Chapter Six #2
èibhlin felt a jolt of surprise — and pleasure — at this unexpected declaration. She had exchanged no such agreement with Niall, yet she could hardly contradict the Duchess in public. Lord Gregory’s expression flickered briefly before settling back into its usual languid hauteur.
“The second dance would be most acceptable. Until then, Miss èibhlin.”
With a bow that encompassed them all, he moved away, rejoining a group of fashionably dressed young men near the windows. The Duchess turned to èibhlin with a smile that did not quite reach her eyes.
“You must forgive my presumption, my dear. But I thought that you might appreciate a moment to collect yourself before engaging with Lord Gregory. He can be somewhat... overwhelming... for those not accustomed to his manner.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” èibhlin replied, uncertain whether to feel grateful or manipulated. “Though I would not wish to impose upon the Duke if he has other plans.”
“Nonsense,” the Duchess said firmly. “Niall understands his duties as your host. And a dance with him will establish your standing in this gathering most effectively.”
As if summoned by their discussion, Niall appeared before them, bowing with formal courtesy.
“Mother, Miss Murchison, Miss èibhlin. I trust that you are enjoying the entertainment?”
“Tolerably,” Aunt Muireall replied, with characteristic bluntness. “Though I find Miss Harrington’s playing rather mechanical. All technique and no soul, if you ask me.”
The Duchess’ lips thinned at this criticism, but Niall’s mouth quirked in what might have been the beginning of a smile.
“A perceptive observation, Miss Murchison. Perhaps we might persuade Miss èibhlin to favour us with a performance? I recall that her playing had considerably more feeling.”
“Oh! I couldn’t possibly,” èibhlin protested, alarmed at the thought of performing before such a critical audience.
“Another time, perhaps,” the Duchess said smoothly. “Niall, I have taken the liberty of promising Miss èibhlin’s first dance to you. Lord Gregory has claimed the second.”
Something flashed in Niall’s eyes — surprise, followed by something darker — before his expression returned to careful neutrality.
“I would be honoured, if Miss èibhlin is agreeable.”
“Most agreeable, Your Grace,” èibhlin replied, her voice steadier than she felt.
The prospect of dancing with Niall — of being held, however formally, in his arms — sent a flutter of anticipation through her chest. Before their conversation could continue, a young lady took her place at the pianoforte, and attention returned to the performances.
Niall excused himself with a bow, returning to his position by the pillar, while èibhlin tried to focus on the music rather than the approaching dance.
After three more performances — a pianoforte piece, a vocal duet, and a rather ambitious violin solo — Lady Harrington announced that the formal portion of the evening was concluded.
Servants appeared to move furniture aside, creating space for dancing, while the string quartet repositioned themselves accordingly.
“A country dance to begin, I think,” Lady Harrington declared, signalling to the musicians. “Stonemont, will you lead with your partner?”
Niall approached, offering his hand to èibhlin with a formal bow.
“Miss èibhlin?”
She placed her hand in his, feeling the warmth of his touch even through her gloves.
As he led her to the centre of the floor, she was acutely conscious of the eyes upon them — curious, speculative, in some cases openly disapproving. The Duchess watched with an expression èibhlin could not quite decipher, while Aunt Muireall’s gaze held a mixture of pride and concern.
“You needn’t look so apprehensive,” Niall murmured, as they took their positions. “It is only a dance, after all.”
“Is it?” she replied softly. “It feels rather like a public examination.”
His eyes met hers, and for a moment, the warmth in his gaze banished her anxiety.
“Then we shall ensure that you pass with distinction.”
The music began, and they moved into the figures of the dance — advancing, retreating, circling, their hands touching briefly before parting again.
èibhlin was grateful for her mother’s insistence on dancing lessons, for the steps came naturally despite her nerves.
Niall moved with the same fluid grace he had shown as a boy, though tempered now by the dignity of his position.
“You dance well,” he said, during a moment when the pattern brought them close together. “Better than I remember from our impromptu lessons at Greenfell Holt.”
The memory brought a smile to her lips.
“You were not the most patient teacher, as I recall. Especially when I trod on your toes.”
“You were twelve years old and determined to master the waltz in a single afternoon,” he replied, with an answering smile. “Patience was perhaps beyond me at that age.”
Their conversation was necessarily fragmented as the dance separated and reunited them, but even these brief exchanges held a warmth and ease that had been missing from their interactions since her arrival in London.
For these few minutes, they were not Duke and visitor, not childhood acquaintances reunited by chance, but simply Niall and èibhlin, moving in harmony to the music.
All too soon, the dance concluded.
Niall bowed, èibhlin curtsied, and the moment of connection was broken.
As he escorted her back to where the Duchess and Aunt Muireall stood, èibhlin felt a curious mixture of elation and disappointment.
The dance had brought them physically closer than they had been since her arrival, yet the formal constraints of the occasion had kept any real conversation impossible.
“Thank you for the dance, Miss èibhlin,” Niall said, his voice returning to its usual formal tone. “I believe that Lord Gregory awaits his turn.”
Indeed, Lord Gregory was already approaching, his expression one of calculated charm. èibhlin suppressed a sigh as she curtsied to Niall.
“Thank you, Your Grace. It was most enjoyable.”
As Niall withdrew and Lord Gregory claimed her hand for the next dance, èibhlin could not help but feel that something precious had slipped away — the brief moment of connection now replaced by the formal rituals of society.
The remainder of the evening passed in a blur of introductions, dances, and careful conversation.
