Page 8 of Miss Murchison’s Mistletoe Memories

“Niall,” the Duchess chided, though her eyes glinted with something like satisfaction. “Lord Gregory is the son of the Earl of Codhampton. His interest is a compliment to Miss Èibhlin.”

“Is it?” the Duke murmured, his gaze returning to Èibhlin with an intensity that made her breath catch. “I suppose that depends on the nature of his interest.”

The undercurrent of tension between mother and son was palpable. Èibhlin took another sip of wine, uncertain how to respond to the discussion of a man she had never met.

“I am grateful for any introductions Her Grace sees fit to make,” she said finally, choosing her words with care. “Though I have come to London primarily to learn and observe, not to seek particular attention.”

“A modest ambition,” the Duke said, “though I suspect that you will receive attention regardless of whether you seek it.”

Was that a compliment? Èibhlin felt heat rise to her cheeks again. The Duke’s expression revealed nothing, but she thought that she detected a certain warmth in his eyes which belied his neutral tone.

The rest of the dinner passed in more general conversation. The Duchess spoke of the upcoming Christmas festivities, including events which she planned to host. Aunt Muireall offered stilted observations about the weather and the journey from Scotland. The Duke said little, though Èibhlin was acutely aware of his gaze returning to her throughout the meal. When the final course had been cleared, the Duchess rose.

“Shall we withdraw, ladies? Niall, I trust that you will not linger too long over your port.”

“Of course not, Mother,” he replied, standing as the women prepared to leave. “Miss Murchison, Miss Èibhlin — it has been a pleasure dining with you.”

As Èibhlin followed the Duchess and her aunt from the room, she felt the Duke’s eyes upon her. She glanced back, just once, and found him watching her with an expression she could not quite decipher — something between curiosity and constraint, as if he were holding himself deliberately in check.

The drawing room seemed colder without his presence, despite the fire burning in the grate.

*****

Niall Smythe, Duke of Stonemont, watched as the ladies walked from the room, his eyes lingering on Miss Èibhlin’s slim figure. She was beautiful, without a doubt, and everything proper, but the bright cheerful girl he had known years before seemed still to be there, just beneath that polished surface. Which pleased him, far more than he supposed it should.

He had wondered, when his mother informed him of the impending visitors, what she would be like now, surprised that she hadn’t already been married off, as most girls were, well before the age of twenty.

The footman poured him a glass of port, and he sipped it, considering the subtleties of the dinner conversation just past. His mother seemed rather irritable, and intent to criticise – which was odd, given that she had agreed to sponsor the girl into society – but then, his mother was always keen to appear absolutely proper, and to exert her influence. And certainly, Miss Murchison – the aunt, that was – appeared set to challenge his mother’s opinions at every turn.

Which would likely make the coming weeks somewhat difficult, if also a little amusing, from his point of view.

He had not expected to have to spend much time with Èibhlin and her aunt, had hoped, in fact, that their presence in the house would not disrupt his life, but now that he had seen her, had felt, for an indefinable moment, a sense of connection when he had looked into Èibhlin’s eyes, he wasn’t so sure that he wanted to avoid her.

He shook his head. How whimsical of him! There was no reason to think that a person he had enjoyed the company of when they were both children would be of any interest to converse with as an adult, and, if she was anything like the majority of young women he knew, they would have no basis for interesting conversation now.

His impulsive suggestion, earlier, that she should address him as ‘Niall’ rather than anything more formal, had been born of a moment of fond recollection of that year at Greenfell Holt. It had been inappropriate, and he shifted in his seat now, a little uncomfortable about the matter.

Yet it had seemed right at the time, and he was quite sure that she would not presume. She had seemed shocked by his words – had she expected him to have forgotten her? To treat her as if they had never met, had never shared any pleasant moments together? Perhaps she had expected exactly that – after all, it was what many gentlemen in his situation would have done, standing on the importance of their position, and disregarding anything from an earlier part of their life.

As I have done, in so many ways, since I came into the title.

The thought slipped through his mind, and he frowned, unhappy with the truth of it. The weight of the responsibilities of the title, both those practical aspects, and the more intrusive social aspects, had quashed much of his natural ebullience over the last year, and he felt, mostly, a very different person from the man he had been before his father’s death.

Except, just for a few moments, today, when her presence here had caused him to remember those days at Greenfell Holt.

*****

As the Duchess and Aunt Muireall engaged in stilted conversation about the merits of various tea blends, Èibhlin’s thoughts returned to the Duke — to Niall, as he had invited her to call him in private.

He remembered her.

Not just as a vague childhood acquaintance, but in detail — her preference for Homer over Virgil, her determination to match his stone-skipping prowess. The knowledge filled her with a warm glow that had nothing to do with the sherry that the Duchess had offered upon their return to the drawing room.

Yet there was a reserve about him now, a guardedness that had not been present in the boy she had known. The weight of his title, perhaps, or simply the passage of time and the inevitable changes that it brought. Whatever the cause, she sensed that the easy camaraderie they had once shared would not be so easily recaptured.

When the Duke rejoined them some twenty minutes later, he maintained a polite distance, engaging primarily with his mother while directing only occasional remarks to Èibhlin and Aunt Muireall. If Èibhlin felt a pang of disappointment at his apparent withdrawal, she was careful not to show it.

“I fear I must excuse myself,” the Duke said after a suitable interval. “I have correspondence that requires my attention before morning.”