Chapter Seven
“Lord Gregory Armistead,” the Duchess announced at breakfast, setting down her teacup with a decisive click. “I have invited him to dinner this evening, along with several other distinguished guests. He expressed particular interest in meeting you again, Miss èibhlin.”
èibhlin glanced up from her plate, surprise momentarily overriding her composure.
“Lord Gregory? But we were only introduced at Lady Harrington’s musical evening three days ago. We barely exchanged a dozen sentences during our dance.”
“Nevertheless, he was most complimentary about you afterwards,” the Duchess continued, her tone suggesting that she found this development both expected and gratifying. “Lady Harrington tells me that he described you as ‘refreshingly genuine compared to the usual London Misses’.”
“High praise indeed,” Aunt Muireall remarked, with considerably less sarcasm than èibhlin might have expected. “The son of the Earl of Codhampton, is he not? A most respectable connection.”
The Duchess nodded, a rare look of agreement passing between the two older women.
“Indeed. Lord Gregory stands to inherit one of the oldest Earldoms in England. His family’s estates in Derbyshire are particularly fine.”
èibhlin set down her fork, appetite suddenly diminished.
She recalled Lord Gregory from their brief acquaintance — tall, fair-haired, fashionably dressed, with a languid manner that suggested perpetual boredom.
He had danced competently enough but had spent most of their time together speaking of his own accomplishments and connections, showing little interest in her responses beyond the opportunity that they provided for him to continue his monologue.
“How thoughtful of you to include him, Your Grace,” she said carefully. “Though I would not wish him to form expectations based on such a brief acquaintance.”
“Nonsense,” Aunt Muireall said, surprising èibhlin with her dismissive tone. “A young man of his standing would naturally wish to further his acquaintance with an eligible young lady. It is the way of society.”
The Duchess’ eyebrows rose fractionally at this unexpected support.
“Miss Murchison is quite right. Lord Gregory’s interest is perfectly proper — indeed, it is quite flattering. Many young ladies in London would be delighted to receive such attention.”
“I am sensible of the honour,” èibhlin replied, choosing her words with care. “I simply meant that Lord Gregory knows very little of me as yet.”
“And dinner this evening will provide an opportunity to remedy that,” the Duchess said, with an air of finality. “I have also invited Sir Thomas Thornfield, Lady Westmoreland, and the Countess of Blackwood with her daughter. A small gathering, but of the highest quality.”
èibhlin nodded, recognising that further objection would be both futile and impolitic.
“I look forward to it, Your Grace.”
As the conversation turned to other matters, èibhlin found herself wondering how Niall would react to Lord Gregory’s inclusion in the dinner party.
He had been notably absent from breakfast — a pattern that had become increasingly common since Lady Harrington’s musical evening.
On the few occasions when they had encountered each other, he had been unfailingly polite but distant, as if deliberately maintaining a formal space between them.
The memory of their dance still lingered in her mind — the brief warmth in his eyes when he had spoken of their childhood lessons, the solid strength of his hand supporting hers as they moved through the figures.
For those few minutes, the barriers between them had seemed to thin, allowing glimpses of the connection they had once shared.
But the moment had passed, and the Duke had returned, formal and correct, leaving èibhlin to wonder if she had imagined the entire exchange.
Now, with Lord Gregory’s apparent interest, the situation had grown more complicated.
The Duchess’ approval was obvious, and even Aunt Muireall seemed strangely supportive of the connection.
èibhlin could not help but feel that she was being manoeuvred towards a path not of her choosing, yet she lacked any concrete reason to resist.
After all, what alternatives did she have?
The son of an Earl was an eminently suitable match for the daughter of a Scottish Viscount.
Lord Gregory was young, reasonably handsome, and heir to substantial estates.
If his manner was somewhat affected and his conversation self-centred, these were hardly fatal flaws in a society which valued lineage and fortune above character.
And Niall — Niall was a Duke, one of the highest-ranking peers in England, with responsibilities that extended far beyond his personal inclinations.
Whatever connection they might have shared as children, whatever tentative bond might still exist between them, the realities of their positions stood between them like an insurmountable wall.
As she excused herself from the breakfast table, èibhlin could not suppress a feeling of resignation.
