off the chimneypiece.”

  “Yes, my lady,” said the butler. “Right away.” He vanished.

  Pen tried one more time. “Doireann,” she began, holding out her hand.

  Doireann ignored it. “I’m fine,” she snapped. “Just fine. Excuse me for a few minutes, won’t you?” She swept past them and out of the room.

  Pen was almost sure that she deliberately stepped on as many pieces of vase as she could, grinding them into the polished wood floor. Why did she seem so angry? “Lady Keating, I—”

  Lady Keating put a comforting arm around her once more. “You must excuse her, my dear. Doireann does not care to be coddled and fussed over a great deal. Even when she was a little girl, she could not endure it. Why, poor child, you’re trembling! It was frightening, wasn’t it? I’m feeling quite faint myself. Shall
we leave the servants to clear this up and join Niall and the doctor in the library? Healy!” she called to the butler, who returned with a footman and two broom-carrying housemaids. “Please bring a glass of sherry for Miss Leland to the library. Come, my dear. I’ll help you up the stairs.”

  Pen sank gratefully into a chair by the library fireplace while Lady Keating gave Niall and Dr. Carrighar a dramatic retelling of the episode of the falling vase. Dr. Carrighar looked sharply at Pen, but Niall bowed, and taking her hand, kissed it.

  “Thank you for rescuing my sister,” he murmured, then grinned. “Even though she probably didn’t deserve it. She can be pretty horripilatious at times.”

  Pen was startled into a laugh. “I hope my brother doesn’t talk about me that way. She was actually being quite affable when I—when it happened.”

  Healy came in, followed by a footman bearing a tray of glasses. “Sir John and Lady Whelan are here, my lady.”

  Lady Keating herself took a glass of sherry from the footman’s tray and handed it to Pen. “There you are, dear child. Show them up here, Healy, and tell me when the drawing room is cleared.”

  Pen sipped her sherry and shivered slightly. Reaction was setting in, and she felt cold and shaky. Again in her mind’s eye she saw the vase slowly falling toward Doireann’s unprotected head. Doireann could have been badly injured, or maybe even killed, if she hadn’t used her power to save her. But using magic in public . . . she hadn’t been too obvious, had she? At least Lady Keating seemed to have taken her spell for a warning shout. Thank heavens people could observe an action and rewrite it to fit their own view of events.

  What about Doireann, though? Anyone else would have been shocked at such a narrow escape, not to mention grateful to her rescuer. Doireann had been shocked, true. But it had been fury and resentment, not gratitude, that had blazed in her pale green eyes. Pen shivered again and drank the rest of her sherry in a gulp. Some of Corkwobble’s otherworldly whiskey would have been welcome about now.

  Niall took her glass and unobtrusively replaced it with a full one from the tray the footman had left on a table. “Are you all right?” he asked quietly, pulling a chair next to her.

  “I—it’s . . . just a little shaky, that’s all.” Niall’s eyes were so very blue, and so very sincere. Pen suddenly wished she could lean over and rest her head on his broad shoulder and have a good cry. This evening wasn’t turning out as she’d hoped it would.

  “Here. You didn’t see this.” Niall rose and brought her the large folio he had been showing to Dr. Carrighar. Seating himself again, he took her hand under the folio’s cover and squeezed it gently.

  Pen nearly did cry, then, undone by his quiet sympathy. She gripped his hand tightly in return and did not let go, even when he relaxed his hand to give her opportunity to do so. His hand felt so strong and warm over hers, and so very comforting.

  Sir John Whelan and his wife came in. They were a red-faced, hearty couple totally given over to conversation about horses and their racing stud, but they greeted her very kindly and seemed to be somewhat in awe of Dr. Carrighar, to her secret delight. The rest of the guests arrived quickly after that: a tall, pale viscount, his equally attenuated wife and son, and his unexpectedly buxom and pretty daughter. They were followed by an elegant, elderly baronet who greeted Dr. Carrighar with unfeigned delight.

  “Good lord, it’s Seamus Aloysius Carrighar. I’d heard you couldn’t get out of your house anymore. Haven’t the books covered every portal by now?” he cried, clapping him on the back.

  “Ah, Percival Gorman, you forgot about the chimneys.” Dr. Carrighar beamed. “How are you, old friend? And what are you doing out of doors? I’d heard Mary no longer let you out in public lest you frighten young children with that ugly phiz of yours.”

  Lady Keating sidled over to Pen. “Ah, I was right,” she whispered, watching Dr. Carrighar and the man trade affectionate insults. “I recalled Sir Percival mentioning that he and Dr. Carrighar had been to school together but that they hadn’t met in years. I do so want you both to enjoy yourselves tonight.”

  “I’ll do my part toward that end, Mother,” Niall chimed in dutifully. Under the folio, he squeezed Pen’s hand again and raised one eyebrow very slightly at her.

