Chapter Two
èibhlin stood before the cheval mirror, scarcely recognising herself in the elegant green silk gown. Lucy had worked wonders with her dark red hair, arranging it in a simple yet sophisticated style that managed to tame its natural unruliness without entirely subduing its character.
“You look beautiful, Miss,” Lucy said, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “That shade of green brings out your eyes something wonderful.”
“Thank you, Lucy.”
èibhlin smoothed her hands over the silk, wondering if she appeared as nervous as she felt.
The gown, while one of the finest she owned, seemed suddenly inadequate for dinner with a Duchess.
And perhaps a Duke. A soft knock at the door announced her aunt’s arrival.
Aunt Muireall entered, wearing a gown of deep purple that did little to soften her angular features.
“Well, at least you look presentable,” she said, examining èibhlin with a critical eye. “Though I still think the neckline of that gown is cut rather low, even if such styling is fashionable.”
èibhlin resisted the urge to cover her modestly exposed collarbone.
“Mother had it made for my eighteenth birthday, Aunt. She considered it entirely appropriate.”
“Hmph. Your mother was always more concerned with beauty than propriety.” Aunt Muireall’s expression softened momentarily. “Though I suppose you do her credit tonight.”
Coming from her aunt, this was high praise indeed. èibhlin smiled, a little of her tension easing.
“Shall we go down? I would not wish to keep the Duchess waiting.”
“Indeed. Remember, èibhlin — straight back, measured steps, and for heaven’s sake, do not prattle. The English find Scottish enthusiasm vulgar.”
With a final glance in the mirror, èibhlin followed her aunt from the room and into the corridor.
As they descended the grand staircase, the grandeur of Stonemont House struck her anew.
Crystal chandeliers cast a golden glow over the entrance hall, while a small amount of winter greenery adorned the banisters, filling the air with the crisp scent of pine.
Hartwell awaited them at the foot of the stairs.
“Miss Murchison, Miss èibhlin Murchison,” he acknowledged with a bow. “If you would be so good as to follow me, Her Grace awaits you in the drawing room.”
As they followed the butler through the maze of corridors, èibhlin’s heart thumped painfully against her ribs. With each step, the possibility that she might see Niall again after eight long years became more real, more overwhelming.
“The Honourable Miss Murchison and The Honourable Miss èibhlin Murchison,” Hartwell announced as they entered the drawing room.
The Duchess rose from her seat near the fire, resplendent in a gown of deep blue silk, a strand of pearls gleaming at her throat.
“Ah, Miss Murchison, Miss èibhlin. How lovely you both look. I trust that you found your rooms comfortable?”
“Most comfortable, Your Grace,” Aunt Muireall replied, executing a stiff curtsey.
èibhlin followed suit, her eyes darting around the room, searching for another presence. But there was no one else.
“My son sends his apologies,” the Duchess said, as if reading her thoughts. “He was detained by business matters, but assures me that he will join us before dinner is served. In the meantime, may I offer you some sherry?”
Disappointment pierced èibhlin’s heart, though she was careful not to let it show on her face.
“Thank you, Your Grace. That would be most welcome.”
As the Duchess poured the amber liquid into delicate crystal glasses, Aunt Muireall settled herself primly on a brocade chair.
“I must say, Your Grace, your London residence is most impressive. Far grander than what we are accustomed to at Felldale Castle.”
“How kind of you to say so,” the Duchess replied, though her tone suggested that she required no confirmation of her home’s superiority.
“Stonemont House has been in my husband’s family for many generations.
The current design was commissioned by His Grace’s grandfather.
The Duke, of course, also has his country seat at Haverly Park, as well as Greenfell Holt in Scotland. ”
“Yes, we are familiar with Greenfell Holt,” Aunt Muireall said with a slight sniff. “Though I understand that His Grace rarely visits the property.”
“The demands of the Dukedom keep my son quite occupied in London and at Haverly,” the Duchess replied smoothly. “Greenfell Holt is maintained primarily as a hunting lodge these days.”
èibhlin took a small sip of sherry, wondering why her aunt seemed determined to provoke the Duchess.
“I have fond memories of Greenfell Holt,” she offered, hoping to ease the tension. “The grounds are particularly beautiful in summer.”
The Duchess turned her penetrating gaze to èibhlin.
“Yes, I believe that you and my son were acquainted as children. Though it has been some years, has it not?”
“Eight years, Your Grace,” èibhlin confirmed, surprised that the Duchess recalled the connection at all. “His Grace — that is, your son — was most kind to me during his visits.”
