Chapter Ten
The fire in èibhlin’s bedchamber had burned low, casting long shadows across the floor as she sat at the small escritoire, her diary open before her. Lucy had retired an hour ago, leaving èibhlin alone with her thoughts and the sprig of mistletoe she had gathered at Wildwood Manor.
With careful fingers, she pressed the waxy leaves and pearlescent berries between the silver paper nestled among the pages of her diary, arranging them precisely beside the older specimens — those precious leaves she had kept for eight years.
The old and new together formed a bridge between past and present that stirred emotions she had long kept contained.
Taking up her pen, she began to write, the scratch of nib against paper the only sound in the quiet room.
Today I gathered mistletoe again with Niall — with the Duke, I should write, though in my most private thoughts, he remains Niall.
The years fall away when we are together, without the constraints of London society pressing upon us.
For a few precious hours at Wildwood Manor, it felt as though we were simply ourselves again, not Duke and visitor, not childhood acquaintances reunited by chance, but Niall and èibhlin, as we once were at Greenfell Holt.
She paused, considering her next words. The diary had been her confidante since childhood, the one place where she need not guard her thoughts or measure her expressions. Here, she could acknowledge the things that propriety demanded she conceal elsewhere.
I am in danger, I fear. In danger of developing feelings that can lead nowhere but to disappointment.
He caught me when I stumbled today, as he caught me when I fell all those years ago, and held me for one brief moment that seemed to stretch into eternity.
I felt such safety in his arms, such rightness, as if I had found a place that I had been seeking without knowing it.
Yet what folly is this? He is the Duke of Stonemont, one of the highest-ranking peers in England.
I am the daughter of a Scottish Viscount, a visitor in his mother’s house, a temporary presence in his life.
The Duchess clearly favours Lord Gregory as a suitable match for me, and even Aunt Muireall, who disagrees with the Duchess on virtually everything, shares this opinion.
I should be practical. I should consider Lord Gregory’s suit with the seriousness that my position demands.
Yet when I think of his affected speech, his constant self-praise, his thinly veiled condescension towards Scotland and its traditions, I feel nothing but dismay at the prospect of such a future.
And when I think of Niall — the warmth in his eyes when we speak of shared memories, the quiet strength of his character, the way that he listens as if my thoughts truly matter — I feel a longing so acute it frightens me.
èibhlin set down her pen, rubbing her tired eyes.
The house had fallen silent around her, the occasional creak of timber the only reminder that she was not entirely alone in the world.
She rose and moved to the window, drawing back the curtain to gaze at the garden below, silvered by moonlight and dusted with frost.
Scotland seemed very far away tonight — the wild moors, the familiar comfort of Felldale Castle, her father sitting by the fire with his books. She had not expected to miss it so acutely, nor had she expected to find something in London that would make returning home seem somehow undesirable.
With a sigh, she returned to her desk and took up her pen once more.
I wish I had been braver today. When he held me, when our eyes met, there was a moment — a heartbeat — when something might have been said, something that would have crossed the boundary between friendship and.
.. more. But the moment passed, propriety reasserted itself, and we returned to our formal roles.
The Ball approaches quickly. I shall dance with Lord Gregory, as promised, and smile, and play the part expected of me. Yet my heart will be elsewhere, with the one man whose attention I truly desire and cannot have.
How foolish we are, we humans, to want what lies beyond our reach when practical happiness might be found closer at hand. My mother would have said that I have inherited my father’s romantic heart, rather than her practical nature. Perhaps she would have been right.
She traced a finger over the mistletoe leaves, feeling their smooth texture beneath her touch. The simple plant, traditionally associated with kisses and holiday merriment, now held a deeper significance — a tangible reminder of one perfect afternoon, of possibilities glimpsed but unfulfilled.
I shall keep these leaves, as I kept the others from that Christmas long ago.
Tokens of memory, of connection, of moments when life seemed simpler and hearts more honest. Whatever happens in the days to come, I shall have this — this small piece of truth preserved between pages where no one but I will see it.
