Chapter Twelve #2
“You seem preoccupied this evening, Your Grace,” Parker observed, helping Niall into the white waistcoat. “Concerned about the Ball, perhaps?”
“Not concerned, precisely,” Niall replied, allowing his valet to fasten the sapphire studs into his shirt. “Merely... anticipatory.”
Parker’s expression remained neutral, though a slight quirk of his eyebrow suggested that he understood more than Niall had explicitly stated.
“The Duchess has outdone herself with the preparations,” he remarked, brushing an invisible speck from Niall’s shoulder. “Mrs Graves tells me that the decorations are particularly fine this year.”
“Indeed.” Niall thought of the elegant draperies, the mistletoe balls hanging in strategic locations throughout the house, of the evergreen boughs and holly that adorned every mantelpiece and archway. “The greenery from Wildwood Manor proved most effective.”
“So I understand, sir.” Parker handed Niall his signet ring, his manner as composed as ever despite the subtle undercurrent in their conversation. “Miss èibhlin’s assistance was apparently most valuable in the arrangements.”
The mention of her name sent a now-familiar warmth through Niall’s chest.
“She has a natural eye for beauty,” he said, slipping the ring onto his finger. “A quality not sufficiently appreciated by some, I fear.”
“Beauty takes many forms, Your Grace,” Parker replied, with the philosophical air that occasionally emerged in their private conversations. “And is perceived differently according to the observer’s perspective.”
Niall glanced at his valet, suspecting a deeper meaning in the seemingly casual observation.
“A profound point, Parker. Though society often imposes a rather narrow definition of what constitutes appropriate admiration.”
“Society’s definitions are not always aligned with more essential truths,” Parker said, adjusting the fall of Niall’s coat with practiced hands. “History suggests that those who recognise this discrepancy sometimes find a more enduring satisfaction than those who merely follow convention.”
It was as close to direct advice as Parker would ever come, and Niall found himself oddly touched by the subtle encouragement.
Whatever his valet might have observed or suspected about his feelings for èibhlin, it seemed that he did not judge them as inappropriate or unwise.
“A perspective worth considering,” Niall acknowledged, meeting Parker’s gaze in the mirror. “Though the practical application may prove... challenging.”
“Challenges often reveal character, sir,” Parker replied, stepping back to assess the overall effect of Niall’s appearance. “Both in those who face them and in those who observe the effort.”
The cryptic response gave Niall pause. Was Parker suggesting that èibhlin might value the attempt to overcome obstacles, regardless of the outcome? Or merely offering a general platitude about adversity and growth?
Before he could pursue the thought further, a distant clock chimed the half hour, reminding him that the first guests would be arriving shortly.
As Duke, he would have to stand beside his mother in the entrance hall, greeting each arrival with the proper degree of warmth and dignity. Tedious formality. But necessary.
“I believe that you are ready, Your Grace,” Parker announced, his professional manner returning as their private conversation concluded. “You will do the Stonemont name proud this evening.”
“Thank you, Parker,” Niall replied, adjusting his cuffs one final time. “For your assistance and your... perspective.”
The valet inclined his head in acknowledgment, then withdrew to prepare Niall’s night clothes for later.
Left alone, Niall walked through the house to his study, and looked out of the window there, where it overlooked the street at the front of the house.
Carriages were now arriving in steady procession.
Lanterns illuminated the street, casting pools of golden light on the frost-rimed cobbles.
He should hurry downstairs, before the first guests were admitted.
In just a short while, he would see èibhlin again — not across a breakfast table or a busy room, but properly, fully, as she joined in the evening’s festivities.
He would watch her dance, perhaps catch her eye across the crowded ballroom, and eventually, when the orchestra played the opening notes of the waltz, he would approach her with his hand outstretched.
His mother would disapprove, of course. She had made her preference for Lord Gregory as èibhlin’s partner abundantly clear, and had suggested more than once that Niall should focus his attentions on Lady Anne Wilmott or one of the other eligible young ladies of suitable rank and fortune.
Yet tonight, for once, he would disobey her wishes, would set aside the weight of Ducal responsibility and expectation.
For one dance at least, he would follow not the dictates of position or prudence, but the inclination of his own heart.
The realisation sent a jolt through him — a recognition that could no longer be denied or diminished.
His interest in èibhlin had progressed far beyond nostalgic friendship or hospitable concern.
Somewhere between their reunion and this moment, standing at this window as twilight deepened into night, he had developed feelings for her that were neither appropriate to his position nor likely to lead to happiness.
For what could come of such an attachment?
She was the daughter of a Scottish Viscount, a young woman whose modest background and provincial connections made her, by the ton’s exacting standards, entirely unsuitable as a Duchess.
His mother would oppose any serious intent he might express in that direction with all of the considerable influence at her disposal, and society would view such a match as a bewildering decline from what his position demanded.
Yet as Niall turned from the window, these practical considerations seemed suddenly hollow — empty conventions that paled beside the simple truth of his growing affection for èibhlin.
Her intelligence, her quiet dignity, her authentic warmth — these qualities had come to mean more to him than all the advantages of rank or fortune that other young ladies might offer.
Whether this realisation would lead to joy or sorrow remained to be seen. But tonight, for the space of one dance at least, he would allow himself to hope — to imagine possibilities beyond the narrow confines of his position, to dream of a future shaped by choice rather than obligation.
With that resolution firmly in mind, Niall left his study and descended towards the entrance hall, where candles blazed in every sconce and evergreen boughs filled the air with the fresh scent of Christmas.
Beneath the mistletoe that hung in strategic locations throughout the house, guests would exchange glances, perhaps share brief moments of connection as tradition permitted.
And somewhere among them would be èibhlin, in whose company he had found a sense of belonging that had eluded him amid all the privileges and responsibilities of his position.
Tonight, he would seek that connection once more — would claim one perfect waltz beneath the Christmas greenery, regardless of consequence or convention.
His mother waited in the entrance hall, resplendent in a gown of deep blue silk, her expression betraying nothing of their previous disagreements.
As he took his place beside her, ready to greet the arriving guests, Niall felt an unexpected sense of calm certainty.
The events of tonight would alter the course of his relationship with èibhlin — would confirm either the possibility or the impossibility of the connection that seemed to exist between them.
The thought really should have filled him with anxiety, yet as the first guests were announced, he felt only a heady anticipation.
For better or worse, the evening would change things.
He was not entirely sure what he hoped the result of that change would be, but he knew that he could not go on as he had been, that he could no longer deny his feelings for èibhlin.
And most of all, he could not go on without knowing the truth of her feelings about him.