Page 22 of Miss Murchison’s Mistletoe Memories

Indeed, Lord Gregory was already approaching, his expression one of calculated charm. Èibhlin suppressed a sigh as she curtsied to Niall.

“Thank you, Your Grace. It was most enjoyable.”

As Niall withdrew and Lord Gregory claimed her hand for the next dance, Èibhlin could not help but feel that something precious had slipped away — the brief moment of connection now replaced by the formal rituals of society.

The remainder of the evening passed in a blur of introductions, dances, and careful conversation. Lord Gregory proved to be a competent dancer, but a tedious partner, his conversation consisting primarily of thinly veiled boasts about his social connections and his father’s estates. Sir Thomas Thornfield claimed the third dance, his manner as effusive as ever, his attention flattering but slightly overwhelming.

Through it all, Èibhlin maintained her composure, smiling and conversing as expected, while inwardly longing for the simple honesty of her brief exchange with Niall. She was acutely aware of his presence throughout the evening, though their paths rarely crossed after that first dance. Occasionally she would catch him watching her, his expression unreadable, before he turned away to engage with other guests.

When at last the evening drew to a close, Èibhlin felt a profound weariness that had nothing to do with physical exertion.

The constant vigilance required to navigate London society — to speak correctly, to respond appropriately, to maintain the proper degree of animation without appearing either dull or overly enthusiastic — was exhausting in a way that long walks across the Scottish moors never had been.

In the carriage returning to Stonemont House, Aunt Muireall wasted no time in delivering her assessment of the evening’s eligible gentlemen.

“Lord Gregory is entirely too pleased with himself,” she declared, adjusting her shawl with sharp movements. “All that talk of his father’s estates and his connections at Court — as if you should be impressed by such things! And those affected mannerisms! The way he drawls his words as if it pains him to speak at normal speed. Most irritating.”

“He was merely making conversation, Aunt Muireall,” Èibhlin replied wearily, though she privately agreed with the assessment.

“And Sir Thomas,” her aunt continued, undeterred. “Hovering about you all evening like a bee around a flower. Did you notice how he kept finding reasons to touch your hand or arm? Most improper. And at his age! He must be at least forty-five.”

“Sir Thomas is a respected member of society,” the Duchess interjected coolly. “His attention to Miss Èibhlin is a compliment, not an imposition.”

“It may not be an imposition to you, Your Grace, but I noticed my niece growing increasingly uncomfortable with his familiarity,” Aunt Muireall retorted. “There is such a thing as too much attention, particularly from a gentleman of his years.”

Èibhlin intervened to stave off the risk of open hostility.

“I found all of the gentlemen most courteous,” she said diplomatically. “Though I confess that the evening was rather overwhelming. So many new faces and names to remember.”

“You acquitted yourself admirably,” the Duchess said, her tone softening slightly. “Lady Harrington was most impressed with your deportment, and several other ladies commented favourably on your modest yet engaging manner.”

“High praise indeed,” Aunt Muireall muttered, though her expression suggested that she found such approval suspect. “And what of the Duke? He danced with you, then seemed to avoid your company for the remainder of the evening.”

The Duchess’ expression sharpened.

“My son has many social obligations at such gatherings. He cannot devote himself exclusively to any one guest, however... charming... they might be.”

The warning in her tone was unmistakable. Èibhlin felt a chill settle in her chest, recognising once again the gulf that separated her from Niall — not just in terms of rank, but in the Duchess’ clear determination to prevent any deeper connection between them.

“Of course not,” she replied quietly. “The Duke was most courteous to dance with me at all, given his position.”

“Hmph,” Aunt Muireall sniffed. “In my day, a gentleman who invited a young lady to dance might at least have made some effort at conversation afterwards. But perhaps modern manners are different.”

The Duchess opened her mouth, presumably to deliver a sharp retort, but was prevented from doing so by their arrival at Stonemont House.

As they descended from the carriage, Èibhlin glanced up at the imposing facade, wondering if Niall had returned yet — and if so, what he had thought of their brief dance together.

Had it meant anything to him beyond social obligation?

Had he felt, as she had, that momentary connection, that sense of recognition that transcended the formal constraints of their interaction?

Or was she simply another duty to be fulfilled, another obligation of his position as Duke of Stonemont?

As Lucy helped her prepare for bed later, removing pins from her elaborate coiffure and brushing out her hair, Èibhlin found herself mentally replaying every moment of their dance, every brief exchange, searching for some clue to his true feelings. His smile when she had mentioned their childhood dancing lessons, the warmth in his eyes when he had complimented her skill — surely these suggested something beyond mere courtesy?

Yet he had maintained his distance for the remainder of the evening, dancing with other young ladies, conversing with various guests, every inch the dutiful Duke fulfilling his social obligations.

Only occasionally had she caught him watching her, his expression giving nothing away before he turned his attention elsewhere.

“You look tired, Miss,” Lucy remarked, as she set the brush down. “Was the evening not to your liking?”

Èibhlin sighed, meeting her maid’s concerned gaze in the mirror.

“It was pleasant enough, Lucy. Just... complicated.”

“Society always is, Miss,” Lucy replied sagely. “Especially when there’s gentlemen involved.”

“Indeed,” Èibhlin agreed, with a small smile. “Especially then.”

As she slipped beneath the covers a short while later, her thoughts returned to Niall — to the brief, tantalising moments when the formal Duke seemed to recede, allowing glimpses of the boy she had known. If only they could speak freely, without the constant scrutiny of the Duchess and the constraints of society. If only she could know his true thoughts, his true feelings.

But such wishes were futile. They moved in different worlds now, their paths crossing only through the artificial constructs of social gatherings and formal interactions. Whatever connection they had shared as children — whatever connection might still exist between them — was buried beneath layers of duty, expectation, and propriety.

Yet as sleep claimed her, Èibhlin found herself dreaming not of Lord Gregory’s fashionable drawl or Sir Thomas’ effusive compliments, but of stormy blue eyes that seemed to see beyond her careful composure to the woman beneath.