Chapter One
The elegant town carriage bearing the crest of the Duke of Stonemont moved steadily through London’s fashionable district, its polished black exterior gleaming in the weak November sunlight.
Inside, Miss èibhlin Murchison pressed her gloved hands together, attempting to calm the flutter of anxiety that had taken up residence in her chest since they had left the posting inn that morning, travelling from Scotland in a far less refined conveyance than this one, which had met them at the London Coaching Inn.
“Do sit back from the window, èibhlin,” her aunt said, the sharp edge of disapproval in her voice unmistakable. “It is most unbecoming to gawk at the streets like some country bumpkin. We are guests of the Duchess of Stonemont, and I will not have you embarrassing me with such unrefined behaviour.”
èibhlin reluctantly shifted away from the glass, though her gaze lingered on the decorated shop fronts, where, in some cases, holly and evergreen boughs announced the approaching Christmas season.
“I was merely observing the decorations, Aunt Muireall. It is my first time in London, after all.”
“And you would do well to remember your station.” Aunt Muireall sniffed, adjusting the drape of her dark travelling cloak.
“The Duchess is doing us a great favour in agreeing to sponsor you. I cannot imagine why your father thought this necessary, but since I am obliged to accompany you, we must both be on our best behaviour.”
The carriage turned onto an even more imposing street, where grand houses stood in stately elegance behind wrought-iron fences. èibhlin’s heart quickened as she caught sight of a particularly magnificent residence ahead, its windows gleaming, a small contingent of servants visible on the steps.
“Is that—” she began, unable to keep the wonder from her voice.
“Stonemont House,” Aunt Muireall confirmed, her tone suggesting that she found the display ostentatious rather than impressive.
“The London residence of the Duke. I daresay your father never mentioned how overwhelming such places can be. Scottish nobility keeps to more sensible standards, in my opinion.”
èibhlin swallowed hard, smoothing her travelling dress with trembling fingers.
Her father had indeed never described the grandeur that awaited them.
Viscount Felldale preferred the rugged simplicity of their Scottish estate, rarely venturing to Edinburgh, let alone London.
His decision to send her to London to prepare for a Season next year had come as a shock, though èibhlin suspected her aunt’s increasingly pointed remarks about her advanced age of twenty, soon to be twenty-one, may have influenced him.
The carriage slowed, then came to a gentle stop before the imposing marble steps of Stonemont House. èibhlin’s breath caught in her throat as a liveried footman stepped forward to open the carriage door.
“Welcome to Stonemont House, ladies,” he said with a respectful bow. “Her Grace is expecting you.”
As èibhlin stepped down onto the cobblestones, she could not help but lift her gaze to take in the full majesty of the building. Four storeys of pale Portland stone rose before her, windows gleaming like diamonds in the winter light.
Above the entrance, the Stonemont coat of arms was carved in relief, a silent declaration of centuries of power and prestige.
“Come along, èibhlin,” Aunt Muireall hissed, gripping her elbow with surprising strength. “And for heaven’s sake, close your mouth. You look like a fish at market.”
Cheeks burning, èibhlin composed her features into what she hoped was a dignified expression as they were led up the steps and into the entrance hall.
Inside, the splendour only intensified. Polished marble floors stretched out beneath a ceiling adorned with intricate plasterwork.
A grand staircase curved upward, its balustrade gleaming.
Crystal chandeliers cast prismatic light across the space, and the air carried the scent of beeswax and fresh pine.
The butler, a distinguished man with silver hair and impeccable posture, greeted them with a bow.
“Miss Murchison, Miss èibhlin Murchison. I am Hartwell, butler to His Grace. Her Grace awaits you in the blue drawing room. If you would kindly follow me.”
èibhlin nodded, not trusting her voice. She followed the butler across the entrance hall, acutely aware of the click of her half boots against the marble, feeling as though each step echoed her inadequacy in such surroundings.
Her father’s words came back to her.
‘The Duchess was most gracious in her response to my letter. She remembers you fondly from their visits to Greenfell Holt, and believes that you will benefit from her guidance before the Season begins.’
èibhlin wondered, now, if her father had been entirely honest. She could scarcely recall meeting the Duchess during those infrequent summer, and occasionally Christmas, visits to the neighbouring Scottish estate. Her memories were filled instead with afternoons spent exploring with—
“The Honourable Miss èibhlin Murchison and the Honourable Miss Muireall Murchison,” Hartwell announced, interrupting her thoughts as they reached an arched doorway.
