“Mmm-hmmm.”
Should she continue? It was such a relief to be talking to someone who understood. “And Niall Keating. He’s becoming very friendly, but I don’t know if it’s just a flirtation to him or something else. It’s not as if this were London and I could judge his intentions by how he behaved to other girls.”
Words began to fall out of her. “He’s—I can’t help liking him a great deal. He’s handsome and intelligent and charming and eligible, and I’m sure Mama and Papa would love him. And Lady Keating seems to like me, too. But it’s all happening so fast, so neatly, as if it were planned. I’m afraid, almost—afraid I’ll neglect my studies and make a fool of myself over him. What if it is just a game to him? He seems so restless under all that charm. I thought his sister was like the lions at the Zoological Garden, napping in the sun. But he’s like the cheetah, pacing his cage. What if he’s just amusing himself with me?”
Her throat burned slightly as she blinked back tears. “Oh, Ally,” she whispered, “what should I do?”
Her only answer was a soft snore.
Pen opened her mouth, then shut it. To wake Ally would be unforgivably selfish. She had been so uncomfortable and miserable before Lady Keating gave her the elixir. If it made her sleepy as well as relieving her discomfort, then that was just something Pen would have to put up with. Surely Ally would wake up later. They could talk then.
Pen sat by Ally’s bedside for another few minutes, watching her. Ally wore a faint half smile, as if she were having pleasant dreams. Well, there wasn’t anything wrong with that, was there? She deserved some relief.
But part of Pen’s mind couldn’t be silenced. For Ally, the person who cared most about her in the world after Mama and Persy, to fall asleep in the middle of a conversation, especially one like that, just didn’t feel right. Lady Keating had said it was harmless, but still . . . was a medicine as powerful as that good for an expectant woman?
Pen picked up Ally’s glass and sniffed the dregs of the medicine. It had a fresh, green scent that reminded Pen of newly mown grass, but with an underlying bitter note. It also reminded her of something she’d smelled recently, but she couldn’t remember what. Something herbal with tincture of poppy added, perhaps? That might explain the sleepiness. Surely it could not be good to have much of that. But Dr. Carrighar hadn’t been able to find anything wrong with it.
Well, perhaps it was for the best. Would Ally be able to understand her questions about Niall? She had avoided all her suitors before becoming their governess, and her courtship with Michael while he had held her captive at Kensington Palace last year had been anything but usual.
A nearly empty bottle of Lady Keating’s tonic stood next to the glass. She’d sent two more home with them last night, but she might like this empty one back. Pen slipped it into her pocket and left Ally to her slumber, wishing she could stop feeling so uneasy.
Pen planned to devote all her free time that day to the readings Dr. Carrighar set her, mostly seventeenth-century translations of earlier Irish treatises on magic and the Triple Goddess. Not surprisingly, the quaint, antique language made uphill work. For the first dozen pages or so, she was properly attentive. But then some chance word or some stray thought, or sometimes nothing at all, would make her start thinking about other things, like Niall . . . the feeling of his hand on hers last night, or the sound of his voice when he’d half whispered the word pleasure, or the way he’d looked at her last night when she’d been called away by Dr. Carrighar.
When that happened, she would give herself a firm mental shake and get on again with another dozen pages until something else tipped her back into daydreams. Finally, after a few hours of feeling like a shuttlecock, she closed her book and stared moodily out the window at the dripping street. Rain again, of course. She would have to pay a call on Lady Keating that afternoon to thank her for the dinner—it was what one did after being entertained at someone’s house. And she’d have to do it in the rain. How lovely. Would Niall be there too, to see her in all her damp glory? What should she say to him if he were there?
Even though Ally had fallen asleep before they could discuss them, speaking her worries and doubts aloud had helped focus her thoughts. Last year in London she’d rather enjoyed watching the posturing and maneuvering that took place between the sexes at balls and parties: the sidelong glances full of meaning, the dropped handkerchiefs, the giggles and pouts.
But she’d been sitting on the sidelines then. It was different now that it was her. Different now that she’d seen what marriage could mean to two people. Like Ally and Michael. Or Persy and Lochinvar. She wanted the kind of marriages they had. She wanted to find true love.
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.” S
he 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 challengi
ng 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.
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