Chapter Six
The Harringtons’ drawing room blazed with candlelight, illuminating the elegant crowd that had gathered for what Lady Harrington termed ‘a small musical evening’.
To Niall’s eye, there was nothing small about it — at least sixty guests filled the spacious room, their voices creating a pleasant hum of conversation beneath the strains of a string quartet positioned near the French windows.
He stood near the fireplace, a glass of claret in hand, his expression carefully neutral as he surveyed the assembly.
Lady Harrington had outdone herself with the Christmas season decorations — evergreen boughs adorned with red ribbons draped the mantelpiece, while sprigs of holly with bright berries added festive touches to the wall sconces.
The overall effect was both elegant and seasonal, a tasteful celebration of the approaching holiday.
But it was not the decorations that held his attention.
Since entering the room twenty minutes earlier, his gaze had repeatedly, almost involuntarily, sought out one particular figure — a young woman in a gown of shimmering blue, her rich auburn hair arranged in an elegant style that somehow managed to contain its natural vivacity.
èibhlin stood with his mother and her aunt near the far side of the room, listening attentively as Lady Harrington introduced them to a stately matron he recognised as the Dowager Countess of Moreton.
Even from this distance, he could see the perfect composure of her expression, the graceful tilt of her head as she curtsied in response to the introduction.
No one observing her would guess that just days ago, she had endured the subtle cruelties of Mrs Chamberlain and Lady Westmoreland.
His mother had recounted those visits, with their rather cruelly pointed conversations, the previous evening, after èibhlin and her aunt had retired for the night, her tone suggesting that she considered them a qualified success.
“Miss èibhlin comported herself with dignity,” she had admitted, with grudging approval. “Though her aunt was less restrained. Really, that woman has no sense of social nuance.”
Niall had kept his opinions to himself, though inwardly he had raged at the thought of èibhlin subjected to such treatment, although he knew that such behaviour was not in any way unusual amongst the doyennes of the ton.
He had wanted to seek her out afterwards, to offer some comfort or encouragement, but propriety — and his mother’s watchful eye — had prevented him.
Now, as if sensing his scrutiny, èibhlin glanced in his direction.
Their eyes met across the crowded room, and for a brief moment, it seemed to Niall that everyone else faded away.
Something passed between them — recognition, perhaps, or understanding — before she lowered her gaze, a faint blush colouring her cheeks.
The small reaction sent an unexpected surge of warmth through his chest. He took a sip of claret, trying to collect himself.
This attachment — for he could no longer pretend it was mere friendly interest — was becoming problematic.
As Duke of Stonemont, he had responsibilities which transcended personal inclination.
His eventual marriage would be an alliance, not just between individuals, but between families and fortunes.
And yet... the memory of her smile, the intelligence in her green eyes, the quiet dignity with which she faced a society determined to find her wanting — all of it drew him with a force that he found increasingly difficult to resist.
“Your Grace,” a familiar voice intruded on his thoughts. “I had not expected to see you this evening. Musical entertainments are rarely to your taste, as I recall.”
Niall turned to find Sir Thomas Thornfield beside him, ruddy-faced and beaming with good humour.
“Sir Thomas. Good evening. Lady Harrington’s invitations are difficult to refuse.”
“Indeed they are,” Sir Thomas agreed, his gaze moving to where èibhlin stood. “Though perhaps there are other attractions that make the prospect of amateur performances more bearable?”
The implication was clear, and Niall felt a flicker of irritation.
“Miss èibhlin and her aunt are guests in my house. Common courtesy dictates that I should, at times, attend events where they are present.”
“Common courtesy,” Sir Thomas repeated, a knowing smile playing about his lips. “Of course. Though I must say, Your Grace, Miss èibhlin is a young lady who would inspire far more than common courtesy in most men. She combines beauty with intelligence in a most refreshing way.”
Niall’s grip on his glass tightened imperceptibly.
“She is my mother’s protégée. Nothing more.”
“Then you would not object if I were to request the honour of the first dance? I understand that Lady Harrington intends to clear the floor for dancing after the musical performances. A little daringly unconventional of her, I must say, but rather entertaining as well.”
