Page 14 of Miss Murchison’s Mistletoe Memories

“A generous gesture. I’m sure that it will be a success.”

“Miss Èibhlin has kindly agreed to assist with the decorations,” the Duchess continued. “Perhaps you might spare some time from your... pressing duties... to lend your support as well?”

There was a note of challenge in her voice that Èibhlin did not quite understand. Niall inclined his head slightly.

“Of course, Mother. I would be happy to assist.”

Aunt Muireall sniffed audibly.

“Such a fuss for a simple Ball. In Scotland, we manage to celebrate Christmas without quite so much elaborate preparation.”

“How fortunate for Scotland,” the Duchess murmured, her smile not reaching her eyes. “Here in London, however, standards are somewhat different. The Ball will be an important occasion for Miss Èibhlin — her first real introduction to society. I should think that you would appreciate the opportunity which it presents.”

Aunt Muireall opened her mouth, presumably to deliver a sharp retort, but Èibhlin cut in quickly.

“I am most grateful for your efforts on my behalf, Your Grace. And I look forward to learning about London customs during the preparations.”

The Duchess’ expression softened slightly.

“You are most welcome, my dear. Now, if you will excuse me, I must speak with Mrs Graves about the arrangements.”

As she swept from the room, Aunt Muireall muttered something under her breath about ‘English ostentation’ and returned to her embroidery with renewed vigour. Niall lingered a moment, his gaze meeting Èibhlin’s across the room.

“I hope that you are finding London to your liking, Miss Èibhlin,” he said, his voice carrying a warmth which had been absent in his exchange with his mother.

“Very much so, Your Grace,” she replied, conscious of her aunt’s watchful presence. “Though I confess that I miss the open spaces of Scotland at times.”

“As do I,” he said quietly.

Then, with a slight bow, he withdrew, leaving Èibhlin with the curious sense that something important had passed between them — something beyond the simple exchange of pleasantries.

Aunt Muireall looked up from her embroidery, her expression shrewd.

“The Duke seems unusually interested in your comfort, considering his busy schedule.”

“He is merely being polite, Aunt Muireall,” Èibhlin replied, though her heart beat a little faster at the observation. “We were childhood acquaintances, after all.”

“Hmph.” Her aunt returned to her needlework. “Well, do not allow his courtesy to give you ideas. The Duchess has made it quite clear where her ambitions for you lie — with Sir Thomas Thornfield and his convenient fortune, or perhaps with another gentleman of similar nature. A Duke, even one with Scottish connections, is quite beyond your reach.”

The blunt assessment stung, though Èibhlin knew it to be true.

“I have no illusions, Aunt. I am here to observe London society, not to pursue impossible connections.”

Yet, as she returned to her letter, she could not help but remember the warmth in Niall’s eyes when he had complimented her playing, or the brief brush of his hand against hers in the library. Impossible or not, something was growing between them — something that neither the Duchess’ ambitions nor her aunt’s pragmatism could entirely suppress.

The Ball, with its decorations and festivities, would bring them into closer contact. And in that contact, who knew what might ignite? She wasn’t generally prone to impractical dreaming, but in this case, she was discovering that improbable dreams were hard to suppress.

*****

Niall stared at the correspondence spread across his desk, the words blurring before his eyes. He had been sitting in the same position for nearly an hour, yet had accomplished nothing beyond unsealing two letters and reading perhaps half of one. His thoughts kept drifting, like a compass needle that refused to settle, always returning to the same point: Èibhlin.

The sound of voices in the entrance hall below drew him to the window. His mother’s carriage waited at the front steps, a footman standing at attention beside the open door.

A moment later, his mother emerged, followed by Èibhlin and her aunt.

The Duchess was explaining something, her hands moving in elegant emphasis, while Miss Murchison looked on with barely concealed disdain. Èibhlin nodded attentively, her rich auburn hair catching the weak winter sunlight.

She looked up suddenly, as if sensing his gaze, and for a brief moment their eyes met across the distance. Niall felt a jolt of connection, powerful enough to make him step back from the window, unsettled by his own reaction.