Page 50 of Miss Murchison’s Mistletoe Memories

Lord Gregory stood near the orchestra, his face set in lines of barely suppressed rage as he conversed with the Earl of Codhampton, his father. The older man’s expression suggested that he was delivering a stern reprimand, though whether for his son’s failure to secure Èibhlin’s attention or for some other transgression, Niall could not determine.

Lady Westmoreland, matriarch and arbiter of social acceptability, watched Niall’s return with narrowed eyes, her fan tapping a restless rhythm against her palm. Beside her, the Countess of Blackwood leaned close to whisper some observation that made both women glance towards the door through which Èibhlin had disappeared.

Niall moved through the room with careful composure, engaging in brief conversations, ensuring that the musicians continued their program, directing servants to replenish depleted refreshments.

He performed these duties with mechanical precision while his thoughts remained fixed on Èibhlin — on the softness of her lips beneath his, on her response which had confirmed that his feelings were not unrequited, on the flush which had coloured her cheeks as they were discovered.

He had compromised her. Whatever his intentions, whatever genuine feeling had prompted his actions, the fact remained that he had placed her in an untenable position. London society would forgive much from a Duke, but a young woman in Èibhlin’s position had no such latitude. The whispers already circulating would damage her reputation, perhaps irreparably.

The thought brought a cold weight of responsibility to sit alongside the lingering warmth of their shared moment. He had acted from feeling rather than calculation, allowing desire to override duty for perhaps the first time since inheriting his title. Now he would need to consider the consequences not just for himself, but for Èibhlin.

His mother approached as he concluded a conversation with an elderly Viscount, her expression composed, though her eyes retained their earlier frost.

“A word, if you please, Stonemont,” she said, her voice pitched for his ears alone. “In the library.”

“Of course, Mother,” he replied, matching her controlled tone. “Though perhaps it might wait until our guests have departed? The hour grows late.”

“It cannot wait,” she stated flatly. “Five minutes only, but we must speak now.”

Without waiting for his response, she turned and moved with elegant efficiency towards the door, clearly expecting him to follow. Niall did so, maintaining the appearance of casual conversation as they left the ballroom together, though he was acutely aware of the speculative glances that followed their departure.

The library was blessedly empty, the fire banked to glowing embers that cast long shadows across the book-lined walls.

The Duchess closed the door firmly behind them, then turned to face her son with an expression he had not seen since childhood — a combination of anger, disappointment, and genuine concern that struck him more forcefully than outright fury would have done.

“Have you taken leave of your senses?” she demanded, dispensing with preamble. “A public display with a young woman barely introduced to society, a guest under our own roof, witnessed by half the ton?”

Niall met her gaze steadily.

“It was not planned, Mother. The moment simply... occurred.”

“Moments do not simply occur, Niall,” she retorted, moving to stand before the fireplace. “They are created through choice and action. You chose to lead Miss Èibhlin away from the ballroom, chose to pause beneath the mistletoe, chose to kiss her in a manner that transcended any acceptable interpretation of holiday tradition.”

Her assessment was accurate, though it reduced to cold calculation what had been a spontaneous expression of feeling.

Niall found himself unable to deny the charges, yet equally unable to regret the actions that had prompted them.

“I have compromised her,” he acknowledged, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. “That was not my intention.”

“Intent matters little when measured against consequence,” the Duchess replied, her voice softening slightly. “Miss Èibhlin’s reputation has been placed in jeopardy by your actions. Lord Gregory has already expressed his outrage to the Earl, who in turn has made his displeasure known to me. Lady Westmoreland is scandalised, and by tomorrow, the story will have spread throughout London.”

Niall moved to the window, gazing out at the garden where lanterns still glowed among the frosted trees.

“I will make amends,” he said quietly. “Whatever is necessary to protect Miss Èibhlin from the consequences of my impulsivity.”

“Amends?” His mother’s laugh held no humour. “What form do you imagine these amends might take, Niall? A public apology? A withdrawal from her company? Or perhaps...” She paused, studying him with suddenly sharpened attention. “Perhaps you entertain a different notion entirely?”

The question hung in the air between them, its implications clear. Niall turned to face his mother directly, unwilling to dissemble on a matter of such importance.

“My feelings for Miss Èibhlin are genuine,” he stated simply. “They have developed gradually since her arrival and were confirmed beyond doubt this evening.”

The Duchess closed her eyes briefly, as if pained by this confirmation of her suspicions.

“You cannot be serious. She is the daughter of a minor Scottish peer, with modest fortune and provincial connections. The Duke of Stonemont requires a wife who brings advantages of rank, wealth, and influence to the marriage. These are not merely social considerations, Niall, but practical ones that affect the future of the Dukedom itself.”

“I am well aware of what the Dukedom requires,” Niall replied, a note of steel entering his voice. “I have shaped every decision, every action according to those requirements since inheriting the title. But in this one matter, I find myself unwilling to subordinate personal happiness to dynastic advantage.”

“Personal happiness,” the Duchess echoed, her tone suggesting that she found the concept both foreign and slightly suspect. “A fleeting emotion, easily confused with infatuation or physical attraction. Hardly a solid foundation for a marriage that must endure decades.”