Chapter Eight
The morning room at Stonemont House was bathed in weak winter sunlight, lending a golden glow to the pale-yellow walls and elegant furnishings.
èibhlin sat near the window, ostensibly engaged in embroidery, though her needle remained motionless as she gazed out at the frost-rimed garden beyond.
Three days had passed since the Duchess’ dinner party, and she had seen little of Niall in that time — a circumstance that left her with a curious hollow feeling beneath her ribs.
“Your stitches are most uneven, èibhlin,” Aunt Muireall observed from her seat by the fire. “I cannot imagine what has captured your attention so thoroughly in that barren garden.”
èibhlin returned her focus to the embroidery hoop in her lap, where a half-finished spray of holly leaves showed evidence of her wandering concentration.
“I was merely thinking, Aunt Muireall. The garden has a certain stark beauty in winter, don’t you think?”
“What I think,” her aunt replied, setting aside her own needlework, “is that young ladies with matrimonial prospects should devote more attention to demonstrating their domestic accomplishments.”
Before èibhlin could formulate a suitable response to this pointed remark, the door opened to admit Hartwell, his dignified bearing somehow more pronounced than usual.
“Miss Murchison, Miss èibhlin Murchison,” he announced with grave formality, “Lord Gregory Armistead has called and requests the honour of your company.”
èibhlin’s heart sank, though she maintained a composed expression. A formal morning call, following so quickly after their dinner acquaintance, suggested a marked interest that she had done nothing to encourage.
“Thank you, Hartwell. Please show Lord Gregory in.”
As the butler withdrew, Aunt Muireall set her embroidery aside with unusual haste, a look of satisfaction crossing her features.
“This is most proper,” she declared, straightening her cap with quick, precise movements. “Lord Gregory’s attention is a compliment to your standing, èibhlin. I trust that you will receive him with appropriate gratitude.”
“I shall receive him with appropriate courtesy, Aunt,” èibhlin replied, carefully emphasising the distinction. “Though, as I have said before, I would not wish him to form expectations based on such a brief acquaintance.”
Her aunt’s expression sharpened.
“Do not be difficult, èibhlin. The son of an Earl does not call upon a young lady without serious intentions. It would be most unwise to discourage such an advantageous connection.”
Before their discussion could progress further, the door opened once more to admit Lord Gregory.
They both rose as he entered, moving with the languid grace that seemed to characterise his every movement, immaculately dressed in a coat of blue superfine, his cravat arranged in an intricate style that must have required considerable time and patience from his valet.
“Miss Murchison, Miss èibhlin,” he drawled, executing a bow of perfect depth — just deep enough to show respect, not so deep as to suggest excessive deference. “How delightful to find you at home.”
“Lord Gregory,” Aunt Muireall acknowledged, with a warmth that èibhlin found both surprising and concerning. “How kind of you to call. Please, do be seated.”
Aunt Muireall resumed her own seat, as did èibhlin, and Lord Gregory took the chair opposite èibhlin.
She noted the calculating assessment in his gaze as it travelled over her morning dress of pale blue muslin.
There was something in his expression — a kind of proprietary satisfaction — that sent a chill down her spine despite the fire’s warmth.
“I trust that I find you well this morning, Miss èibhlin?” he inquired, his tone suggesting that he considered her health a matter of personal interest.
“Quite well, thank you, my Lord,” she replied, tidying her embroidery with careful movements. “And yourself?”
“In excellent spirits, now that I am in your charming company.” His smile held a touch of complacency, as if he were bestowing a great favour with his presence. “I must say, the memory of our conversation at dinner has lingered most pleasantly in my thoughts.”
èibhlin recalled their dinner interaction with considerably less pleasure — his patronising remarks about her education, his endless monologues about Codhampton Park, his barely concealed dismissal of Scotland and its traditions. But social convention demanded a different response.
“You are most kind, my Lord,” she said, her tone neutral. “The Duchess’ dinner party was indeed a pleasant gathering.”
“Most pleasant,” he agreed, settling back in his chair with the ease of a man accustomed to dominating whatever space he found himself in.
“Though I found the company at our end of the table particularly engaging. It is rare to encounter a young lady who combines beauty with such... unique perspectives.”
The pause before ‘unique’ suggested that he had considered, and rejected, less flattering adjectives. èibhlin maintained her polite smile with effort.
