Chapter Twelve
Lucy’s nimble fingers worked swiftly, weaving a strand of pearls through èibhlin’s carefully arranged curls.
The lady’s maid had spent nearly an hour on her mistress’s hair alone — brushing, curling, pinning, and arranging it into an elegant style that framed èibhlin’s face and showcased the rich auburn colour to perfection.
“You look beautiful, Miss,” Lucy said, stepping back to survey her handiwork with evident satisfaction. “That colour suits you wonderfully.”
èibhlin studied her reflection in the mirror, scarcely recognising the elegant young woman who gazed back at her.
Her gown was of pale green silk with delicate silver embroidery along the modest neckline and hem.
It had been her mother’s last gift to her, commissioned for her birthday, shortly before Lady Felldale’s death.
She had never worn it until tonight, saving it for a truly special occasion.
She had been concerned that the style might no longer be considered fashionable, but the Duchess had, after some thought, declared it’s classic simplicity suitable.
“Thank you, Lucy,” she replied, touching the fabric with reverent fingers. “You’ve worked wonders with my appearance.”
The door opened without warning, and Aunt Muireall swept in, already dressed in a gown of the deep plum she liked, despite the fact that the colour did not entirely flatter her. She paused, her critical gaze assessing èibhlin from head to toe.
“Well, at least the colour is becoming,” she pronounced, moving closer to inspect the details of èibhlin’s appearance. “Though I still think that the neckline is cut rather higher than is fashionable. You will appear positively provincial beside the London ladies.”
“It is as my mother designed it, Aunt Muireall,” èibhlin replied quietly, refusing to be drawn into an argument on tonight of all nights. “I wear it in her memory.”
Something flickered in her aunt’s eyes — a brief softening that was quickly masked.
“Yes, well. Caithren always did have a certain... restraint... in matters of fashion. Not entirely unsuited to your circumstances, I suppose.” She circled èibhlin slowly, her lips pursed in assessment.
“The pearls are a wise choice — understated yet elegant. Lord Gregory will be most impressed, I have no doubt.”
The mention of Lord Gregory sent a familiar flicker of dread through èibhlin’s stomach.
Since the Duchess’ dinner party, he had called twice more, each visit reinforcing her initial impression of a young man whose primary interest lay in himself rather than in her.
His conversation consisted mainly of references to Codhampton Park’s grandeur, his family’s illustrious connections, and London society’s many failings compared to his own refined standards.
Yet both Aunt Muireall and the Duchess seemed determined to encourage his attentions, finding virtue in his every pronouncement and significance in his every glance in èibhlin’s direction.
“I have no particular wish to impress Lord Gregory, Aunt,” she said, as Lucy carefully fastened a simple pearl pendant around her neck. “My appearance tonight is for the general company, not for any specific gentleman.”
“Nonsense,” Aunt Muireall scoffed. “A young lady in your position must always be conscious of the impression that she makes on eligible gentlemen. Lord Gregory represents an opportunity that may not come again, èibhlin. His interest is both flattering and practical.”
“Practical,” èibhlin echoed, unable to keep a note of irony from her voice. “How romantic.”
“Romance!” Her aunt’s tone suggested that she had uttered something scandalous. “Is that what you seek? At your age, with your prospects? Your mother would be most disappointed in such foolishness.”
The invocation of her mother stung, as Aunt Muireall had surely intended. èibhlin turned from the mirror, meeting her aunt’s gaze directly.
“My mother wished for my happiness above all else,” she said quietly. “She told me so many times before her death. She would not have me enter a loveless marriage simply for advantage, no matter how practical the connection might appear.”
“And you believe that Lord Gregory is incapable of inspiring affection?” Aunt Muireall’s eyebrows rose incredulously. “A handsome young man, heir to an Earldom, with impeccable manners and evident admiration for you? Most young ladies would consider such a prospect the height of good fortune.”
“His admiration seems more for my novelty than my person,” èibhlin replied, turning back to the mirror as Lucy arranged a delicate shawl around her shoulders. “And his manners, while correct, reveal a character I find... difficult to esteem.”
“You have become remarkably particular for a Scottish Viscount’s daughter,” Aunt Muireall observed, her tone sharpening.
