Page 4 of Miss Murchison’s Mistletoe Memories

Chapter Two

Èibhlin stood before the cheval mirror, scarcely recognising herself in the elegant green silk gown. Lucy had worked wonders with her dark red hair, arranging it in a simple yet sophisticated style that managed to tame its natural unruliness without entirely subduing its character.

“You look beautiful, Miss,” Lucy said, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “That shade of green brings out your eyes something wonderful.”

“Thank you, Lucy.”

Èibhlin smoothed her hands over the silk, wondering if she appeared as nervous as she felt. The gown, while one of the finest she owned, seemed suddenly inadequate for dinner with a Duchess. And perhaps a Duke. A soft knock at the door announced her aunt’s arrival. Aunt Muireall entered, wearing a gown of deep purple that did little to soften her angular features.

“Well, at least you look presentable,” she said, examining Èibhlin with a critical eye. “Though I still think the neckline of that gown is cut rather low, even if such styling is fashionable.”

Èibhlin resisted the urge to cover her modestly exposed collarbone.

“Mother had it made for my eighteenth birthday, Aunt. She considered it entirely appropriate.”

“Hmph. Your mother was always more concerned with beauty than propriety.” Aunt Muireall’s expression softened momentarily. “Though I suppose you do her credit tonight.”

Coming from her aunt, this was high praise indeed. Èibhlin smiled, a little of her tension easing.

“Shall we go down? I would not wish to keep the Duchess waiting.”

“Indeed. Remember, Èibhlin — straight back, measured steps, and for heaven’s sake, do not prattle. The English find Scottish enthusiasm vulgar.”

With a final glance in the mirror, Èibhlin followed her aunt from the room and into the corridor. As they descended the grand staircase, the grandeur of Stonemont House struck her anew. Crystal chandeliers cast a golden glow over the entrance hall, while a small amount of winter greenery adorned the banisters, filling the air with the crisp scent of pine.

Hartwell awaited them at the foot of the stairs.

“Miss Murchison, Miss Èibhlin Murchison,” he acknowledged with a bow. “If you would be so good as to follow me, Her Grace awaits you in the drawing room.”

As they followed the butler through the maze of corridors, Èibhlin’s heart thumped painfully against her ribs. With each step, the possibility that she might see Niall again after eight long years became more real, more overwhelming.

“The Honourable Miss Murchison and The Honourable Miss Èibhlin Murchison,” Hartwell announced as they entered the drawing room.

The Duchess rose from her seat near the fire, resplendent in a gown of deep blue silk, a strand of pearls gleaming at her throat.

“Ah, Miss Murchison, Miss Èibhlin. How lovely you both look. I trust that you found your rooms comfortable?”

“Most comfortable, Your Grace,” Aunt Muireall replied, executing a stiff curtsey.

Èibhlin followed suit, her eyes darting around the room, searching for another presence. But there was no one else.

“My son sends his apologies,” the Duchess said, as if reading her thoughts. “He was detained by business matters, but assures me that he will join us before dinner is served. In the meantime, may I offer you some sherry?”

Disappointment pierced Èibhlin’s heart, though she was careful not to let it show on her face.

“Thank you, Your Grace. That would be most welcome.”

As the Duchess poured the amber liquid into delicate crystal glasses, Aunt Muireall settled herself primly on a brocade chair.

“I must say, Your Grace, your London residence is most impressive. Far grander than what we are accustomed to at Felldale Castle.”

“How kind of you to say so,” the Duchess replied, though her tone suggested that she required no confirmation of her home’s superiority. “Stonemont House has been in my husband’s family for many generations. The current design was commissioned by His Grace’s grandfather. The Duke, of course, also has his country seat at Haverly Park, as well as Greenfell Holt in Scotland.”

“Yes, we are familiar with Greenfell Holt,” Aunt Muireall said with a slight sniff. “Though I understand that His Grace rarely visits the property.”

“The demands of the Dukedom keep my son quite occupied in London and at Haverly,” the Duchess replied smoothly. “Greenfell Holt is maintained primarily as a hunting lodge these days.”

Èibhlin took a small sip of sherry, wondering why her aunt seemed determined to provoke the Duchess.