Page 47 of Miss Murchison’s Mistletoe Memories

“And does it?” Niall asked, his tone carefully neutral despite the tension evident in his bearing. “Do you feel obligated to accept his attentions out of deference to their wishes?”

The question hung between them, weighted with implications that extended far beyond Lord Gregory’s unwelcome advances.

Èibhlin met Niall’s gaze directly, finding courage in the warmth she saw there.

“I value their guidance,” she said carefully, “but not above my own judgment of character. Lord Gregory has revealed himself to be a man whose primary concern is his own consequence. I could never esteem such a person, regardless of his rank or fortune.”

Something in Niall’s expression altered, a tension easing even as a new intensity took its place.

He glanced towards the orchestra, where the musicians were beginning the first strains of the next piece.

“I believe that they are about to play the waltz,” he said, his voice deepening slightly. “Would you do me the honour, Miss Èibhlin?”

Her heart leapt at the invitation, even as she noted the Duchess watching them from across the room, her expression a study in carefully concealed displeasure.

“I would be delighted, Your Grace.”

*****

Niall felt the familiar weight of his mother’s disapproval as he led Èibhlin towards the centre of the ballroom.

He had seen the Duchess direct Lord Gregory towards Èibhlin earlier, had observed the man’s determined manoeuvring towards the mistletoe-adorned archway, and had recognised Èibhlin’s distress even before their eyes had met across the crowded room.

The sight of Lord Gregory’s hand rising to touch her face, and his head beginning to lower towards hers, had ignited something in Niall’s chest — a burning combination of protective fury and possessive desire that had propelled him across the room before conscious thought could intervene.

Now, as the first notes of the waltz sounded and he took Èibhlin in his arms, that same feeling returned with renewed intensity. She fitted against him perfectly, her hand resting lightly in his, her waist beneath his palm both slender and strong. The pale green of her gown brought out the rich auburn of her hair and the remarkable golden-green of her eyes, now turned up to his with a mixture of gratitude and something deeper, something that made his heart beat faster in his chest.

“You dance beautifully,” he said, guiding her through the opening turns of the waltz. “Far better than when I attempted to teach you at Greenfell Holt.”

Her lips curved in a smile that transformed her face, bringing a glow to her features that made him momentarily forget the crowded ballroom, the watching eyes, the social constraints that defined their interaction.

“I had a good teacher, despite his occasional impatience with my childish enthusiasm.”

“Not impatience,” he corrected, drawing her fractionally closer as they moved between other couples. “Merely the frustration of a young man who lacked the words to express what he felt.”

The admission, veiled yet unmistakable, brought a flush to her cheeks that had nothing to do with the warmth of the room.

“And now?” she asked, her voice soft enough that only he could hear. “Have you found those words with age and experience?”

Niall met her gaze, aware that they had moved beyond the realm of casual reminiscence into something far more significant.

“Words remain elusive,” he admitted. “But perhaps actions might speak where language fails.”

Her eyes widened slightly, a question in their depths that he longed to answer. But the waltz continued, carrying them through the crowded ballroom beneath the assessing gaze of London society. Had he looked, he would have seen that his mother watched from near the orchestra, her expression a study in careful neutrality that he would have recognised as concealing deep concern, and that Lord Gregory stood by the refreshment table, his face darkened with poorly disguised jealousy as he followed their progress across the floor. But he did not look. Everything else beyond Èibhlin had ceased to matter to him.

For these few minutes, Niall allowed himself to forget everything — to focus solely on the woman in his arms, on the connection that had grown between them since her arrival at Stonemont House. The childhood friendship that had blossomed into something deeper, the shared memories of Scotland that had created a bridge between their past and present, the quiet moments of understanding that required no words — all of it culminating in this dance, this perfect synchronicity of movement.

“I have missed our conversations,” Èibhlin said, as they turned near one of the tall windows where frost patterns etched delicate designs on the glass. “Since our excursion to Wildwood Manor, it seems we have scarcely exchanged a dozen sentences.”

“My mother has been most efficient in occupying your time,” Niall replied, a rueful note in his voice. “And my own duties have been more demanding than usual in preparation for tonight.”

“I understand,” she assured him, though he could see a shadow of something like disappointment in her eyes. “Your responsibilities as Duke must always take precedence.”

The words, spoken without resentment or accusation, nonetheless struck him with unexpected force.

It was true — his responsibilities as Duke of Stonemont had defined his existence since inheriting the title. The weight of tradition, of expectation, of duty, had shaped every decision, every interaction, every aspect of his life.

Yet tonight, holding Èibhlin in his arms as they moved through the pattern of the waltz, those responsibilities seemed suddenly less absolute, less defining than the simple truth of his growing feelings for her. The realisation both liberated and terrified him, for it suggested possibilities beyond the carefully constructed boundaries of his position — possibilities that his mother would certainly oppose and that society might well condemn. As the music began to draw towards its conclusion, Niall made a decision - one that he knew, even as it formed in his mind, would irreversibly alter the course of their relationship. The waltz ended, and couples around them began to separate, exchanging pleasantries before moving towards new partners or the refreshment room.