èibhlin stepped into a room of such elegance that it momentarily stole her breath. Walls hung with blue silk damask provided a perfect backdrop for gilded furniture and ornate mirrors. A fire crackled in a marble fireplace, beside which sat a woman whose bearing instantly proclaimed her status.
The Duchess of Stonemont rose gracefully, her grey-streaked dark hair arranged in an elegant coiffure, her mid-blue eyes sharp and assessing as they swept over the newcomers. Her gown of deep burgundy velvet, though simple in cut, was clearly of the finest quality.
“Miss Murchison, Miss Murchison,” she said, her voice cultured and measured. “How pleased I am that you have arrived safely. London’s streets can be quite treacherous in late November.”
èibhlin curtseyed deeply, grateful for the countless hours that her mother had spent teaching her proper etiquette.
“Your Grace, we are most grateful for your kind invitation. My father sends his deepest respects and thanks for your generosity.”
The Duchess’s smile did not quite reach her eyes.
“Viscount Felldale and I have known each other for many years, though our paths cross infrequently. I was sorry to hear of your mother’s passing. Lady Felldale was a woman of remarkable grace.”
A brief pang of grief pierced èibhlin’s heart at the mention of her mother.
“Thank you, Your Grace. She would have been honoured by your words.”
“Indeed.” The Duchess gestured to the arrangement of chairs and settees. “Please, be seated. I have ordered tea to be served. You must be fatigued after your journey.”
As they settled themselves, Aunt Muireall’s spine as rigid as a poker, a maid entered with a tea tray laden with delicate porcelain cups and a silver teapot. The Duchess waved the maid away and poured the tea, waiting until they each had a cup in hand before speaking again.
“I trust that your accommodations at the posting inn were satisfactory?”
“Quite adequate, Your Grace,” Aunt Muireall replied before èibhlin could speak. “Though I confess that I find travel increasingly tiresome as I age. The roads from Scotland are not what they once were.”
“I can well imagine,” the Duchess said, her tone suggesting that she could not imagine it at all. “It is fortunate that you were able to accompany your niece, Miss Muireall. A young woman requires proper chaperonage, particularly one who has lived so... remotely.”
èibhlin sensed the subtle critique and fought to keep her expression neutral as she sipped her tea. The cup was so fine that she feared it might shatter in her trembling hands.
“I assure you, Your Grace,” Aunt Muireall said, her Scottish accent becoming more pronounced, “that despite our ‘remote’ living, my niece has been raised with the utmost attention to propriety and decorum. My sister-in-law saw to that before her passing, and I have continued her education since.”
The Duchess inclined her head.
“I am sure that you have done admirably. However, London society has its own particular rules and nuances. It will be my pleasure to introduce Miss èibhlin to these subtleties before her formal presentation in the spring.”
èibhlin placed her cup carefully on its saucer.
“I am eager to learn, Your Grace. My father believes that a Season in London will broaden my horizons considerably.”
“Viscount Felldale is wise to consider your future,” the Duchess said. “A young woman of your... position… should have the opportunity to make suitable acquaintances.”
The emphasis on ‘position’ made èibhlin’s cheeks warm. She was acutely aware that, as the daughter of a Scottish Viscount, her rank, while respectable, was not particularly distinguished in the eyes of the English aristocracy.
“My niece’s position,” Aunt Muireall said, her voice taking on an edge, “includes the distinction of being her father’s heir. The Felldale title, while perhaps not as ancient as some English peerages, is nevertheless one of considerable standing in Scotland.”
The Duchess’s eyebrows rose fractionally.
“Indeed? How... unusual. I was not aware that Scottish titles could pass through the female line.”
“Some can, Your Grace,” èibhlin explained, attempting to smooth the increasingly tense atmosphere. “The Felldale Viscountcy was granted with special remainder to heirs general, not merely heirs male. It is not common, but neither is it unprecedented, especially in Scotland.”
“How fascinating,” the Duchess murmured, though her tone suggested that she found it merely peculiar.
“In any case, your father has entrusted you to my guidance, and I shall endeavour to introduce you to the best of London society. The Christmas season provides ample opportunity for more... intimate… gatherings before the crush of the spring Season begins.”
Aunt Muireall set her cup down with a sharp click.