Tonight’s dinner would mark another step in her introduction to London society — and perhaps, though she was reluctant to acknowledge it even to herself, another step away from the impossible dream that Niall Smythe might ever see her as more than a childhood acquaintance.
*****
Dinner was but a short time away, and Niall stood in the entrance hall, watching as the first of their guests arrived.
Sir Thomas Thornfield handed his hat and gloves to a waiting footman, his ruddy face beaming with anticipation.
The Countess of Blackwood followed, accompanied by her daughter, Lady Anne Wilmott, a pale, slender girl who looked as if she might dissolve into tears at any moment.
“Your Grace,” Sir Thomas exclaimed, advancing with hand outstretched. “Most kind of you to include me this evening. I understand that we are to have the pleasure of Lord Gregory Armistead’s company as well?”
“Indeed,” Niall replied, shaking the offered hand with as much warmth as he could muster. “Lord Gregory expressed a wish to further his acquaintance with our Scottish guests.”
“Did he indeed?” Sir Thomas’ eyes twinkled with interest. “Miss èibhlin made quite an impression at Lady Harrington’s gathering, it seems. Not surprising, of course — a most charming young lady.”
Before Niall could respond, the butler announced the arrival of Lady Westmoreland, followed almost immediately by Lord Gregory himself.
The young man entered with the casual confidence of one accustomed to being welcomed wherever he went, his evening attire impeccable, his fair hair arranged in the latest fashion.
“Your Grace,” he drawled, offering a bow that managed to be both correct and slightly dismissive. “Delightful to see you again. And Lady Westmoreland, Sir Thomas, Lady Blackwood — what a select gathering.”
“Lord Gregory,” Niall acknowledged, maintaining his composure with effort.
There was something about the younger man’s manner that set his teeth on edge — a combination of entitlement and condescension that reminded him unpleasantly of certain senior military officers he had encountered. “Welcome to Stonemont House.”
“Charmed, I’m sure,” Lord Gregory replied, his gaze already moving past Niall to survey the entrance hall with its elegant furnishings and seasonal decorations. “I see you’ve embraced the Christmas spirit. All these evergreens and ribbons — quite festive, if a touch provincial.”
The casual criticism, delivered with a smile that suggested it was meant as a compliment, sparked a flare of irritation in Niall’s chest. Before he could respond, however, his mother appeared at the top of the stairs, èibhlin and Miss Murchison behind her.
“Ah, our guests have arrived,” the Duchess said, descending with regal grace. “How delightful to see you all.”
Niall’s irritation was momentarily forgotten as his gaze fixed on èibhlin.
She wore a gown of pale green silk that complemented her colouring perfectly, her rich auburn hair arranged in an elegant style that framed her face.
She looked, he thought with a sudden ache in his chest, like spring itself — fresh and lovely and full of quiet promise.
Lord Gregory clearly shared this opinion, for he stepped forward immediately, bowing over èibhlin’s hand with exaggerated gallantry.
“Miss èibhlin, you are a vision this evening. That shade of green — most becoming.”
“Thank you, Lord Gregory,” èibhlin replied, her voice composed, though Niall thought that he detected a hint of wariness in her expression. “You are too kind.”
“Not at all,” Lord Gregory insisted, retaining her hand a moment longer than strictly necessary. “Merely honest. A rare quality in London society, as I’m sure you’ve discovered.”
As the company moved towards the drawing room for pre-dinner drinks, Niall found himself watching the interaction with growing unease.
Lord Gregory had positioned himself at èibhlin’s side, effectively monopolising her attention with a stream of what appeared to be compliments and observations.
Though her responses were polite, Niall thought that he detected a certain tension in her posture, a careful distance in her smile.
Or perhaps he was simply seeing what he wished to see. After all, Lord Gregory was exactly the sort of suitor that a young lady in èibhlin’s position might welcome — wealthy, well-connected, and heir to a title that, while not as elevated as a Dukedom, was nonetheless prestigious.
If his manner was somewhat affected, his conversation rather self-absorbed, these were hardly disqualifications in the marriage market of the ton.
“Your mother seems pleased with the developing acquaintance,” Lady Westmoreland murmured, appearing at Niall’s side with the stealth of a lifelong social tactician. “Lord Gregory is considered quite a catch, despite his... idiosyncrasies.”
Niall maintained his neutral expression with effort.