Lord Gregory proved to be a competent dancer, but a tedious partner, his conversation consisting primarily of thinly veiled boasts about his social connections and his father’s estates.
Sir Thomas Thornfield claimed the third dance, his manner as effusive as ever, his attention flattering but slightly overwhelming.
Through it all, èibhlin maintained her composure, smiling and conversing as expected, while inwardly longing for the simple honesty of her brief exchange with Niall.
She was acutely aware of his presence throughout the evening, though their paths rarely crossed after that first dance.
Occasionally she would catch him watching her, his expression unreadable, before he turned away to engage with other guests.
When at last the evening drew to a close, èibhlin felt a profound weariness that had nothing to do with physical exertion.
The constant vigilance required to navigate London society — to speak correctly, to respond appropriately, to maintain the proper degree of animation without appearing either dull or overly enthusiastic — was exhausting in a way that long walks across the Scottish moors never had been.
In the carriage returning to Stonemont House, Aunt Muireall wasted no time in delivering her assessment of the evening’s eligible gentlemen.
“Lord Gregory is entirely too pleased with himself,” she declared, adjusting her shawl with sharp movements.
“All that talk of his father’s estates and his connections at Court — as if you should be impressed by such things!
And those affected mannerisms! The way he drawls his words as if it pains him to speak at normal speed. Most irritating.”
“He was merely making conversation, Aunt Muireall,” èibhlin replied wearily, though she privately agreed with the assessment.
“And Sir Thomas,” her aunt continued, undeterred. “Hovering about you all evening like a bee around a flower. Did you notice how he kept finding reasons to touch your hand or arm? Most improper. And at his age! He must be at least forty-five.”
“Sir Thomas is a respected member of society,” the Duchess interjected coolly. “His attention to Miss èibhlin is a compliment, not an imposition.”
“It may not be an imposition to you, Your Grace, but I noticed my niece growing increasingly uncomfortable with his familiarity,” Aunt Muireall retorted. “There is such a thing as too much attention, particularly from a gentleman of his years.”
èibhlin intervened to stave off the risk of open hostility.
“I found all of the gentlemen most courteous,” she said diplomatically. “Though I confess that the evening was rather overwhelming. So many new faces and names to remember.”
“You acquitted yourself admirably,” the Duchess said, her tone softening slightly. “Lady Harrington was most impressed with your deportment, and several other ladies commented favourably on your modest yet engaging manner.”
“High praise indeed,” Aunt Muireall muttered, though her expression suggested that she found such approval suspect. “And what of the Duke? He danced with you, then seemed to avoid your company for the remainder of the evening.”
The Duchess’ expression sharpened.
“My son has many social obligations at such gatherings. He cannot devote himself exclusively to any one guest, however... charming... they might be.”
The warning in her tone was unmistakable. èibhlin felt a chill settle in her chest, recognising once again the gulf that separated her from Niall — not just in terms of rank, but in the Duchess’ clear determination to prevent any deeper connection between them.
“Of course not,” she replied quietly. “The Duke was most courteous to dance with me at all, given his position.”
“Hmph,” Aunt Muireall sniffed. “In my day, a gentleman who invited a young lady to dance might at least have made some effort at conversation afterwards. But perhaps modern manners are different.”
The Duchess opened her mouth, presumably to deliver a sharp retort, but was prevented from doing so by their arrival at Stonemont House.
As they descended from the carriage, èibhlin glanced up at the imposing facade, wondering if Niall had returned yet — and if so, what he had thought of their brief dance together.
Had it meant anything to him beyond social obligation?
Had he felt, as she had, that momentary connection, that sense of recognition that transcended the formal constraints of their interaction?
Or was she simply another duty to be fulfilled, another obligation of his position as Duke of Stonemont?
As Lucy helped her prepare for bed later, removing pins from her elaborate coiffure and brushing out her hair, èibhlin found herself mentally replaying every moment of their dance, every brief exchange, searching for some clue to his true feelings.
His smile when she had mentioned their childhood dancing lessons, the warmth in his eyes when he had complimented her skill — surely these suggested something beyond mere courtesy?
Yet he had maintained his distance for the remainder of the evening, dancing with other young ladies, conversing with various guests, every inch the dutiful Duke fulfilling his social obligations.
Only occasionally had she caught him watching her, his expression giving nothing away before he turned his attention elsewhere.
“You look tired, Miss,” Lucy remarked, as she set the brush down. “Was the evening not to your liking?”
èibhlin sighed, meeting her maid’s concerned gaze in the mirror.
“It was pleasant enough, Lucy. Just... complicated.”
“Society always is, Miss,” Lucy replied sagely. “Especially when there’s gentlemen involved.”
“Indeed,” èibhlin agreed, with a small smile. “Especially then.”
As she slipped beneath the covers a short while later, her thoughts returned to Niall — to the brief, tantalising moments when the formal Duke seemed to recede, allowing glimpses of the boy she had known.
If only they could speak freely, without the constant scrutiny of the Duchess and the constraints of society.
If only she could know his true thoughts, his true feelings.
But such wishes were futile. They moved in different worlds now, their paths crossing only through the artificial constructs of social gatherings and formal interactions.
Whatever connection they had shared as children — whatever connection might still exist between them — was buried beneath layers of duty, expectation, and propriety.
Yet as sleep claimed her, èibhlin found herself dreaming not of Lord Gregory’s fashionable drawl or Sir Thomas’ effusive compliments, but of stormy blue eyes that seemed to see beyond her careful composure to the woman beneath.