Page 5 of Miss Murchison’s Mistletoe Memories

“I have fond memories of Greenfell Holt,” she offered, hoping to ease the tension. “The grounds are particularly beautiful in summer.”

The Duchess turned her penetrating gaze to Èibhlin.

“Yes, I believe that you and my son were acquainted as children. Though it has been some years, has it not?”

“Eight years, Your Grace,” Èibhlin confirmed, surprised that the Duchess recalled the connection at all. “His Grace — that is, your son — was most kind to me during his visits.”

“Was he indeed?” The Duchess’ eyebrows rose fractionally. “How interesting. Niall rarely mentioned his time at Greenfell Holt, though I gather that he found the hunting excellent.”

Before Èibhlin could respond, the drawing room door opened and Hartwell appeared, his posture even more rigidly correct than before.

“His Grace, the Duke of Stonemont,” he announced.

Èibhlin’s breath caught in her throat as a tall figure entered the room. She and Aunt Muireall rose, and time seemed to slow as she took in the man before her – the broad shoulders, the confident stride, the dark hair that curled slightly at the temples.

Niall Smythe, Duke of Stonemont, was no longer the lanky youth who had shown her how to skip stones across the loch. The intervening years had transformed him into a man of imposing presence, his features now sharply defined, his stormy blue eyes holding a gravity that had not been there before. Yet beneath the changes, she could still see traces of the boy she had known — in the slight quirk of his mouth, in the way that he held his head, in the momentary flicker of recognition that passed across his face as his gaze met hers.

“Mother,” he said, crossing to the Duchess and bending to kiss her cheek. “I apologise for my tardiness. The meeting with Lord Harrington took longer than expected.”

“You are forgiven, Niall,” the Duchess replied with evident fondness. “Allow me to present our guests. The Honourable Miss Murchison and The Honourable Miss Èibhlin Murchison, daughter of Viscount Felldale.”

The Duke turned, his expression now perfectly composed.

“Miss Murchison, Miss Èibhlin.” He bowed elegantly to each in turn. “Welcome to Stonemont House. I trust that my mother has made you comfortable.”

“Most comfortable, Your Grace,” Aunt Muireall replied, her Scottish accent more pronounced than usual as she curtsied. “The Duchess has been most attentive.”

Èibhlin dipped into her own curtsey, willing her trembling legs to support her.

“Your Grace. It is a pleasure to see you again after so many years.”

For a heartbeat, their eyes met, and Èibhlin felt a jolt of connection so powerful that it nearly stole her breath. Did he remember? Did he feel it too, this strange sense of recognition that transcended time and circumstance? But the moment passed, and the Duke’s face revealed nothing beyond polite interest.

“Indeed, Miss Èibhlin. It has been some time since I visited Greenfell Holt. I trust that your father is well?”

“He is, thank you,” she replied, fighting to keep her voice steady. “He sends his regards, and his thanks for your mother’s kindness in sponsoring my introduction to society.”

“A generous gesture on your mother’s part,” Aunt Muireall added, with an emphasis that suggested that the generosity was perhaps unexpected.

If the Duke noticed the slight barb, he gave no indication.

“My mother has always been known for her generosity of spirit,” he said smoothly. “Particularly during the Christmas season. I believe that she has several entertainments planned for your benefit, Miss Èibhlin.”

The Duchess inclined her head.

“Indeed. I thought that a small dinner party next week would serve as a gentle introduction. Lord and Lady Harrington have expressed interest in meeting you, and perhaps the Countess of Blackwood and her daughter.”

“That sounds lovely, Your Grace,” Èibhlin replied, though her attention remained fixed on the Duke. He stood with such easy confidence, as if the weight of his title rested lightly on his shoulders.

Yet there was something in his bearing — a certain tension, perhaps — that suggested the mantle of responsibility was not a light thing to bear.

“Hartwell,” the Duchess said, “I believe that dinner must be nearly ready. Perhaps you might check with Mrs Graves?”

“At once, Your Grace.”

The butler bowed and withdrew.

“Niall, do pour yourself some sherry and join us,” the Duchess continued. “Miss Èibhlin was just reminiscing about her childhood acquaintance with you at Greenfell Holt.”