Page 59 of Miss Murchison’s Mistletoe Memories

“And what did you tell him?”

“That my feelings for you are genuine,” Niall replied, his gaze fixed on the path ahead, though she could see colour rising in his cheeks that had nothing to do with the cold. “And that his pursuit of you was unlikely to meet with success, regardless of the Duchess’ encouragement.”

“I see,” Èibhlin said softly, her own cheeks warming despite the winter air. “And how did he receive this intelligence?”

“With predictable displeasure and some thinly veiled threats about social consequences.” Niall guided the horses through the Park gates, where the snow lay pristine and untouched across the gently rolling landscape. “He suggested that even Ducal privilege has its limits when it comes to unconventional attachments.”

The implication hung in the air between them, neither spoken aloud nor denied. Èibhlin watched Niall’s profile as he concentrated on the snow-covered gravel road, noting the determined set of his jaw, the slight tension in his shoulders beneath his greatcoat.

“And do you share his concern?” she asked, her voice steady despite the sudden tightness in her chest. “About social consequences, I mean.”

Niall guided the phaeton to a secluded spot beneath a stand of bare oak trees, where the ground had been partially sheltered from the falling snow. He set the brake and turned to face her, his expression more open, more vulnerable than she had ever seen it.

“I have spent my entire life considering consequences,” he said quietly. “Every decision, every action carefully weighed against its potential impact on the Dukedom, on the family name, on those who depend upon Stonemont’s stability and prosperity.” He took her hands in his, his touch warm even through their gloves. “But these past weeks have taught me that some considerations transcend mere consequence. Some connections are worth whatever price society might demand for acknowledging them.”

Èibhlin’s breath caught in her throat, hope rising so sharply it was almost painful.

“Niall—”

“Please,” he interrupted gently, “let me finish while I still have the courage. You know me as I truly am, Èibhlin — not just the Duke of Stonemont, with all of his responsibilities and privileges, but as the boy who taught you to skip stones, the man who caught you when you stumbled at Wildwood Manor. You see past the title to the person beneath, and in your company, I remember who that person is.” Snow began to fall again, gentle flakes drifting down to settle on his dark hair and the shoulders of his greatcoat. Èibhlin watched, spellbound, as he continued, his voice growing stronger with each word. “I love you, Èibhlin Murchison. Not despite your Scottish heritage or your forthright manner or your uncommon education, but because of them — because they are part of what makes you uniquely, perfectly yourself. I love your courage, your intelligence, your quiet dignity that puts empty social posturing to shame.” He released one of her hands to reach into his coat pocket, withdrawing a small object that glinted in the winter light. “This was my grandmother’s — the one who gave me my Scottish name. She would have adored you, I think.”

In his palm lay a ring — a perfect sapphire surrounded by diamonds, set in intricate white gold that resembled Celtic knotwork. Èibhlin stared at it, then at Niall, her heart hammering against her ribs.

“Niall…. I….”

He lifted the other hand and brushed a finger over her lips, silencing whatever she was about to say, then took her hand again.

“I know this is sudden,” he said then, a hint of uncertainty creeping into his voice for the first time. “I know that society will question the match, that my mother will object, that there will be whispers, and raised eyebrows, and closed doors. But none of that matters if you feel as I do. If you’ll have me, Èibhlin, I would count it the greatest honour of my life to call you my wife.”

Snowflakes settled on her eyelashes, melting with the tears that had begun to form there. For a moment, she couldn’t speak, overwhelmed by the depth of feeling his words had unleashed.

“Niall,” she managed finally, her voice scarcely above a whisper, “are you certain? Your mother believes that I would bring nothing of value to the Dukedom — no great fortune, no elevated connections, nothing that would enhance Stonemont’s position or influence.”

“My mother,” he replied, with a small, rueful smile, “measures value by standards which I no longer find compelling. What fortune or connection could possibly outweigh the partnership of a woman of intelligence, character, and genuine feeling? What advantage of rank could compare to the simple joy of being truly known and accepted for oneself?” His fingers tightened around hers, his eyes never leaving her face. “I am more certain of this than I have been of anything in my life, Èibhlin. The only question that remains is whether you feel the same certainty.”

The world seemed to narrow to just the two of them, surrounded by falling snow beneath the winter trees. Èibhlin looked into Niall’s eyes and saw reflected there all the hope, all the longing, all the genuine regard that had grown between them since her arrival at Stonemont House.

“Yes,” she said, the word emerging with a certainty that surprised even her. “Yes, Niall, I will marry you. I love you — not the Duke of Stonemont with all his titles and properties, but the man who sees me as I truly am, who values what others dismiss as unconventional, who makes me feel that I belong precisely as myself.”

His face transformed with joy, all restraint falling away as he slipped the ring onto her finger above her glove.

Then he was drawing her into his arms, his lips finding hers in a kiss that contained all the warmth and promise that the future now held.

When they finally broke apart, breathless and laughing, Èibhlin noticed something above them that had escaped their attention before.

There, in the bare branches of the oak tree they had stopped beneath, grew a small cluster of mistletoe, its waxy green leaves and white berries standing out against the snow-covered bark.

“Look,” she said, pointing upward with a smile. “It seems we’ve maintained tradition again.”

Niall followed her gaze, his laughter joining hers as he recognised the mistletoe.

“Perhaps the tradition knew what we needed before we did,” he suggested, drawing her close once more. “Though I believe a second kiss is now required, to properly honour it.”

“Far be it from me to disregard such an important custom,” Èibhlin replied, tilting her face up to his with joyful anticipation.

Their second kiss was gentler than the first, a promise rather than a declaration, sweet with the knowledge that it was merely one of countless such moments that would now form their shared future.

As snow continued to fall around them, transforming the world into a pristine wonderland, Èibhlin thought of the mistletoe leaves pressed between the pages of her diary — tokens of memory now joined by the reality of love acknowledged and returned.

When they finally parted, Niall kept her hand in his, his thumb tracing the outline of the ring on her finger.

“We should return,” he said reluctantly. “Before your aunt and my mother send out search parties.”

“They’ll be scandalised - again,” Èibhlin observed, though she found that she could not summon much concern for this fact. “And I suspect that the Duchess will have a great deal to say about our... presumption.”

“No doubt,” Niall agreed, helping her settle more comfortably on the phaeton’s seat before taking up the reins once more. “But this time, neither of us must face their disapproval alone. We’ll weather it together, as we shall all things henceforth.”

As the phaeton moved back along the snowy road towards the Park gates, Èibhlin leaned slightly against Niall’s shoulder, savouring his solid presence beside her. Beyond the immediate obstacles of the Duchess’ disapproval and society’s potential censure lay a future that she had scarcely dared imagine — a life built on genuine connection rather than mere convenience, on partnership rather than position.

The sapphire on her finger caught the winter light, gleaming like a promise. As they drove slowly back through London, Èibhlin felt a sense of rightness that transcended all doubt or fear.

What had begun beneath the mistletoe at Greenfell Holt all those years ago had finally come full circle, bringing them to this moment of perfect love and joy amidst the falling snow.