Page 37 of Miss Murchison’s Mistletoe Memories

It was true — Èibhlin had demonstrated, in various small ways, an independence of mind that set her apart from many young women of his acquaintance. She had not simpered or flattered, had not altered her opinions to match his own, had not engaged in the careful calculation that characterised so many interactions in London society.

It was this quality, perhaps more than any other, that he found so compelling — this authenticity that reminded him of Scotland’s bracing air after London’s smoke-filled drawing rooms.

“I wish...” he began, then stopped, aware of the impropriety of sharing such thoughts, even with Parker.

“Sir?” the valet prompted, his tone carefully neutral.

Niall sighed, running a hand through his hair again.

“I wish that circumstances were different, Parker. I wish that rank, responsibility, and social expectations did not form such impenetrable barriers between people. I wish that I had spoken today, when she was in my arms, when something might have been said which would have altered the course that we now follow.”

It was more than he had intended to reveal, yet once spoken, the words seemed to relieve some pressure within his chest, some tension that he had not fully acknowledged until this moment.

Parker, to his credit, received this confidence with the same imperturbable calm that characterised his service in all matters.

“Life seldom arranges itself according to our wishes, Your Grace,” he observed, his tone holding neither judgment nor particular sympathy. “But I have observed that courage sometimes creates opportunities where none seemed to exist before.”

With that enigmatic statement, he completed his duties, gathering the discarded clothing and moving towards the door.

“Will there be anything else required this evening, sir?”

Niall shook his head, both amused and disconcerted by his valet’s unexpected wisdom.

“No, Parker. That will be all. Good night.”

“Good night, Your Grace.”

As the door closed softly behind Parker, Niall remained at the window, his gaze returning to the moonlit garden below. Somewhere in this house, Èibhlin was preparing for sleep, perhaps thinking of their afternoon together, perhaps not.

The possibility that she might share even a fraction of his confused emotions was both tantalising and troubling.

For what could come of such feelings, even if they were mutual? His position demanded a certain kind of alliance — a marriage which would strengthen the Dukedom, enhance its connections, ensure its continuity. His mother had made no secret of her expectations in this regard, suggesting several eligible young ladies from prominent families whose bloodlines and fortunes would complement his own.

The daughter of a Scottish Viscount, however charming and intelligent, did not feature in such calculations.

And yet, as he finally turned from the window and prepared for bed, Niall could not entirely suppress the memory of Èibhlin in his arms, her face tilted up to his, her eyes wide with surprise and something else — something that had looked, in that brief moment, remarkably like recognition. As if she, too, had felt the rightness of their connection, the sense of something clicking into place after long misalignment.

It was this memory, more than any practical consideration, that followed him into sleep — the image of Èibhlin among the apple trees, mistletoe above them, her smile as bright and warming as sunlight on snow.

*****

The following day dawned bright and clear, with a crisp light dusting of snow hiding the sooty grime of London’s rooftops.

Èibhlin stared out at it as Lucy dressed her hair, but her mind was not on what she saw – for from the moment of her waking, her thoughts had been filled, as they had been in her dreams, with the memory of being held by Niall, even if only for a moment. There had been mistletoe right above them in the apple orchard yesterday, and she wished, rather desperately, that he had kissed her then, instead of just preventing her from falling.