  The last of Pen’s upset over the vase incident melted away like April snow under his warm regard. She knew she really ought to withdraw her hand before they were caught. It was a most improper thing for anyone not engaged to be doing.

  Instead she smiled at him and squeezed back, wishing she could slip off her mitts and feel his skin against hers. The shocking thought made her feel unaccountably giddy. Would Niall think her a shameless coquette, holding hands with him like this? Or was he the one being a dreadful flirt? But he had said he was not versed in society’s ways. Surely he was just being kind, and did not understand the effect he was having on her. . . .

  Until, with great delicacy, he rubbed his thumb against her palm in a slow, deliberate circle. The pressure of his finger seemed to propagate up her arm and into her very core. Her breath caught in her throat, and she felt a telltale warmth spread up her throat and into her face as she looked up at him.

  He returned her look steadily, not smiling this time. A dark, smoldering intensity darkened the blue of his eyes.

  He knew, then, exactly what he was doing, and it went far beyond what usually passed for lighthearted flirtation. Should she snatch her hand away and shriek in indignation, or just be done with the whole thing and kiss him on the spot?

  Before she could do either, Healy reappeared in the doorway. “Dinner, my lady.”

  With a final, lingering stroke across her palm, Niall released her hand, closed the concealing folio, and rose. Pen wished she could down one more sherry, to calm her beating heart. She rose too and accepted the arm Niall offered but could not look at him. How was she supposed to act as if nothing had just happened between them? She’d gone from one kind of upheaval to another. Surely something of her agitation must show in her face?

  Something must have, for Lady Keating stopped her as they were about to pass through the door. “Poor child, you’re still overset about that unpleasant little episode downstairs. Please don’t let it ruin your evening. I’m so grateful to you. Doireann . . .” Lady Keating’s green eyes were suddenly bright. She leaned forward and kissed Pen’s cheek, then smiled and gestured them onward.

  Something about Lady Keating’s tremulous smile made Pen forget a little of her own unrest. “Where is Doireann?” she murmured to Niall in as steady a voice as she could manage. “I’d hoped to talk to her about . . . about what happened.”

  He shrugged. “She makes her own rules. She’ll be back when she’s ready, or maybe not at all.”

  But a silent, tight-lipped Doireann joined them as they were all descending the stairs to the dining room. Pen saw her dart down the stairs ahead of them, ignoring the surprised greetings of the rest of the guests, and then seat herself between Sir John and Dr. Carrighar at table, too far for conversation. Pen tried to catch her eye, but Doireann wouldn’t even look at her over Lady Keating’s gleaming silver-set table.

  That annoyed Pen. Doireann was acting as if she had caused the wretched vase to fall on her, for goodness’ sake. And she’d been so friendly before it happened.

  “Don’t let her bother you. That’s just how she is. I’m used to it by now, but I know it’s hard,” Niall murmured in her ear.

  He had taken the seat next to her at table, after staring down Viscount Enniskean’s pale son who’d been about to claim the chair. Pen looked at Niall and saw his expression was resigned as he looked at Doireann.

  “Why? I want to be her friend, but—”

  “Don’t lose any sleep over it. I’m her brother, and I don’t know where I stand with her most of the time. She’s like the weather—there’s nothing you can do about it, except seek shelter when it’s stormy.” He lifted his shoulders in a helpless gesture.

  “But why is she this way? You aren�
��t moody and inconstant,” Pen said.

  He shifted in his seat and frowned down at his napkin in his lap. “It’s a little hard to explain why she is the way she is.” Then he looked up at her with a crooked half smile. “Moody I’m not. But how do you know I’m not inconstant?”

  Pen knew she was supposed to laugh and blush and play the flirtation game. With anyone else, maybe she could have. But not with Niall. Not now. Not after what had just passed between them upstairs . . . unless that had just been a game too.

  “I hope you are not,” she said, carefully emphasizing her words. “I had rather taken you for someone with a reasonably well-developed sense of chivalry.”

  “ ‘Reasonably well-developed’?” He laughed, and Pen thought she detected a hint of unease.

  “Am I wrong?”

  “Might I have advance warning of questions like that in the future?” he asked.

  “It wasn’t a question.”

  “No, just a highly leading statement. Are you studying the law with Dr. Carrighar, Miss Leland? You could argue before the bench as well as any barrister.”

  Pen waited while the footman served their soup, grateful for the pause. What was going on here? This conversation was starting to feel as perilous as a walk on thin ice.

  “I define a chivalrous man as one who is always aware of the probable feelings of those around him and who acts accordingly,” she finally continued. “You were kind to me upstairs when I was overset at your sister’s near-accident. Therefore I assume you possess a sense of chivalry.”

  Niall picked up his spoon and gazed down into his pale green watercress bisque. He was biting his lower lip. Pen watched him, waiting for his reply.