Betraying Season (26 page)

“I’m not surprised. He’s an utter blackguard.” Blackguard didn’t begin to cover it; if he were to ever meet this Doherty in the street, he would knock him down. “You were very brave.”

“I didn’t feel brave at the time.” Her voice broke. “Oh, how am I going to face him at our next tutorial? I shall have to give them up. I just can’t be in the same room with him again, even if others are there.”

“I’ll cheerfully make it so that he can’t attend your next tutorial, much less walk.”

“I’d be delighted if you did, but you can’t. It just . . . oh, it makes me furious!”

Niall felt the heat of her skin and how her breathing came quick and hard, and his own anger shifted subtly. She was in a high,
fine passion. Could he change it from anger to something else? Should he? Now would be the perfect time, if he was determined to save her.

“Poor darling,” he murmured, tightening his arm around her. “Of course you’re furious. You should be furious.”

“I hated it, the implication that he was attracted to me against his will, that it was his baser side that had taken over. Instead of respecting my power, he resented it. It was almost as if he were trying to put me in my place—”

“Reprehensible,” he agreed, and pulled her onto his lap.

“Niall!” She froze for a second.

“Shhh. I only want to comfort you.” He pressed her head against his chest and began to stroke her arm and shoulder. “You need it.”

She slowly relaxed against him. “Yes,” she said, on a sigh. “I suppose I do.”

“You do,” he whispered, and gently kissed her temple.

“Why did it have to happen this way?” she asked after a few minutes of silence. “I was ready to respect Dr. Carrighar’s students as fellow magic users. I just assumed they’d be like Ally’s husband and be able to respect me in turn.”

“I don’t know.” He let his hand drop down slightly and brush across her breast. She shivered again but did not pull away.

“I suppose it isn’t all of them. Mr. Sheehan and Mr. O’Byrne seem to be able to endure me, though Mr. Sheehan sometimes goes a little too far in the other direction and thinks my sensibilities are too fine to permit me to study magic.”

“Nonsense.” He bent his head and placed a soft kiss on the side of her neck while letting his hand wander to her breast again. She made a soft sound deep in her throat and arched her back slightly.
Damn it, he was enjoying this too much. He should be feeling much guiltier right now, should be having to force himself to touch her like this, but all he was conscious of was how good she felt.

Was he doing it right? She seemed to be enjoying it too, so maybe he was. Whenever his friends at Oxford or Göttingen had tried to cajole him into visiting brothels with them, he’d always claimed a headache or too much work or not enough money. He had been taught to be gallant to women, but to touch and be intimate with one he did not love seemed like a crime.

How different it was to touch and kiss his Pen. He moved slightly under her weight on his lap; could she feel just how much he was enjoying this?

“You don’t mind that I’m a witch, do you?” Her voice was lower and huskier than he’d heard it before, and her hand had strayed under his coat and was pressed against his chest, on the silk of his waistcoat.

“Not at all,” he murmured. “I love everything about you. I love your face and your laugh. I love to talk to you and dance with you and look at you and touch you—” He slid his hand over her breast and down her waist to her thigh. Her breath caught, then released with a faint “ohh” as he caught a handful of her skirt and petticoats and pulled them up her leg, and then another.

“I love to kiss you.” He caught her mouth and kissed her hard and deep, then drew back and looked at her. “I want to wrap myself around you like a cloak and feel every inch of you under me.”

Her eyes were half closed, as if he’d mesmerized her, so he kissed her again and felt her lips open under his. “Niall,” she whispered into his mouth.

He’d finished rucking up the hem of her skirt and felt the fine
linen of her drawers under his fingers. Only a thin veil of cloth lay between his trembling hand and the warm skin of her thigh. “Pen,” he moaned. “Please, let me touch you. Let me love you—”

“Niall, no.” She stiffened as he caressed her, and though her voice was still low and throaty, there was a distinct note of finality in it. “We can’t do this. It’s not right.” She gently lifted his hand from her thigh and pushed her skirts back down.

“But you don’t understand. I have to. . . .” He kissed her again, hard and desperate. Dear God, how could he explain to her that it was for her own good to let him ruin her?

She returned the kiss for a moment, long enough for him to regain hope. Then she turned her head.