“I’m afraid that my perspectives are shaped by a rather limited experience, my Lord. Scotland offers fewer diversions than London society.”
“Ah, but that is precisely what makes your conversation so refreshing,” he countered, with a wave of one elegantly gloved hand.
“You have not yet been... shall we say... polished into conformity by the expectations of the ton. There is a certain... provincial authenticity... to your observations that I find quite charming.”
Each compliment contained a subtle barb, a reminder of what Lord Gregory clearly perceived as her inferior status and limited social education.
èibhlin felt her cheeks warm with a mixture of embarrassment and indignation, though she kept her expression carefully pleasant.
“How very gracious of you to find charm in my rustic manners, my Lord,” she replied, unable to entirely suppress the edge in her voice. “Though I fear the novelty may soon wear thin.”
“èibhlin!” Aunt Muireall’s tone held a note of sharp warning. “Lord Gregory pays you a compliment. There is no need for such... spirited... responses.”
Lord Gregory’s smile widened, as if her momentary flash of temper amused rather than offended him.
“Not at all, Miss Murchison. I find Miss èibhlin’s spirit quite delightful.
So different from the insipid agreeability one encounters in most drawing rooms.” His gaze returned to èibhlin, a speculative gleam in his eyes that made her distinctly uncomfortable.
“Tell me, Miss èibhlin, do you ride? The Park offers excellent paths, even in winter, and I would be honoured to escort you, should the weather permit.”
The invitation was both unexpected and unwelcome.
Riding with Lord Gregory, with none but a groom in attendance, would suggest a level of intimacy and encouragement that èibhlin had no wish to convey.
“You are most kind, my Lord, but I fear that I did not pack my riding habit. We had limited luggage space, and I did not expect to ride. Perhaps another form of entertainment might be more appropriate?”
“As you wish,” he conceded, though his expression suggested that he found her refusal curious rather than disappointing. “Though I must say, the image of you galloping across the Scottish moors is quite captivating. I imagine that you ride with considerable spirit.”
“My niece was taught to ride like a lady, not a hoyden,” Aunt Muireall interjected, with a meaningful glance at èibhlin. “Though she does enjoy the exercise when circumstances permit.”
“Of course, of course,” Lord Gregory murmured, his tone indulgent. “I would expect nothing less of a young lady raised in your care, Miss Murchison.”
The conversation continued in this vein for some minutes — Lord Gregory offering compliments that contained subtle critiques, Aunt Muireall responding with increasingly obvious approval, and èibhlin maintaining a careful balance between politeness and reserve.
Throughout the exchange, she was acutely conscious of her aunt’s expectations and Lord Gregory’s growing confidence, as if her resistance only added to the challenge he perceived.
When Hartwell entered to announce that the Duchess had returned from her morning calls and wished to join them, èibhlin felt a momentary relief, quickly followed by renewed apprehension.
The Duchess’ approval of Lord Gregory had been evident at dinner; her presence now would only add another voice to those encouraging his attentions.
And indeed, she was proved correct in that assumption, for when the Duchess swept into the morning room moments later, her expression brightened visibly at the sight of their visitor.
“Lord Gregory, how delightful to find you here. I trust Miss èibhlin and Miss Murchison have been entertaining you adequately?”
“Most adequately, Your Grace,” he replied, rising to bow over her offered hand. “Miss èibhlin’s conversation is as engaging as her appearance is charming.”
“How gallant of you to say so,” the Duchess responded, with a pleased glance at èibhlin. “Though I must agree that my young guest possesses many admirable qualities. She has made a most favourable impression during her short time in London.”
“So I have observed,” Lord Gregory said, his tone suggesting that he considered his own good opinion particularly significant. “Miss èibhlin brings a fresh perspective to our rather jaded circles. I find it most... invigorating.”
The Duchess’ smile deepened.
“Then you must certainly attend our Christmas Ball, Lord Gregory. I am planning quite an elaborate affair, to properly introduce Miss èibhlin to society before the Season begins.”
“A Ball?” His interest visibly sharpened. “How delightful. I would be honoured to receive an invitation, Your Grace.”
“You will most definitely receive one,” the Duchess replied, with a gracious nod. “It will be held on the twentieth of December — just over a fortnight from now. I trust that your engagements will permit your attendance?”