Page 38 of Miss Murchison’s Mistletoe Memories

Chapter Eleven

Niall stood by the window in his mother’s morning room, watching servants string lanterns among the bare trees in the garden. The household had been transformed into a hive of activity — footmen carrying evergreen boughs, holly, and rolls of fabric for elegant drapes, maids polishing silver and crystal, and Mrs Graves directing it all with military precision.

“Lord Gregory has confirmed his attendance,” the Duchess remarked, sorting through correspondence at her writing desk. “He expressed particular interest in securing Miss Èibhlin’s hand for the first dance.”

Niall turned, his expression carefully neutral.

“Did he indeed? And has Miss Èibhlin agreed to this arrangement?”

“It is understood,” his mother replied, setting down her pen. “Lord Gregory has been most attentive since their introduction, and a young lady in Miss Èibhlin’s position would be foolish to discourage such interest.”

“Her position?” Niall raised an eyebrow. “You speak as if she were in desperate circumstances, Mother. She is the daughter and heir of a Viscount.”

“A Scottish Viscount with modest estates,” the Duchess corrected. “Hardly comparable to the Codhampton Earldom. Lord Gregory represents precisely the sort of connection that would benefit her standing in society.”

Niall felt his jaw tighten.

“And what of her preferences? Has she expressed enthusiasm for Lord Gregory’s company?”

The Duchess studied her son with narrowed eyes.

“You seem remarkably concerned about Miss Èibhlin’s feelings on the matter. May I ask why our Scottish guest’s preferences are of such interest to you?”

The directness of the question caught him off guard. He wasn’t sure that he had an answer to that – at least not one that he could give his mother. Niall moved to the fireplace, buying time to compose his thoughts.

“Miss Èibhlin is a guest in our home. Her comfort during her stay is a matter of basic courtesy.”

“Indeed?” His mother’s tone held a note of scepticism. “And this... courtesy... extends to your involvement in her potential marital prospects?”

“I am not involving myself,” Niall replied coolly. “Merely observing that Lord Gregory’s interest appears decidedly one-sided. I have seen no indication that Miss Èibhlin welcomes his attentions.”

“Miss Murchison disagrees,” the Duchess countered. “She sees Lord Gregory’s suit as a fortunate opportunity for her niece.”

“Miss Murchison would likely approve of any connection that elevated her niece’s social standing, regardless of compatibility,” Niall said, more sharply than he had intended. “I would not see Miss Èibhlin pressured towards a match that brings her no happiness, simply because it appears advantageous from the outside.”

The Duchess set aside her papers, giving her son her full attention.

“How remarkably romantic you have become. I had not realised that happiness featured so prominently in your criteria for suitable marriages.”

The barb struck home.

Niall had always assumed that his own marriage would be arranged according to the practical considerations of his position — an alliance of fortune and bloodline rather than a union of hearts. Yet now, faced with the prospect of Èibhlin being guided towards Lord Gregory, he found himself unexpectedly disturbed.

“I merely suggest that Miss Èibhlin’s wishes be considered,” he said, moderating his tone. “She is, after all, the one who must live with the consequences.”

“Her wishes will be guided by practical considerations, as all young ladies’ wishes must be,” the Duchess replied firmly. “Lord Gregory offers security, position, and the opportunity to establish herself in the first circles of society. What more could a daughter of a minor Scottish peer reasonably desire?”

What indeed? Niall thought, though he kept the question to himself. Instead, he changed the subject slightly.

“I intend to request the waltz with Miss Èibhlin at the Ball.”

His mother’s eyes narrowed.

“I had thought that you might partner Lady Anne Wilmott for that dance. The Earl of Blackwood has made it clear that he would welcome closer connections with our family.”

“Lady Anne may have the cotillion,” Niall said, his tone brooking no argument. “The waltz I reserve for Miss Èibhlin.”

A heavy silence fell between them, broken only by the crackling of the fire. Niall knew that his mother was displeased, yet he found himself unwilling to yield on this point. The thought of Èibhlin waltzing with Lord Gregory, held in the younger man’s arms as they circled the floor, provoked an unexpected surge of something dangerously close to jealousy.