The thought of èibhlin in Sir Thomas’ arms sent a spike of something dangerously close to jealousy through Niall’s chest. He controlled his expression with effort.
“Miss èibhlin is free to dance with whomever she chooses. Though I believe that my mother has plans to introduce her to several eligible gentlemen this evening.”
Sir Thomas raised his eyebrows slightly.
“Including yourself, perhaps?”
“I am her host, not a suitor,” Niall replied, more sharply than he had intended. “If you will excuse me, Sir Thomas, I see Lady Harrington signalling that the performances are about to begin.”
He moved away before Sir Thomas could respond, finding a position where he could observe the proceedings — and, incidentally, maintain a clear view of èibhlin without being too obvious about it.
As he settled against a pillar, he caught his mother watching him with narrowed eyes.
She inclined her head slightly, a gesture he recognised as both acknowledgment and warning.
The message was clear - she had noted his interest and did not approve. Niall returned her gaze steadily before deliberately turning his attention to the young lady taking her place at the pianoforte. He would not give his mother further cause for concern, at least not tonight.
But as the music began, his thoughts returned inexorably to èibhlin. She was his mother’s guest, a childhood acquaintance, nothing more. That was what he told himself, what he needed to believe.
Yet even as he formed the thought, he knew it for the lie that it was.
*****
èibhlin sat perfectly still, her hands folded in her lap, her expression one of polite interest as Miss Harrington performed a complex piece on the pianoforte.
Around her, the assembled guests maintained a similar facade of attention, though she noted several stifled yawns and whispered conversations despite the performer’s technical skill.
Her own thoughts were far from the music.
Since their eyes had met across the room earlier, she had been acutely aware of Niall’s presence, though she had carefully refrained from looking in his direction again.
The Duchess, seated beside her, seemed unusually alert, her gaze moving frequently between èibhlin and her son.
It was as if she sensed some undercurrent between them — a notion that filled èibhlin with both alarm and a strange, secret pleasure.
“Stonemont appears to be in good spirits this evening,” the Duchess remarked softly, as Miss Harrington concluded her piece to polite applause. “He is not typically fond of such gatherings.”
èibhlin kept her expression neutral.
“His Grace is most considerate to attend, then.”
“Indeed,” the Duchess murmured, her eyes sharp with speculation. “Though I suspect that his attendance has less to do with consideration than with... curiosity.”
Before èibhlin could respond to this cryptic comment, Lady Harrington approached, accompanied by a tall, fair-haired young man with a languid air and a most fashionably arranged cravat.
“My dear Duchess, Miss èibhlin, Miss Murchison — may I present Lord Gregory Armistead? He has expressed particular interest in making your acquaintance, Miss èibhlin.”
èibhlin curtsied as Lord Gregory bowed with practiced elegance.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, my Lord.”
“The pleasure is entirely mine, Miss èibhlin,” he replied, his voice carrying a note of affected boredom that seemed at odds with his words. “I understand that you are from Scotland? How... refreshing to have new blood in our little circle.”
There was something in his tone — a subtle condescension — that reminded èibhlin of Mrs Chamberlain. She maintained her smile with effort.
“London society has been most welcoming thus far, my Lord.”
“Has it indeed?” Lord Gregory’s eyebrows rose slightly. “How gracious of you to say so. We can be rather particular about newcomers, especially those from the... provinces.”
“Scotland is hardly a province, Lord Gregory,” Aunt Muireall interjected sharply. “It is a proud nation with its own ancient traditions and nobility.”
“Of course, of course,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. “No offence intended, I assure you. I merely meant that London society has its own particular customs and expectations. But I’m sure Miss èibhlin will adapt admirably.”
The Duchess intervened smoothly.
“Miss èibhlin has already demonstrated a natural grace that many young ladies might envy, Lord Gregory. I have every confidence in her success.”
“As do I,” he replied, his gaze lingering on èibhlin in a way that made her slightly uncomfortable. “Perhaps you might honour me with the first dance later this evening, Miss èibhlin? I understand that Lady Harrington intends to clear the floor after the performances.”
Before èibhlin could respond, the Duchess spoke.
“I believe that Miss èibhlin’s first dance is already promised to my son, Lord Gregory. But perhaps the second?”