“Was he indeed?” The Duchess’ eyebrows rose fractionally. “How interesting. Niall rarely mentioned his time at Greenfell Holt, though I gather that he found the hunting excellent.”
Before èibhlin could respond, the drawing room door opened and Hartwell appeared, his posture even more rigidly correct than before.
“His Grace, the Duke of Stonemont,” he announced.
èibhlin’s breath caught in her throat as a tall figure entered the room. She and Aunt Muireall rose, and time seemed to slow as she took in the man before her – the broad shoulders, the confident stride, the dark hair that curled slightly at the temples.
Niall Smythe, Duke of Stonemont, was no longer the lanky youth who had shown her how to skip stones across the loch.
The intervening years had transformed him into a man of imposing presence, his features now sharply defined, his stormy blue eyes holding a gravity that had not been there before.
Yet beneath the changes, she could still see traces of the boy she had known — in the slight quirk of his mouth, in the way that he held his head, in the momentary flicker of recognition that passed across his face as his gaze met hers.
“Mother,” he said, crossing to the Duchess and bending to kiss her cheek. “I apologise for my tardiness. The meeting with Lord Harrington took longer than expected.”
“You are forgiven, Niall,” the Duchess replied with evident fondness. “Allow me to present our guests. The Honourable Miss Murchison and The Honourable Miss èibhlin Murchison, daughter of Viscount Felldale.”
The Duke turned, his expression now perfectly composed.
“Miss Murchison, Miss èibhlin.” He bowed elegantly to each in turn. “Welcome to Stonemont House. I trust that my mother has made you comfortable.”
“Most comfortable, Your Grace,” Aunt Muireall replied, her Scottish accent more pronounced than usual as she curtsied. “The Duchess has been most attentive.”
èibhlin dipped into her own curtsey, willing her trembling legs to support her.
“Your Grace. It is a pleasure to see you again after so many years.”
For a heartbeat, their eyes met, and èibhlin felt a jolt of connection so powerful that it nearly stole her breath.
Did he remember? Did he feel it too, this strange sense of recognition that transcended time and circumstance?
But the moment passed, and the Duke’s face revealed nothing beyond polite interest.
“Indeed, Miss èibhlin. It has been some time since I visited Greenfell Holt. I trust that your father is well?”
“He is, thank you,” she replied, fighting to keep her voice steady. “He sends his regards, and his thanks for your mother’s kindness in sponsoring my introduction to society.”
“A generous gesture on your mother’s part,” Aunt Muireall added, with an emphasis that suggested that the generosity was perhaps unexpected.
If the Duke noticed the slight barb, he gave no indication.
“My mother has always been known for her generosity of spirit,” he said smoothly. “Particularly during the Christmas season. I believe that she has several entertainments planned for your benefit, Miss èibhlin.”
The Duchess inclined her head.
“Indeed. I thought that a small dinner party next week would serve as a gentle introduction. Lord and Lady Harrington have expressed interest in meeting you, and perhaps the Countess of Blackwood and her daughter.”
“That sounds lovely, Your Grace,” èibhlin replied, though her attention remained fixed on the Duke. He stood with such easy confidence, as if the weight of his title rested lightly on his shoulders.
Yet there was something in his bearing — a certain tension, perhaps — that suggested the mantle of responsibility was not a light thing to bear.
“Hartwell,” the Duchess said, “I believe that dinner must be nearly ready. Perhaps you might check with Mrs Graves?”
“At once, Your Grace.”
The butler bowed and withdrew.
“Niall, do pour yourself some sherry and join us,” the Duchess continued. “Miss èibhlin was just reminiscing about her childhood acquaintance with you at Greenfell Holt.”
The Duke moved to the sideboard, his movements fluid and controlled.
“Was she indeed? I confess that those summers seem a lifetime ago.”
èibhlin’s heart sank a little at his casual dismissal.
“They were happy times,” she said, unable to keep a note of wistfulness from her voice. “I still recall the day that you taught me to skip stones across the loch.”
He paused, glass in hand, and for a moment his composure slipped.
“You had quite the competitive spirit, as I recall. You were determined to outdo me, though your arm was half the length of mine.”
A flush of pleasure warmed her cheeks.
“And I did outdo you, eventually. Five skips to your four.”
“Only because I allowed it,” he replied, the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
The Duchess cleared her throat.
“How... charming. I had no idea that you two were so well acquainted.”