“One might almost suspect that your affections were engaged elsewhere.” èibhlin’s cheeks warmed, betraying her before she could contemplate a denial.
Her aunt’s eyes narrowed, a dawning comprehension in their depths.
“I see,” she said slowly. “This explains much. But I warn you, èibhlin — if your thoughts turn in the direction that I suspect, you court disappointment. The Duke of Stonemont moves in circles far above our own. Whatever courtesy he has shown you stems from his position as host, nothing more.”
The blunt assessment, so closely mirroring èibhlin’s own darkest doubts, sent a shaft of pain through her chest. She lifted her chin, determined not to reveal how deeply the words had wounded.
“I am under no illusions, Aunt Muireall,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. “The Duke has been kind, as befits our hosts. I expect nothing beyond the bounds of proper hospitality.”
The words were the truth, but they did not change the facts of her feelings – it was becoming increasingly clear to her that she cared for Niall in a manner well beyond what was wise, and that her affections, once so engaged, were unlikely to be able to be deflected or transferred to another man.
Which left her facing rather miserable prospects.
She took a deep breath, and steadied herself.
“See that you maintain that sensible perspective,” her aunt advised, moving towards the door.
“Dreams of impossibilities lead only to heartache. Lord Gregory, however, represents a very real possibility for your future security and happiness. I suggest that you receive his attentions tonight with appropriate gratitude.”
As the door closed behind Aunt Muireall, èibhlin released a shaky breath. Lucy, who had remained silent throughout the exchange, now touched her shoulder gently.
“Are you well, Miss?”
“Quite well, Lucy,” èibhlin replied, summoning a smile that did not reach her eyes. “Merely experiencing the usual nerves before a grand event.”
Lucy’s expression suggested that she was not entirely convinced.
“Shall I fetch your gloves and fan? The guests will be arriving shortly.”
“Yes, please.”
Left momentarily alone, èibhlin returned to the window, gazing out at the garden where the lanterns now glowed among the trees, their light reflecting off the frost-rimed hedges. Carriages had begun to arrive, depositing elegantly dressed guests at the front entrance.
Soon the house would be filled with music and laughter, with the rustle of silk and the murmur of conversation.
And somewhere amid that glittering throng would be Niall — the Duke of Stonemont to everyone else, but in her heart, still the boy who had taught her to skip stones across the loch, who had caught her when she stumbled, whose rare smile transformed his serious features and sent a warmth through her that made the fires burning in every grate pale by comparison.
Aunt Muireall was right about one thing - to dream of impossibilities was to court heartache.
Yet as èibhlin turned from the window, smoothing her hands over the silk of her mother’s final gift, she could not entirely suppress the hope that tonight, for one dance at least, the impossible might momentarily feel within reach.
*****
“The white waistcoat, I think, Parker,” Niall said, studying his reflection in the cheval mirror. “And the sapphire studs rather than the pearl.”
“Very good, Your Grace,” his valet replied, moving to the wardrobe to retrieve the items in question. “A most elegant choice for the occasion.”
Niall adjusted his cravat, careful not to disrupt its folds, frowning slightly at the intricate arrangement.
Though he had learned to tolerate the formalities of Ducal dress, he had never developed the passionate interest in fashion that characterised many of his peers.
Tonight, however, he found himself unusually concerned with his appearance.
The Ball represented more than just the Stonemont Christmas celebration.
It marked èibhlin’s formal introduction to London society — and perhaps, though he hardly dared acknowledge it even to himself, a turning point in their relationship.
Since their expedition to Wildwood Manor, something had changed between them, some barrier had lowered.
The memory of her in his arms, of the warmth in her eyes as they had shared reminiscences of Scotland, had remained with him through the busy days of preparation, surfacing in quiet moments like a treasure brought to light.
Yet they had exchanged few words in the intervening time, their paths crossing only briefly amid the household’s bustling preparations.
His mother had kept èibhlin occupied with decorations and arrangements, while duties related to the estate had claimed much of his own attention.
He suspected that his mother had been making certain that they were kept apart.
Tonight, however, nothing would prevent him from seeking èibhlin’s company — from claiming the waltz that he had promised himself, regardless of his mother’s disapproval or Lord Gregory’s evident intentions.