Page 6 of Miss Murchison’s Mistletoe Memories

The Duke moved to the sideboard, his movements fluid and controlled.

“Was she indeed? I confess that those summers seem a lifetime ago.”

Èibhlin’s heart sank a little at his casual dismissal.

“They were happy times,” she said, unable to keep a note of wistfulness from her voice. “I still recall the day that you taught me to skip stones across the loch.”

He paused, glass in hand, and for a moment his composure slipped.

“You had quite the competitive spirit, as I recall. You were determined to outdo me, though your arm was half the length of mine.”

A flush of pleasure warmed her cheeks.

“And I did outdo you, eventually. Five skips to your four.”

“Only because I allowed it,” he replied, the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

The Duchess cleared her throat.

“How... charming. I had no idea that you two were so well acquainted.”

“Oh, it was nothing of significance,” Aunt Muireall interjected. “Merely the usual country pursuits. Children will amuse themselves however they can in such isolated places.”

“Indeed,” the Duke said, his brief moment of warmth fading as quickly as it had appeared. He took a sip of sherry, his expression once more unreadable. “Though I did find Scotland’s wilder aspects rather refreshing after the constraints of London.”

Èibhlin sensed a deeper meaning behind his words, a longing perhaps, for the freedom he had once known. But before she could pursue the thought, Hartwell returned to announce that dinner was served.

“Excellent,” the Duchess said, rising. “Niall, will you escort Miss Èibhlin? I shall accompany Miss Murchison.”

The Duke offered his arm, and Èibhlin placed her gloved hand lightly upon it, acutely aware of his solid presence beside her. As they followed the Duchess and Aunt Muireall from the room, she could not help but marvel at the strange twist of fate that had brought them together again.

“I must confess,” he said, his voice low enough that only she could hear, “I was surprised to learn of your visit. Your father rarely ventures to London, as I recall.”

“He still avoids it whenever possible,” she replied. “But he feels that I should experience a Season, and your mother was kind enough to offer her sponsorship.”

“I see.” His tone revealed nothing of his thoughts. “And how do you find London thus far?”

“I have seen very little of it yet, Your Grace. Though Stonemont House is certainly impressive.”

He glanced down at her, a flicker of something — amusement? curiosity? — passing across his features.

“There is no need for such formality between old acquaintances, Miss Èibhlin. At least not when we are not in company.”

The intimacy of his suggestion sent a flutter through her chest.

“Then what should I call you? Surely not Niall, as I did when we were children.”

“And why not?” A shadow of his former smile appeared briefly. “Though perhaps not in my mother’s hearing. She has very definite ideas about proper address.”

Èibhlin glanced ahead to where the Duchess walked with her aunt, their postures stiff, their conversation clearly forced.

“Yes, I had rather gathered that impression.”

They entered the dining room, a magnificent space dominated by a long mahogany table set with gleaming silver and crystal. Candles burned in ornate silver candelabra, casting a warm glow over the rich crimson wallpaper. A footman moved forward to pull out Èibhlin’s chair, and she reluctantly released the Duke’s arm.

As they settled into their places — the Duke at the head of the table, the Duchess at the foot, with Èibhlin and Aunt Muireall on either side — Èibhlin felt the weight of the Duchess’ scrutiny. There was something calculating in the older woman’s gaze, as if she were assessing a potential threat.

“I understand from your father’s letter that you are quite accomplished, Miss Èibhlin,” the Duchess said as the first course was served. “He mentioned your proficiency in music and languages.”