Page 11 of Miss Murchison’s Mistletoe Memories

Lady Harrington, a stately woman with elaborately dressed silver hair, inclined her head with reserved politeness.

“How do you do.”

Her daughter, a pretty blonde with a rather pinched expression, offered a tight smile that did not reach her eyes.

“Charmed, I’m sure.”

Sir Thomas, a solidly built gentleman of perhaps forty-five, with thinning hair and a florid complexion, bowed with considerably more enthusiasm.

“A pleasure, Miss Murchison, Miss Èibhlin. I am acquainted with Scotland, having hunted grouse there on several occasions. Magnificent country.”

“You are too kind, Sir Thomas,” Aunt Muireall replied, her Scottish accent more pronounced than usual. “Though I daresay our Scottish grouse present more of a challenge than your English birds.”

An awkward silence followed this comment. Èibhlin hastened to smooth it over.

“My aunt speaks in jest, of course. We are delighted to make your acquaintance, Sir Thomas, Lady Harrington, Miss Harrington.”

“Miss Èibhlin’s father and I have been acquainted for many years,” the Duchess explained, gesturing for them to be seated. “When he expressed his wish for her to experience London society, I was naturally eager to assist.”

“How charitable of you, Amelia,” Lady Harrington murmured, her assessing gaze travelling over Èibhlin as if cataloguing every detail of her appearance. “Scottish peers so rarely venture into society. One wonders why.”

“Perhaps because we find our own company quite sufficient,” Aunt Muireall said, her tone deceptively pleasant.

Èibhlin felt her cheeks warm with embarrassment. Before she could speak, the drawing room door opened once more, and Hartwell announced:

“His Grace, the Duke of Stonemont.”

Niall entered, immaculate in evening dress, his dark hair slightly damp, as if he had just come in from the outdoors. His presence immediately altered the atmosphere of the room, lending it a kind of charged energy that had been lacking before.

“Good evening, ladies, Sir Thomas.” He moved to his mother’s side, bending to kiss her cheek. “I apologise for my tardiness. My ride in the park took longer than anticipated.”

“You are forgiven, Niall,” the Duchess replied, though her eyes held a hint of reproach. “You know Lady Harrington and Miss Harrington, of course, and Sir Thomas. And you have already been reacquainted with Miss Èibhlin and Miss Murchison.”

The Duke’s gaze swept the room, lingering briefly on Èibhlin.

“Indeed. A pleasure to see you all.”

As he took a seat opposite her, Èibhlin felt a flutter of awareness that had nothing to do with social anxiety. He looked even more handsome than she remembered, the formal evening attire emphasising the breadth of his shoulders and the lean strength of his frame.

“We were just discussing the rarity of Scottish peers in London society,” Lady Harrington said, her tone suggesting that she found the subject vaguely amusing. “Miss Èibhlin must find our English ways quite different from what she is accustomed to.”

“Different, certainly,” Èibhlin replied carefully, “but not unpleasantly so. Stonemont House has been most welcoming.”

“I’m sure it has,” Miss Harrington said, with a smile that held a hint of condescension. “Though I imagine you miss the... what do you call them? The moors? So wild and untamed, I’m told.”

“The Scottish landscape does possess a certain majesty,” Niall interjected before Èibhlin could respond. “I have always found it invigorating. There is a purity to it that one rarely finds in more cultivated settings.”

His defence, unexpected and welcome, brought a rush of warmth to Èibhlin’s heart. She caught his eye across the room and offered a small, grateful smile.

“You spent time in Scotland as a boy, did you not, Your Grace?” Sir Thomas asked, helping himself to a glass of sherry from the tray a footman presented.

“At Greenfell Holt, yes. Our estate neighbours Viscount Felldale’s.” Niall accepted his own glass with a nod of thanks. “Miss Èibhlin and I were acquainted as children.”

“How charming,” Lady Harrington murmured, her gaze sharpening with interest as it moved between them. “Childhood friendships can be so... formative.”

“Indeed, they can,” the Duchess said, with a meaningful glance at her son. “Though of course, as one matures, one’s circle naturally expands to include more... suitable companions.”

The subtle barb was not lost on Èibhlin. She kept her expression carefully neutral, though inwardly she felt a sting of hurt. The Duchess’ message was clear - whatever friendship had existed between Èibhlin and Niall belonged firmly in the past.