Page 36 of Miss Murchison’s Mistletoe Memories

Niall turned from the window, running a hand through his dark hair in a gesture of uncharacteristic discomposure.

“Forgive me, Parker. My mind was elsewhere.”

“Understandable, sir,” the valet replied, with the comfortable familiarity of long service. “It has been a full day.”

“Indeed.” Niall moved to the chair before the fire, loosening his cravat with distracted fingers. “Tell me, Parker, what do you make of our Scottish guests? You have been in service long enough to form reliable judgments of character, I believe.”

Parker considered the question with appropriate gravity as he took the discarded cravat and folded it neatly.

“The Honourable Miss Murchison seems a lady of decided opinions and somewhat rigid principles, Your Grace. As for The Honourable Miss Èibhlin...” He paused, choosing his words with care. “She appears to possess both intelligence and genuine warmth — qualities not always found together, particularly among young ladies of good family.”

“A diplomatic assessment,” Niall observed, a slight smile touching his lips. “And accurate, I believe.”

The valet inclined his head in acknowledgment, continuing his work as Niall fell silent once more.

Parker had been in Niall’s service since his university days, accompanying him through the transition from heir to Duke after his father’s untimely death. In that time, he had proven himself not only an excellent valet, but also a discreet confidant when circumstances required.

“She reminds me of Scotland,” Niall said abruptly, the words emerging before he had fully formed the thought. “Not just because she is Scottish, but... there is a quality about her. An honesty, a directness beneath the social graces. Like the landscape itself — civilised on the surface, but with something wilder, more elemental, beneath.”

Parker’s hands stilled momentarily in the act of arranging Niall’s watch and signet ring on the dresser, though his expression remained carefully neutral.

“I believe that I understand, Your Grace.”

“Do you?” Niall laughed softly, without humour. “I’m not certain that I understand myself. We were acquainted as children, you know. During my visits to Greenfell Holt. She was just a girl then, all curiosity and determination. I found her rather endearing, in the way one might appreciate a spirited puppy.”

“And now, sir?”

The question, simply posed but weighted with implication, hung in the air between them. Niall rose, moving restlessly about the room as he considered his response.

“Now she is a young woman of uncommon grace and intelligence,” he said finally, his tone carefully measured. “A guest in my house. A connection from my past that has... unexpected resonance in my present.”

Parker accepted this oblique answer without comment, continuing his duties with the same quiet efficiency that had characterised his service for years.

But after a moment, he spoke again, his voice holding a note of careful consideration.

“If I might make an observation, Your Grace — sometimes the most valuable connections are those that bridge different parts of our lives. They provide... perspective.”

Niall glanced at his valet, surprised by this philosophical turn.

“A thoughtful point, Parker. Though perspective is not always sufficient when faced with practical realities.”

“Indeed not, sir,” Parker agreed, his tone neutral once more. “Reality must always be acknowledged.”

And there lay the crux of the matter, Niall thought, as he moved back to the window.

Reality — the reality of his position as Duke of Stonemont, with all of its attendant responsibilities and expectations. The reality of Èibhlin’s status as a visitor, the daughter of a minor Scottish peer, a young woman whose future would inevitably lead her away from London, away from him.

The reality of his mother’s clear preference for Lord Gregory as a suitor for Èibhlin, a preference which, while irritating to Niall personally, made perfect sense from a dynastic perspective. Lord Gregory was the son of an Earl, heir to substantial estates, a young man whose rank and fortune made him a more than suitable match for Èibhlin.

And yet...

“I held her today,” Niall said quietly, the admission emerging almost involuntarily. “She stumbled in the orchard at Wildwood Manor, and I caught her. For just a moment, she was in my arms, and it felt... it felt right, Parker. As if something long misaligned had suddenly found its proper place.” He shook his head, annoyed at his own sentimentality. Such fanciful thoughts were unworthy of a man in his position, with his responsibilities. “Absurd, of course. A momentary impression, nothing more.”

Parker, wise in the ways of long service, made no direct comment on this revelation.

Instead, he said simply, “Miss Èibhlin seems a young lady of considerable character, Your Grace. One suspects that she forms her own judgments rather than merely accepting those of others.”

The observation, apparently casual, yet precisely targeted, struck Niall with unexpected force.