Page 41 of Miss Murchison’s Mistletoe Memories

The memory sent a warmth through her that heated her far more than the fire blazing in the grate.

“You seem distracted, Miss Èibhlin,” the Duchess observed, her keen gaze missing nothing. “Are you unwell?”

“Merely a little tired, Your Grace,” Èibhlin replied, forcing her attention back to the present. “The preparations have been most comprehensive.”

“Indeed they have,” the Duchess agreed, with the air of one who has reached a satisfactory conclusion. “And now they are essentially complete, thanks in no small part to your assistance. The Ball will be everything we could wish for, I have no doubt.”

As the Duchess swept from the room, leaving Èibhlin alone with her thoughts, those words lingered in the air like a prediction — or perhaps a warning.

The Ball would indeed be a significant event, not just for the Stonemont household or for Èibhlin’s introduction to society, but for the resolution of the increasingly complex emotions that had taken root in her heart.

In just seven days, she would, most likely, stand beneath the mistletoe with whichever gentleman claimed her hand for each dance, would suffer the brush of their lips to her cheek, and perhaps their attempts to claim more than that, watched by the Duchess, by Aunt Muireall, and — most significantly of all — by Niall himself.

Whatever happened that night would set the course for the remainder of her stay in London, perhaps for her future beyond it.

The thought should have filled her with anxiety, yet as she gazed at the mistletoe hanging in the archway, illuminated by candlelight against the gathering darkness, Èibhlin felt an unexpected sense of anticipation.

For good or ill, the Ball would bring clarity — and clarity, even if painful, was preferable to the sweet, uncertain limbo in which she now existed.

*****

Niall’s conversation with his mother had haunted him all day.

She had a definite talent for asking unanswerable questions, and those questions still had no good answers in his thoughts.

He sipped the brandy he held, seated at the desk in his study, and tried, for what must have been at least the tenth time that day, to find those answers.

Just what had prompted his sudden interest in the foundations of marital happiness?

And… why were Èibhlin’s preferences when it came to marriage of such interest to him?

He did not know why, in either case, his thoughts had suddenly become fixed on the more emotional aspects of marriage alliances, but the fact that he was thinking about such things, in a way that was far removed from purely practical, was extremely alarming.

It made him contemplate things that he really wasn’t ready to admit to, even to himself.