Chapter Seven #3
Before Niall could decipher this cryptic advice, the second course arrived — a roast pheasant with seasonal vegetables — providing a welcome diversion. As the footmen served the new dishes, Niall took the opportunity to observe èibhlin once more.
She was speaking with Sir Thomas now, her expression animated as they discussed some topic that appeared to genuinely interest her.
The contrast between her engagement with Sir Thomas and her polite restraint with Lord Gregory was striking, though Niall doubted anyone else at the table had noticed the difference.
There was a naturalness to her manner with the older gentleman that suggested she found his company genuinely agreeable, despite the disparity in their ages.
Lord Gregory, meanwhile, was speaking to Niall’s mother, his languid drawl carrying across the table as he expounded on his recent visit to Bath.
“The society there is tolerable, I suppose, though rather provincial compared to London. One meets the oddest assortment of people — retired military men, clergymen’s widows, and the like. Hardly the first circle.”
“Yet Bath has its charms,” the Duchess replied, with a glance at èibhlin. “The waters are said to be most beneficial for certain conditions. And the architecture is quite elegant, in its way.”
“Oh, the buildings are well enough,” Lord Gregory conceded, with a dismissive wave. “Though nothing to compare with London’s grandeur. Or with Codhampton Park, for that matter. My ancestors had the good sense to employ only the finest architects.”
As he continued to extol the virtues of his family’s estate, Niall caught èibhlin’s eye across the table. And again, for a brief moment, something inexplicable, yet valuable, passed between them, before she lowered her gaze, returning her attention to Sir Thomas’ conversation.
That fleeting connection, however brief, sent a warmth through Niall’s chest that dispelled some of the cold weight of his earlier jealousy.
She was not, he thought with sudden certainty, as captivated by Lord Gregory as he clearly wished her to be.
There was a watchfulness in her manner, a careful distance which suggested that she was assessing rather than admiring him.
The realisation brought both relief and a renewed sense of confusion. If èibhlin was not particularly drawn to Lord Gregory — despite his objective suitability and the evident approval of both the Duchess and her Aunt — then what did she want? Who might she want?
The question lingered in Niall’s mind as the dinner progressed through its remaining courses.
He maintained his role as host with careful correctness, engaging with his dinner companions, ensuring that conversation flowed smoothly around the table.
But beneath this social veneer, his thoughts circled repeatedly back to èibhlin — to the quiet dignity with which she had dealt with Lord Gregory’s patronising comments, to the genuine warmth that occasionally illuminated her features when a topic truly engaged her interest, to the brief moments when their eyes had met across the table, communicating something that transcended words.
By the time the ladies withdrew, leaving the gentlemen to their port, Niall had reached a reluctant conclusion: his feelings for èibhlin Murchison were most definitely progressing beyond the bounds of mere friendship or nostalgic affection.
Whether he wished it or not — and there were many reasons to wish otherwise — he feared that he was developing an attachment which could only lead to complications.
Lord Gregory’s voice cut through these reflections, his tone casual yet somehow challenging.
“Miss èibhlin is a most interesting young lady, Your Grace. Quite different from the usual London misses, with their affected manners and empty heads.”
“Miss èibhlin was raised to value substance over superficiality,” Niall replied carefully, swirling the ruby liquid in his glass. “Her father is a man of considerable intellect and principle.”
“Indeed?” Lord Gregory’s eyebrows rose slightly. “How fortunate for her. Though I wonder if such... intellectual... tendencies might not prove somewhat challenging in a wife. A gentleman generally prefers comfort and admiration to debate in his home circle, does he not?”
The implication — that èibhlin’s evident intelligence might be a liability rather than an asset — sent a surge of anger through Niall’s chest. He controlled his expression with effort, aware of Sir Thomas watching the exchange with interest.
“I have always found that true companionship requires mutual respect and appreciation,” he said, his voice cooler than he had intended. “A marriage based solely on comfort and admiration seems rather... one-sided.”
Lord Gregory’s eyes narrowed slightly, a flash of something — annoyance? assessment? — crossing his features before his usual languid expression returned.
“A philosophical view, certainly. Though perhaps somewhat idealistic for the practical world we inhabit.”
“I prefer to think of it as principled rather than idealistic,” Niall replied, setting down his glass with deliberate care. “But then, principles are a matter of individual conscience, are they not?”
A tense silence followed this exchange. Sir Thomas cleared his throat, clearly sensing the undercurrents but uncertain of their cause.
“Speaking of conscience, I have been meaning to consult you both about a matter of some delicacy. The committee for the Foundling Hospital’s Christmas charity is seeking patrons, and I thought perhaps...”
As Sir Thomas elaborated on the charity’s needs and goals, Niall found his thoughts returning to èibhlin.
Lord Gregory’s comments had revealed much about his character — and about his view of èibhlin as a potential wife.
Lord Gregory saw her intelligence as something to be managed or suppressed rather than valued, her independent mind as a challenge to be overcome rather than a quality to be cherished.
The thought filled Niall with a protective anger that he struggled to contain.
èibhlin deserved someone who would appreciate her fully — her quick mind, her quiet dignity, her gentle strength. Not someone who would seek to diminish these qualities to suit his own comfort or convenience.
But who was he to determine what — or whom — èibhlin deserved?
His position as her host, as her childhood acquaintance, gave him no right to influence her choices, or to judge those who sought her affection.
If Lord Gregory’s attentions were welcomed by èibhlin, if she found in him qualities that Niall could not perceive, then he had no standing to interfere.
Yet as he rose to suggest that they rejoin the ladies, Niall could not suppress the hope that èibhlin would indeed see Lord Gregory for what he was — a young man of privilege and entitlement, whose interest in her stemmed more from a desire for novelty than from genuine appreciation.
It was a hope born of selfishness, he acknowledged silently. But it was no less fervent for that recognition.