Page 48 of Miss Murchison’s Mistletoe Memories

Niall retained Èibhlin’s hand.

“Would you care for some air?” he asked, nodding towards the corridor that led to the garden entrance. “The ballroom grows warm with so many guests.”

“Yes,” she agreed, her expression suggesting that she understood this was more than a casual invitation. “Some fresh air would be most welcome.”

He guided her towards the door, aware of eyes following their progress, of whispered comments behind fans and raised eyebrows at their departure together. His mother would disapprove, of course, but for once, he found himself unwilling to be governed by her expectations or by the rigid conventions of their social circle.

The corridor beyond the ballroom was quieter, though not entirely deserted. A few guests strolled between the refreshment room and the main festivities, while servants moved efficiently about their duties, ensuring that every need was anticipated and met. Candles flickered in wall sconces, casting a warm glow over the draperies that adorned the panelled walls.

And there, suspended from the archway that led to the garden entrance, hung a large mistletoe ball — not the one from which he had rescued Èibhlin earlier, but another, equally prominent and traditional in its placement. Niall paused beneath it, turning to face her with a question in his eyes that required no words to convey.

Èibhlin looked up at the mistletoe, then back at him, a flush spreading across her cheeks even as a smile of unmistakable invitation curved her lips.

“It seems that we find ourselves in a traditional position,” she murmured, her voice low enough that only he could hear. “Custom demands a response, does it not?”

“Custom,” Niall agreed, taking a step closer until barely a handspan separated them. “Though I find myself inclined towards a somewhat less... conventional... interpretation of tradition.”

Her eyes widened slightly, but she did not step back. Instead, she tilted her face up to his, a courage in her expression that he found utterly captivating.

“I have never been overly concerned with convention,” she admitted, her voice steady, despite the rapid rise and fall of her breath. “Particularly when it conflicts with more essential truths.”

The echo of Parker’s words from their earlier conversation struck Niall with peculiar force. Without further hesitation, he closed the distance between them, one hand rising to cup her cheek in a gesture that mirrored Lord Gregory’s earlier attempt, but carried an entirely different meaning and intention.

“Èibhlin,” he murmured, her name on his lips a confession in itself.

Then he kissed her.

It was not the chaste brush of lips to cheek that propriety demanded beneath the mistletoe. Nor was it the practiced, controlled expression of interest that society might reluctantly permit between a betrothed couple. It was a kiss born of weeks of suppressed longing, of connection rediscovered and deepened, of recognition that transcended the artificial barriers of rank and circumstance.

Èibhlin responded with equal feeling, her lips soft and warm beneath his, her hand coming to rest against his chest where his heart beat a rapid, unsteady rhythm. For one perfect moment, the world narrowed to just the two of them, surrounded by the scent of evergreens and candlewax, the distant music from the ballroom providing a backdrop to the more essential harmony between them.

A shocked gasp from nearby shattered the moment. Niall lifted his head to find Lady Harrington standing a few feet away, her face a study in scandalised fascination, her fan raised as if to shield herself from the impropriety she was witnessing. Behind her stood Sir Thomas Thornfield, his expression considerably more amused than shocked, and beyond him, two young ladies whose names Niall could not immediately recall, their eyes wide with delighted horror at the scene before them.

Worse still, approaching from the direction of the ballroom, her face set in lines of cold fury, was his mother herself. And beside her, looking equally outraged, though perhaps for entirely different reasons, was Miss Murchison, her thin frame practically vibrating with indignation.

Niall straightened, maintaining his protective stance beside Èibhlin, whose cheeks had flushed a deep crimson though her chin remained lifted in a gesture of dignity he could only admire. The moment of reckoning had arrived more swiftly than he had anticipated, yet he found himself strangely calm in the face of it.

Whatever consequences might follow from this public declaration — for a declaration it had undoubtedly been — he would face them without regret. For the first time since inheriting his title, he had acted not from duty or expectation, but from the dictates of his own heart.

And that, regardless of what came next, felt like freedom.