“I want you too, Niall—oh, so much! But I can’t let you do this,” she said quietly.

“I should think not!” said a shocked voice from the doorway.

Pen nearly bolted off Niall’s lap, but he saved her the trouble by leaping to his feet. Fortunately, she slid sideways onto the sofa rather than straight down to the floor and looked up to see Lady Keating, wide-eyed and pale, her gloved hand clutching the polished latch of the door for support. She still wore her maroon shot-silk mantelet and bonnet as well as gloves; evidently she had just come in.

“Mother!” Niall said, giving her a short, abrupt bow. His face had gone very white.

She straightened and let go of the door but did not respond as she crossed the room and held out her hands to Pen. Pen rose, still feeling breathless, and tried to read Lady Keating’s expression. She saw anger there, but it did not seem to be directed at her. Indeed,
Lady Keating pulled her closer and put a protective arm about her shoulders.

“Are you all right?” she murmured, looking into Pen’s face.

“Yes, I’m—I’m quite well. Just a little overset—” She was about to explain about Eamon Doherty and how Niall had been trying to comfort her and perhaps got somewhat carried away, but Lady Keating interrupted her.

“Of course you are, my dear child.” She smiled and gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze, then turned back to Niall. Her expression turned glacial. “I am utterly appalled at your behavior. Not to mention disappointed. Have you so forgotten yourself? Have you forgotten what we—” She pressed her lips together then, as if to prevent any more words escaping them, but her blazing eyes spoke for her.

To Pen’s surprise, Niall’s shock slowly changed to something else. The color returned to his face as he squared his shoulders and met his mother’s angry stare. A silent, electric conversation seemed to pass between them. “I haven’t forgotten, madam,” he replied quietly.

His words seemed to strike Lady Keating harder than a physical blow. “You . . . you . . . ,” she spluttered. “You’re just like any other man, thinking with the wrong part of your body. After all that I’ve—”

This time she pressed the knuckles of her hand against her mouth to stop her words, shaking with repressed emotion. “Out of my sight,” she hissed. “Go!”

Niall looked at his mother, then met Pen’s eyes. She wasn’t sure what she saw in them: Was it apology? Regret? Longing?

“Niall,” she mouthed soundlessly, not sure what she wanted to say. He dropped his eyes, bowed again, and stalked from the room.

Lady Keating let out a slow, shuddering sigh. Pen glanced at her
and saw that her eyes were closed. Oh, lord. What did one say to a woman who had just walked in on you dallying with her son, even though it had been his idea . . . ?

No, that wasn’t fair. She’d enjoyed Niall’s kisses and caresses. Was
enjoyed
a strong enough word? She’d been almost as swept away by sheer physical sensation as he . . . almost.

Two things had stopped her from letting him go any farther. One was the fact that she still wore a linen towel pinned into her drawers to catch the last of her monthly flow; if he had found it there she would have died of embarrassment on the spot.

Even if that hadn’t been the case, though, she still would have stopped him: After all, they weren’t married or even engaged. Heavens, they’d just acknowledged their feelings for each other a scant two days ago. If he were to ask for her hand, she knew she would say yes. But she would not become intimate with him until they were married. Her body belonged to her, and her alone, until she shared it with her chosen husband.

After what they had just experienced together, Niall would surely ask her to marry him. Maybe she could ask Lady Keating to chaperone her home, and then Niall could ask Papa for her. In another two or three months, they could be walking down the aisle of the church at Mage’s Tutterow, starry-eyed and glowing—

“Are you sure you’re all right?” The fury had left Lady Keating’s voice, but she still sounded agitated and anxious.

“Yes, I—I’m fine.”

“You’re
sure
?”

There was a peculiar intensity to the question. Ah. Was Lady Keating concerned that something more than kissing had taken place before she walked in? “
Quite
sure,” she replied firmly.

“Thank God for that.” Lady Keating dropped to the sofa as if her legs would no longer hold her. She pulled Pen down to sit beside her, took her hands, and gazed at her with an earnest expression. “My dear, I must apologize for Niall’s behavior.”

“Oh, no, you don’t have to.” This was
so
embarrassing. She couldn’t very well say, “But I liked it, thank you,” could she?