èibhlin closed the diary gently, mindful of the precious cargo it contained. Rising, she moved to the dresser and unlocked the small drawer where she kept her most personal possessions, placing the diary carefully inside before securing it once more.
As she prepared for bed, calling Lucy to extinguish candles and bank the fire for the night, her thoughts remained with Niall.
She wondered where he was at this moment, what occupied his mind as the household settled into silence.
Did he ever think of her when they were apart?
Did he ever wish, as she did, for circumstances that might allow them to explore the connection that seemed to exist between them?
Such questions had no answers, at least none that she could know. As she slipped beneath the covers, èibhlin resigned herself to uncertainty — to hoping without expectation, to dreaming without conviction that those dreams might one day become reality.
Her last conscious thought before sleep claimed her was of Niall’s arms around her, steadying her, holding her for that one perfect moment when the world had narrowed to just the two of them among the apple trees.
*****
Across the house, in the Duke’s apartments, Niall stood at the window, gazing out at the same moonlit garden that had captured èibhlin’s attention moments before.
Behind him, Parker, his valet, moved with quiet efficiency, laying out nightclothes and tidying away the already shed parts of the day’s attire.
“Will there be anything else required this evening, Your Grace?” Parker asked, his voice respectfully low in the quiet room.
Niall did not immediately respond, his thoughts still lingering on the afternoon at Wildwood Manor — on the easy conversation, the shared memories, the moment when èibhlin had stumbled and he had caught her in his arms.
The impression of her warmth against him remained, a ghost of sensation that refused to fade with the passing hours.
“Your Grace?”
Parker prompted him gently, after a moment of silence had stretched between them.
Niall turned from the window, running a hand through his dark hair in a gesture of uncharacteristic discomposure.
“Forgive me, Parker. My mind was elsewhere.”
“Understandable, sir,” the valet replied, with the comfortable familiarity of long service. “It has been a full day.”
“Indeed.” Niall moved to the chair before the fire, loosening his cravat with distracted fingers. “Tell me, Parker, what do you make of our Scottish guests? You have been in service long enough to form reliable judgments of character, I believe.”
Parker considered the question with appropriate gravity as he took the discarded cravat and folded it neatly.
“The Honourable Miss Murchison seems a lady of decided opinions and somewhat rigid principles, Your Grace. As for The Honourable Miss èibhlin...” He paused, choosing his words with care.
“She appears to possess both intelligence and genuine warmth — qualities not always found together, particularly among young ladies of good family.”
“A diplomatic assessment,” Niall observed, a slight smile touching his lips. “And accurate, I believe.”
The valet inclined his head in acknowledgment, continuing his work as Niall fell silent once more.
Parker had been in Niall’s service since his university days, accompanying him through the transition from heir to Duke after his father’s untimely death. In that time, he had proven himself not only an excellent valet, but also a discreet confidant when circumstances required.
“She reminds me of Scotland,” Niall said abruptly, the words emerging before he had fully formed the thought.
“Not just because she is Scottish, but... there is a quality about her. An honesty, a directness beneath the social graces. Like the landscape itself — civilised on the surface, but with something wilder, more elemental, beneath.”
Parker’s hands stilled momentarily in the act of arranging Niall’s watch and signet ring on the dresser, though his expression remained carefully neutral.
“I believe that I understand, Your Grace.”
“Do you?” Niall laughed softly, without humour.
“I’m not certain that I understand myself.
We were acquainted as children, you know.
During my visits to Greenfell Holt. She was just a girl then, all curiosity and determination.
I found her rather endearing, in the way one might appreciate a spirited puppy. ”
“And now, sir?”
The question, simply posed but weighted with implication, hung in the air between them. Niall rose, moving restlessly about the room as he considered his response.
“Now she is a young woman of uncommon grace and intelligence,” he said finally, his tone carefully measured. “A guest in my house. A connection from my past that has... unexpected resonance in my present.”
Parker accepted this oblique answer without comment, continuing his duties with the same quiet efficiency that had characterised his service for years.