Page 53 of Miss Murchison’s Mistletoe Memories

“He need not know,” the Duchess interjected smoothly. “Not yet, at least. If we manage this situation with appropriate discretion, perhaps the damage can be contained.”

Èibhlin looked between the two older women, struck by the strange alliance that had formed between them.

Despite their many differences, they had found common cause in their disapproval of her actions.

“I understand that my behaviour was unconventional,” she began carefully, “but I do not believe—”

“Unconventional?” Aunt Muireall’s voice rose sharply. “It was scandalous! Allowing the Duke to kiss you in so public a manner, with complete disregard for propriety or reputation! You have placed yourself in an impossible position, Èibhlin. What respectable gentleman would consider offering for you now?”

The question hung in the air, its answer so obvious that it need not be stated aloud. Èibhlin felt a flush of both embarrassment and defiance rise to her cheeks.

“I did not ‘allow’ anything, Aunt Muireall,” she said, her voice steadier than she had expected. “What occurred was mutual, a moment of genuine feeling that perhaps transcended social convention but was not in any way improper in its intent.”

“Intent matters little in such situations,” the Duchess observed, echoing almost exactly what she had said to Niall the night before. “Society judges by appearance, and the appearance was that of a young lady permitting liberties far beyond what custom allows, even beneath the mistletoe.”

“Several ladies have already sent notes this morning, making their excuses for previously accepted invitations,” Aunt Muireall added, her expression grim. “Your reputation has been compromised, Èibhlin. The damage may be irreparable.”

“Unless,” the Duchess said thoughtfully, “we take immediate steps to counter the impression created last night.”

Èibhlin glanced at her sharply, wary of whatever strategy the Duchess might be contemplating.

“What sort of steps, Your Grace?”

“A period of retirement from society would be advisable,” the Duchess replied, her tone suggesting that this was a generous concession rather than a punishment. “Perhaps a visit to my sister in Bath? The waters there are said to be most beneficial for the nerves, and by the time you return, the worst of the gossip will have subsided.”

“And in the meantime,” Aunt Muireall added, with surprising eagerness, “we might cultivate Lord Gregory’s continued interest. He was understandably upset by last night’s... incident... but his father assures me that a sincere apology might yet salvage the connection.”

Èibhlin stared at her aunt in disbelief.

“You cannot be serious? After his behaviour last night, forcing me towards the mistletoe despite my clear reluctance—”

“Forcing?” The Duchess’ eyebrows rose sceptically. “Lord Gregory merely observed a charming tradition. It was my son’s intervention, and subsequent actions, that transformed a harmless seasonal custom into a source of scandal.”

“His subsequent actions were prompted by my clear distress at Lord Gregory’s unwelcome attentions,” Èibhlin countered, unable to contain her frustration any longer. “Lord Gregory has shown himself to be a man who values his own consequence above all else, who views me as a curiosity to be acquired, rather than a person to be respected. I could never consider such a man as a potential husband, regardless of his rank or fortune.”

Aunt Muireall drew in a sharp breath, her expression scandalised.

“Listen to yourself, Èibhlin! Such pride, such presumption! Lord Gregory is the son of an Earl, heir to extensive estates and ancient lineage. What right have you to dismiss him so casually?”

“The same right any woman has to determine her own future happiness,” Èibhlin replied, rising from her chair in a surge of emotion she could no longer suppress. “I will not be bartered or manoeuvred into a connection that brings me nothing but misery, simply because it appears advantageous from the outside.”

The words — so similar to those that Niall had spoken to his mother the night before — hung in the air between them. The Duchess studied Èibhlin with new attention, her expression thoughtful rather than angry.

“You speak as if you believe another option exists,” she said finally, her tone neutral. “As if the Duke’s actions last night signified more than a momentary impulse or holiday high spirits.”

Èibhlin met the Duchess’ gaze directly, unwilling to dissemble on a matter of such importance.

“I believe that the Duke’s actions reflected genuine feeling, Your Grace. As did my response.”

Aunt Muireall made a sound of distress, rising to pace the room in agitated movements.

“This is worse than I had feared. You have developed romantic notions about the Duke of Stonemont? Have you taken leave of your senses entirely, Èibhlin? He is far beyond your reach, regardless of what liberties he may have taken beneath the mistletoe.”

“Liberties that were freely exchanged, not taken,” Èibhlin corrected quietly, though she knew that her aunt was unlikely to acknowledge the distinction.

“My son,” the Duchess said, her voice carrying a note of finality, “will marry according to the requirements of his position. Whatever... sentiment... he may temporarily feel towards you, his duty to the Dukedom must ultimately prevail. To encourage or return his attention is to court inevitable disappointment, Miss Èibhlin.”

The return to formal address emphasised the distance that the Duchess was placing between them — the boundary being drawn that Èibhlin had dared to cross. Yet despite the logic of the Duchess’ assessment, despite the practical wisdom that it contained, Èibhlin found herself unable to accept it as the final word on the matter.