Page 9 of Miss Murchison’s Mistletoe Memories

“Of course, Niall,” the Duchess replied. “Though I hope that you will find time tomorrow to show Miss Èibhlin the library. She expressed an interest in literature earlier, and our collection is quite exceptional.”

Was it Èibhlin’s imagination, or did the Duke’s eyes brighten at the suggestion?

“I would be delighted,” he said, his gaze finding hers. “If Miss Èibhlin is amenable, perhaps after breakfast?”

“That would be most kind, Your Grace,” she replied, her heart quickening at the prospect of spending time alone with him — or as alone as propriety would allow.

“Until tomorrow, then.” He bowed to each of them in turn, his eyes lingering on Èibhlin’s for a fraction longer than strictly necessary. “Ladies, I bid you good night.”

As the door closed behind him, Èibhlin felt the Duchess’ assessing gaze upon her once more. There was something calculating in the older woman’s expression, a wariness which suggested that she had observed more than Èibhlin might have wished.

“My son can be quite the scholar when his duties permit,” the Duchess remarked. “Though I fear that you may find his taste in literature rather serious for a young lady’s sensibilities.”

“My niece has never shied away from serious subjects,” Aunt Muireall said, with unexpected loyalty. “Her father’s library at Felldale is quite extensive.”

“Indeed?” The Duchess’ tone was one of polite disbelief. “How... progressive of Viscount Felldale.”

Èibhlin sipped her sherry, letting the gentle warmth of it spread through her chest.

“My father believes that knowledge should not be restricted by gender, Your Grace. A philosophy my mother shared.”

“How very... modern.” The Duchess set down her own glass with a decisive click. “Well, I am sure that you and my son will find much to discuss tomorrow. For tonight, however, I suggest that we retire early. London society keeps late hours, and you will need your rest after your long journey if you are to adapt to our schedule in the coming days.”

Taking the hint, Èibhlin rose along with her aunt, thanking the Duchess for her hospitality. As they made their way upstairs, Aunt Muireall muttered under her breath about English condescension and the Duchess’ barely concealed disdain for their Scottish heritage.

Èibhlin hardly heard her. Her mind was filled with the Duke — with Niall — and the strange, undeniable pull she had felt in his presence. He had changed, yes, but beneath the formal exterior, she had glimpsed flashes of the boy she had known. The boy who had treated her as an equal, who had engaged her mind as well as her spirit. In the privacy of her room, as Lucy helped her prepare for bed, Èibhlin allowed herself to acknowledge the truth that she had been avoiding all evening: she was drawn to the Duke of Stonemont in a way that went far beyond childhood friendship or social obligation.

It was foolish, perhaps even dangerous, and she should not allow herself to indulge the feeling.

He was a Duke, one of the highest-ranking peers in England. She was the daughter of a Scottish Viscount, a nobody in the eyes of London society. Whatever connection they had shared as children, the realities of their adult lives stood between them like an insurmountable wall.

And yet...

He had remembered the details of their conversations. He had defended her against his mother’s subtle barbs. He had looked at her with those stormy blue eyes in a way that made her heart race, and her breath catch.

As Èibhlin slipped beneath the covers, she tried to temper her expectations with reason. Tomorrow’s tour of the library was a courtesy, nothing more. The Duke was being kind to the daughter of his Scottish neighbour, honouring old connections for the sake of propriety.

But as sleep began to claim her, reason gave way to something more powerful — a hope, fragile yet persistent, that the connection she had felt tonight was not entirely one-sided. That somewhere beneath the Duke’s carefully maintained composure, Niall Smythe still existed. The boy who had taught her to skip stones and who had listened to her opinions as if they mattered.

The boy who, perhaps, might see in the woman she had become something worth knowing again.

*****

In another wing of the grand house, the Duke of Stonemont stood at his window, gazing out at the moonlit garden, his thoughts occupied by a pair of green eyes and the echo of a laugh he had not heard in eight long years.