Page 55 of Miss Murchison’s Mistletoe Memories

Chapter Sixteen

The morning after the Ball, Niall sat in his study reviewing correspondence that had accumulated during the preparations for the festivities. Though he appeared focused on the papers before him, his thoughts continually strayed to Èibhlin — to the kiss that they had shared beneath the mistletoe, to her aunt’s swift removal of her from the scene, to the whispers that had followed him throughout the remainder of the evening.

He had not seen her since. His mother had ensured that their paths did not cross, arranging breakfast at different times and suggesting, with deceptive casualness, that he might wish to ride out early to clear his head after the late night.

A discreet knock at the door interrupted his distracted musings.

“Enter,” he called, expecting his secretary with more correspondence.

Instead, Hartwell appeared, his dignified bearing betraying only the slightest hint of concern.

“Lord Gregory Armistead is requesting a private word with Your Grace. He is most... insistent.”

Niall set down his pen, unsurprised by this development, yet still disinclined to welcome it.

“Did he indicate the nature of his business?”

“He did not, Your Grace, though he mentioned it was a matter of some urgency and delicacy.”

Of course it was.

The confrontation had been inevitable from the moment that Niall had intervened beneath the mistletoe, then compounded the offence with his own impulsive actions. Now a further reckoning had arrived, as he had known it must.

“Show him in, Hartwell. And perhaps ensure that we are not disturbed for the next quarter hour.”

“Very good, Your Grace.” The butler withdrew, returning moments later to announce the visitor. “Lord Gregory Armistead.”

Lord Gregory entered with the studied casualness of a man attempting to disguise anger beneath a veneer of social polish. His formal morning attire suggested that he had come directly from other calls, perhaps gathering intelligence about the previous night’s events from mutual acquaintances.

“Your Grace,” he said, executing a bow which was correct in form if somewhat lacking in depth. “I appreciate your willingness to receive me without prior appointment.”

“Lord Gregory,” Niall acknowledged, not rising from behind his desk. “What brings you to Stonemont House so early after last night’s festivities?”

The younger man’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

“I believe that you know the answer to that question, Your Grace. Or shall we pretend that your... behaviour... last evening requires no explanation?”

“I was not aware that I owed you explanations for my actions in my own home, Lord Gregory,” Niall replied, his tone deliberately mild, though his posture had subtly shifted to one of greater alertness. “But please, continue.”

Lord Gregory moved to stand before the desk, his hands clasped behind his back in a posture which suggested barely restrained emotion.

“Your intervention with Miss Èibhlin was both unnecessary and inappropriate. She and I were merely observing a harmless holiday tradition when you chose to interrupt in a manner that could only be interpreted as deliberately provocative.”

“Harmless?” Niall raised an eyebrow. “Miss Èibhlin appeared distinctly uncomfortable with your attentions, Lord Gregory. As her host, I felt obligated to provide an alternative.”

“An alternative that included compromising her reputation before half of London society?” Lord Gregory’s carefully maintained composure slipped, revealing the anger beneath. “A curious form of protection, Your Grace, that leaves a young lady’s standing in tatters.”

The barb struck home, touching as it did on Niall’s own deepest regret about the previous night’s events. Yet he kept his expression neutral, unwilling to reveal vulnerability to the younger man.

“Miss Èibhlin’s reputation remains intact among those whose opinions matter,” he said evenly. “If others choose to indulge in gossip, that reflects more on their character than on hers.”

“How convenient a perspective,” Lord Gregory observed, his tone sharpening. “Though I suspect that Miss Èibhlin may find it cold comfort as invitations dwindle and drawing rooms close their doors to her. Unless, of course, you intend to offer a more... substantial... form of protection?”

The question hung in the air between them, its implications unmistakable. Niall studied the younger man with new attention, noting the calculation beneath the apparent concern.

“And if I do?” he asked quietly. “What then becomes of your interest in Miss Èibhlin?”

Lord Gregory’s expression flickered, his surprise quickly masked by renewed composure.