Chapter Eleven
Niall stood by the window in his mother’s morning room, watching servants string lanterns among the bare trees in the garden.
The household had been transformed into a hive of activity — footmen carrying evergreen boughs, holly, and rolls of fabric for elegant drapes, maids polishing silver and crystal, and Mrs Graves directing it all with military precision.
“Lord Gregory has confirmed his attendance,” the Duchess remarked, sorting through correspondence at her writing desk. “He expressed particular interest in securing Miss èibhlin’s hand for the first dance.”
Niall turned, his expression carefully neutral.
“Did he indeed? And has Miss èibhlin agreed to this arrangement?”
“It is understood,” his mother replied, setting down her pen. “Lord Gregory has been most attentive since their introduction, and a young lady in Miss èibhlin’s position would be foolish to discourage such interest.”
“Her position?” Niall raised an eyebrow. “You speak as if she were in desperate circumstances, Mother. She is the daughter and heir of a Viscount.”
“A Scottish Viscount with modest estates,” the Duchess corrected. “Hardly comparable to the Codhampton Earldom. Lord Gregory represents precisely the sort of connection that would benefit her standing in society.”
Niall felt his jaw tighten.
“And what of her preferences? Has she expressed enthusiasm for Lord Gregory’s company?”
The Duchess studied her son with narrowed eyes.
“You seem remarkably concerned about Miss èibhlin’s feelings on the matter. May I ask why our Scottish guest’s preferences are of such interest to you?”
The directness of the question caught him off guard. He wasn’t sure that he had an answer to that – at least not one that he could give his mother. Niall moved to the fireplace, buying time to compose his thoughts.
“Miss èibhlin is a guest in our home. Her comfort during her stay is a matter of basic courtesy.”
“Indeed?” His mother’s tone held a note of scepticism. “And this... courtesy... extends to your involvement in her potential marital prospects?”
“I am not involving myself,” Niall replied coolly. “Merely observing that Lord Gregory’s interest appears decidedly one-sided. I have seen no indication that Miss èibhlin welcomes his attentions.”
“Miss Murchison disagrees,” the Duchess countered. “She sees Lord Gregory’s suit as a fortunate opportunity for her niece.”
“Miss Murchison would likely approve of any connection that elevated her niece’s social standing, regardless of compatibility,” Niall said, more sharply than he had intended.
“I would not see Miss èibhlin pressured towards a match that brings her no happiness, simply because it appears advantageous from the outside.”
The Duchess set aside her papers, giving her son her full attention.
“How remarkably romantic you have become. I had not realised that happiness featured so prominently in your criteria for suitable marriages.”
The barb struck home.
Niall had always assumed that his own marriage would be arranged according to the practical considerations of his position — an alliance of fortune and bloodline rather than a union of hearts.
Yet now, faced with the prospect of èibhlin being guided towards Lord Gregory, he found himself unexpectedly disturbed.
“I merely suggest that Miss èibhlin’s wishes be considered,” he said, moderating his tone. “She is, after all, the one who must live with the consequences.”
“Her wishes will be guided by practical considerations, as all young ladies’ wishes must be,” the Duchess replied firmly.
“Lord Gregory offers security, position, and the opportunity to establish herself in the first circles of society. What more could a daughter of a minor Scottish peer reasonably desire?”
What indeed? Niall thought, though he kept the question to himself. Instead, he changed the subject slightly.
“I intend to request the waltz with Miss èibhlin at the Ball.”
His mother’s eyes narrowed.
“I had thought that you might partner Lady Anne Wilmott for that dance. The Earl of Blackwood has made it clear that he would welcome closer connections with our family.”
“Lady Anne may have the cotillion,” Niall said, his tone brooking no argument. “The waltz I reserve for Miss èibhlin.”
A heavy silence fell between them, broken only by the crackling of the fire.
Niall knew that his mother was displeased, yet he found himself unwilling to yield on this point.
The thought of èibhlin waltzing with Lord Gregory, held in the younger man’s arms as they circled the floor, provoked an unexpected surge of something dangerously close to jealousy.
“Niall,” his mother said finally, her voice softening slightly, “I hope that you understand that my arrangements for Miss èibhlin are made with her best interests at heart. A connection with Lord Gregory would secure her future in a way that her father’s modest fortune cannot.”
