Page 27 of Miss Murchison’s Mistletoe Memories

Chapter Eight

The morning room at Stonemont House was bathed in weak winter sunlight, lending a golden glow to the pale-yellow walls and elegant furnishings.

Èibhlin sat near the window, ostensibly engaged in embroidery, though her needle remained motionless as she gazed out at the frost-rimed garden beyond.

Three days had passed since the Duchess’ dinner party, and she had seen little of Niall in that time — a circumstance that left her with a curious hollow feeling beneath her ribs.

“Your stitches are most uneven, Èibhlin,” Aunt Muireall observed from her seat by the fire. “I cannot imagine what has captured your attention so thoroughly in that barren garden.”

Èibhlin returned her focus to the embroidery hoop in her lap, where a half-finished spray of holly leaves showed evidence of her wandering concentration.

“I was merely thinking, Aunt Muireall. The garden has a certain stark beauty in winter, don’t you think?”

“What I think,” her aunt replied, setting aside her own needlework, “is that young ladies with matrimonial prospects should devote more attention to demonstrating their domestic accomplishments.”

Before Èibhlin could formulate a suitable response to this pointed remark, the door opened to admit Hartwell, his dignified bearing somehow more pronounced than usual.

“Miss Murchison, Miss Èibhlin Murchison,” he announced with grave formality, “Lord Gregory Armistead has called and requests the honour of your company.”

Èibhlin’s heart sank, though she maintained a composed expression. A formal morning call, following so quickly after their dinner acquaintance, suggested a marked interest that she had done nothing to encourage.

“Thank you, Hartwell. Please show Lord Gregory in.”

As the butler withdrew, Aunt Muireall set her embroidery aside with unusual haste, a look of satisfaction crossing her features.

“This is most proper,” she declared, straightening her cap with quick, precise movements. “Lord Gregory’s attention is a compliment to your standing, Èibhlin. I trust that you will receive him with appropriate gratitude.”

“I shall receive him with appropriate courtesy, Aunt,” Èibhlin replied, carefully emphasising the distinction. “Though, as I have said before, I would not wish him to form expectations based on such a brief acquaintance.”

Her aunt’s expression sharpened.

“Do not be difficult, Èibhlin. The son of an Earl does not call upon a young lady without serious intentions. It would be most unwise to discourage such an advantageous connection.”

Before their discussion could progress further, the door opened once more to admit Lord Gregory.

They both rose as he entered, moving with the languid grace that seemed to characterise his every movement, immaculately dressed in a coat of blue superfine, his cravat arranged in an intricate style that must have required considerable time and patience from his valet.

“Miss Murchison, Miss Èibhlin,” he drawled, executing a bow of perfect depth — just deep enough to show respect, not so deep as to suggest excessive deference. “How delightful to find you at home.”

“Lord Gregory,” Aunt Muireall acknowledged, with a warmth that Èibhlin found both surprising and concerning. “How kind of you to call. Please, do be seated.”

Aunt Muireall resumed her own seat, as did Èibhlin, and Lord Gregory took the chair opposite Èibhlin. She noted the calculating assessment in his gaze as it travelled over her morning dress of pale blue muslin. There was something in his expression — a kind of proprietary satisfaction — that sent a chill down her spine despite the fire’s warmth.

“I trust that I find you well this morning, Miss Èibhlin?” he inquired, his tone suggesting that he considered her health a matter of personal interest.

“Quite well, thank you, my Lord,” she replied, tidying her embroidery with careful movements. “And yourself?”

“In excellent spirits, now that I am in your charming company.” His smile held a touch of complacency, as if he were bestowing a great favour with his presence. “I must say, the memory of our conversation at dinner has lingered most pleasantly in my thoughts.”

Èibhlin recalled their dinner interaction with considerably less pleasure — his patronising remarks about her education, his endless monologues about Codhampton Park, his barely concealed dismissal of Scotland and its traditions. But social convention demanded a different response.

“You are most kind, my Lord,” she said, her tone neutral. “The Duchess’ dinner party was indeed a pleasant gathering.”

“Most pleasant,” he agreed, settling back in his chair with the ease of a man accustomed to dominating whatever space he found himself in. “Though I found the company at our end of the table particularly engaging. It is rare to encounter a young lady who combines beauty with such... unique perspectives.”

The pause before ‘unique’ suggested that he had considered, and rejected, less flattering adjectives. Èibhlin maintained her polite smile with effort.

“I’m afraid that my perspectives are shaped by a rather limited experience, my Lord. Scotland offers fewer diversions than London society.”