“I must. Niall is . . . well, how were you to know he wasn’t to be trusted alone with you? True, I’ve let him take you walking, but I assumed that a public street was a safe venue for you to be together without my chaperonage. I’ve been so delighted by what I thought was the growing regard between you two. I thought perhaps that the affection of a good and virtuous girl would change him and make him put aside those
habits
he had acquired.” Lady Keating looked away with a little sigh.

“Habits?” What was Lady Keating talking about?

“I blame myself entirely. I should never have let him wander the Continent without a proper guardian to keep rein on him. It was a disastrous decision.”

Now she was totally mystified. “I don’t understand. I thought that . . . his studies abroad . . . he always mentioned companions—”

“Oh, yes. His studies.” Lady Keating gave a bitter little laugh and half turned away from Pen. “Indeed, he had companions. Companions of the worst possible sort for a wealthy, impressionable, lonely young man. Oh, how can I explain to an innocent, gently bred girl like you? I’m afraid that when Niall left Ireland, he also left behind his restraint and judgment and became . . .” She shook her head. “I can’t say it. It cost a great deal of money to hush up the worst of it, though. Thank God the police closed down that hideous club in Paris. That was a near thing, keeping his name out of the papers. The
young women in Rome and Berlin were safely confined, I heard, but I hope the payments will be enough to keep them safely in their own countries . . . and that no other women show up on my doorstep with unexpected grandchildren. And then his health—the doctors assured me after his last examination that the disease had been caught in time and that his need for the absinthe was finally under control, but I still worry.”

Pen stared at her averted profile. Women. Payments. Disease. “Are you saying that Niall—”

“I had hoped never to have to admit any of this to another soul, least of all to you, my dear girl. You two seemed so fond of each other. I thought, ‘Ah, now he has seen what true love is, not just lust and depraved sensation.’ I had hoped that he had seen the errors of his ways, that he would treat you with the honor and respect that you deserve. . . . That in falling in love with you, he would reform.” A tear fell on the tan kid glove in her lap, spotting the leather. She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “I am so sorry. So very, very sorry.”

Pen sat still as a peculiar numbness crept over her. This was impossible. Could she have heard Lady Keating correctly? Had Niall spent his years on the Continent in a drunken round of debauchery?

“He is still my son—my only son—and I love him. I had so hoped you would be his salvation. There is no one I would rather have for a daughter-in-law.” Lady Keating squeezed her hand, and another tear trickled down her cheek.

Niall, a profligate? A rake? A drunk and a lecher? How could it be? She’d never had the least hint that he was anything but what he appeared to be: a handsome, educated, charming young man.

But she knew how Lady Keating adored her son. She could never
say any of those things about him—those horrid things—if they weren’t true.

Now everything began to make sense: Lady Keating’s eagerness to promote their friendship and her anxious hovering over them. Then, in a rush of words and pictures, memories of Niall assailed her . . . memories that now seemed two-sided: the compliments, the hand holding the night of the dinner party, Doireann’s hints about Niall’s past, his dancing the entire evening with Charlotte Enniskean . . . had it all been just a game? A more subtle continuation of his sordid past?

“It—it can’t be,” she whispered.

Lady Keating finally met her eyes. “My poor darling, I’m afraid it is.”

“But . . . he loves me! I know he does.” As she looked at Lady Keating’s pale face, it blurred in a haze of unshed tears.

She sighed and shook her head. “Not in the way that he should. You are very attractive, my dear. I fear that his attentions to you were inspired more by the thought of a challenge than any finer emotion.”

“A challenge? To what?”

“Your virtue, of course.”

Her virtue. Pen buried her face in her hands, hardly noticing Lady Keating’s arm around her shoulders or her murmured words of comfort. Was that all it had been? An elaborate attempt to seduce her? Why her? Why not Charlotte Enniskean or any other woman in town? Why did it have to be her?

“I loved him,” she muttered. “I actually told him I loved him.”

“It is very hard not to love him. He is worthy in so many ways—handsome, knowledgeable, polished. I have not yet given up hope
that he might be reformed someday. It is so sad. I had hoped you would be the one to help reform him—”