“I understand your intentions,” he replied, meeting her gaze directly. “But I question whether security and position are sufficient compensation for a lifetime spent with a man whose company one does not genuinely enjoy.”
The Duchess sighed, her expression a mixture of concern and exasperation.
“You have become quite the philosopher on matters of the heart. May I ask what has prompted this sudden interest in the foundations of marital happiness?”
It was a question Niall was not prepared to answer, even to himself. He turned back to the window, where he could now see èibhlin walking beside Mrs Graves, directing the placement of further lanterns in the garden.
“The Ball is but a week away,” his mother continued, when it became clear that he would not respond. “Whatever... concerns... you may have about Miss èibhlin’s future, I trust that you will remember your position and responsibilities during the festivities.”
“I am unlikely to forget either,” Niall replied, turning to face her once more. “But I would ask the same of you, Mother. Remember that Miss èibhlin is a young woman of intelligence and character, not merely a piece to be moved about the social chessboard according to others’ designs.”
The Duchess rose, gathering her correspondence with precise movements.
“We shall see,” she said, her tone neither conceding nor dismissing his point. “The Ball will provide ample opportunity for all parties to demonstrate their true inclinations.”
With that, she departed, leaving Niall alone with his increasingly complicated thoughts.
He returned to the window, his gaze seeking èibhlin once more.
She had moved to the far side of the garden now, examining the placement, at the top of a decorative timber arch, of a cluster of mistletoe that a footman held up for her inspection.
The sight of her, surrounded by the Christmas greenery that they had gathered together at Wildwood Manor, stirred memories of their afternoon there — the easy conversation, the shared recollections, the moment when she had been briefly in his arms. For those few hours, away from the constraints of London society and his mother’s watchful eye, something had shifted between them, some barrier had momentarily lowered.
Now, with the Ball approaching and Lord Gregory’s intentions becoming increasingly clear, that moment of connection seemed both precious and precarious — a glimpse of possibility that reality threatened to extinguish.
*****
“The mistletoe ball should be suspended here, I think,” the Duchess said, gesturing towards the entrance to the ballroom. “It’s traditional, of course, but we must ensure that it’s high enough, and off to one side a little, such that guests do not find themselves beneath it unintentionally.”
èibhlin nodded, watching as two footmen positioned the ladder accordingly.
The mistletoe they had gathered at Wildwood Manor had been fashioned into elegant spheres, each wrapped with ribbon and adorned with small glass beads that caught the light.
They were beautiful, festive without being ostentatious, and she felt a small surge of pride at having contributed to their creation.
“Lord Gregory expressed particular admiration for our Christmas decorations when he called yesterday,” the Duchess continued, her tone casual, though her gaze was anything but. “He mentioned how much he looks forward to the Ball.”
“How kind of him to say so,” èibhlin replied neutrally, carefully avoiding the implied question.
Lord Gregory had indeed called again, spending an hour in the drawing room expounding on his family’s Christmas traditions at Codhampton Park, with occasional pauses to compliment èibhlin in ways that managed to be simultaneously flattering and condescending.
“He also expressed his intention to request your hand for the first dance,” the Duchess added, watching èibhlin’s reaction closely. “Most gentlemen find such formalities tedious, but Lord Gregory seems genuinely enthusiastic.”
“I’m sure it is the general festivities that excite his interest, Your Grace,” èibhlin said, moving towards the next doorway where mistletoe was to be hung. “The Christmas season brings out the child in us all, does it not?”
“Perhaps,” the Duchess conceded, following her. “Though I suspect it is the company rather than the season that appeals to Lord Gregory. He has been most attentive since your introduction at Lady Harrington’s musical evening.”
There was no avoiding the implication this time. èibhlin turned to face the Duchess directly, maintaining a polite smile despite her inner discomfort.
“Lord Gregory has been very kind, Your Grace. Though our acquaintance is still quite brief.”
“Brief, yes, but promising,” the Duchess replied, her tone warming slightly.
“He comes from one of the oldest families in England, you know. The Codhampton Earldom dates back to the reign of Elizabeth I. And the estate itself is magnificent — over ten thousand acres, with some of the finest hunting in Derbyshire.”