Betraying Season by Marissa Doyle

and was reading one of Dr. Carrighar’s books when Norah knocked once more, then entered, looking pleased.
    “Miss, there’s a caller for you.” She held out a card.
    Pen took it and saw THE HON. NIALL KEATING engraved on it. A little curl of pleasure rose in her throat. “Thank you, Norah. Where is he?”
    “I offered to show him to the parlor, but he said he’d wait in the hall. Said he didn’t want to disturb Mrs. Carrighar.”
    “How is she, anyway?”
    “Still sleepin’ when I peeked in at one. Dr. Carrighar said we should let her be, if sleepin’ meant she’d suffer less.”
    “I see.” This would be the first time she and Niall would be alone together, without Lady Keating or anyone else interrupting their conversation. So tempting . . . but it would hardly be proper to invite him to stay and take tea without a chaperone.
    “I could show him into the library,” Norah suggested eagerly. “Or Mr. Michael’s study. Or even the dining room, if ye’d like. Table’s been cleared an’ all. Cook could have tea ready in a minute.”
    Pen hid a smile. Norah wasn’t going to let a possible suitor for her get away if she could help it. “It’s all right, Norah.” She hurried downstairs, wishing she’d taken a moment to check that her eyes were clear.
    Niall Keating stood at the bottom of the stairs, hat in hand, grinning up at her as she descended. His cheeks were pink and his hair tousled; evidently he had walked there.
    “Good afternoon, Miss Leland,” he said with a bow. “I believe in her note of invitation my mother said she’d send a boy around this afternoon for your answer.”
    “And you’re the boy?” Pen paused on the last step and smiled back at his impish expression.
    “I volunteered for the job,” he explained. “Little Sean has a cold, and I thought to spare him going out. And after all, I am a boy, am I not?”
    “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 blamethem—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