Chapter Thirteen
Stonemont House blazed with light, every window illuminated against the winter darkness.
Carriages arrived in steady procession, depositing elegantly dressed guests at the entrance where footmen stood ready to assist with cloaks and wraps.
Inside, the house had been transformed — evergreen garlands adorned the banisters, holly and ivy decorated each mantelpiece, drapes of rich satins hung across the walls, and strategically placed mistletoe balls dangled from archways and doorframes, their white berries gleaming in the candlelight.
èibhlin stood near one of the tall windows in the ballroom, watching the dancers whirl past in a kaleidoscope of colour and movement.
She had already danced three times — once with Sir Thomas Thornfield, whose avuncular manner had put her at ease, and once with Lord Westmoreland, who had spent the entire dance discussing his prize cattle in Yorkshire.
Before that, Lord Gregory had claimed her hand for the first dance as expected, his manner throughout suggesting that he considered it a great condescension to lead out a Scottish Viscount’s daughter before the assembled cream of London society.
“You dance quite creditably, Miss èibhlin,” he had remarked, with the air of a connoisseur making a generous assessment. “One would hardly know you were raised in such... rustic... surroundings.”
She had maintained her composure through that dance, and the conversation that followed, and then the later dances, but now sought a moment’s respite before the next set began.
The ballroom was warm, filled with the mingled scents of perfume, candle wax, and the evergreens that adorned every surface.
Through the crowd, she caught occasional glimpses of Niall as he fulfilled his duties as host — leading Lady Westmoreland in a dance, conversing with a group of elderly gentlemen, escorting the Countess of Blackwood to the refreshment room.
Though they had exchanged brief greetings at the beginning of the evening, they had not spoken since.
He had not yet approached her to claim a dance as she had hoped, wishing with all her heart that it would be the waltz, and èibhlin tried to suppress the disappointment that grew with each passing hour.
Perhaps he didn’t wish to dance with her, or perhaps the Duchess had persuaded him that Lady Anne Wilmott or some other young woman was a more suitable partner.
She could not know what he was thinking…
“Miss èibhlin, you appear positively pensive this evening.” Lord Gregory’s voice cut through her thoughts as he appeared at her side, two glasses of punch in hand. “Such serious contemplation hardly befits a festive occasion.”
She accepted the offered glass with a polite smile.
“Thank you, my Lord. I was merely taking a moment to appreciate the decorations. The Duchess has created a truly magical atmosphere.”
“Indeed,” he agreed, though his gaze barely skimmed the room before returning to her face. “Though I find my attention drawn to more enchanting sights than mere greenery.”
The compliment, delivered with practiced smoothness, left èibhlin unmoved.
After a fortnight of Lord Gregory’s attentions, she had come to recognise the pattern of his gallantry — flattery followed by self-reference, with occasional barbed comments about her Scottish heritage or the provincial nature of her upbringing.
“The mistletoe is particularly fine,” she remarked, steering the conversation towards something less personal. “We gathered it at Lord Dearborn’s estate last week. The clusters were the largest I’ve seen.”
“Ah, mistletoe.” His smile took on a different quality, one that made èibhlin instinctively wary. “Such a charming tradition, is it not? A rare opportunity for gentlemen to claim privileges that might otherwise be denied to them.”
She took a sip of punch to hide her discomfort. She should have chosen a different topic.
“A holiday custom only, of course, and one that should be observed with appropriate restraint.”
“Restraint?” Lord Gregory laughed lightly. “My dear Miss èibhlin, you sound positively puritanical. Christmas is a time for merriment, for casting aside the more tedious constraints of everyday propriety.”
Before she could respond, the orchestra concluded the current dance, and a momentary lull fell over the ballroom as couples separated and new pairs formed for the next set. Lord Gregory set aside his empty glass and offered his arm.
“I believe the next dance is mine, Miss èibhlin. The Duchess was kind enough to suggest that we might enjoy another turn about the floor together.”
èibhlin hesitated. She had no recollection of promising Lord Gregory a second dance, and strongly suspected that the Duchess had taken it upon herself to make the arrangement. Yet to refuse now, publicly, would create an awkwardness which might reflect poorly on her hosts.
“Of course,” she said, placing her hand reluctantly on his proffered arm. “Though I believe it is merely a country dance, which, if I recall, you stated that you were not particularly fond of?”
“All dances have their charms,” he replied, leading her towards the centre of the room. “Though perhaps afterwards, we might find a moment for quieter conversation? The supper room should be less crowded during the ongoing dancing.”
His meaning was clear, and èibhlin felt a flicker of genuine alarm.
The supper room would indeed be quieter — and would offer several strategic locations where mistletoe had been hung.
Lord Gregory’s earlier comments about ‘privileges’ and ‘casting aside constraints’ took on a more concerning significance in this context.
“I promised Aunt Muireall that I would join her after this dance,” she improvised, scanning the room for her aunt’s familiar figure. “She finds these large gatherings somewhat taxing and appreciates my company.”
Lord Gregory’s expression flickered with annoyance before smoothing into practiced charm once more.
“Another time, perhaps. Though I must confess, I find your devotion to your aunt’s comfort rather excessive. A young lady should be free to enjoy society’s pleasures without such... encumbrances.”
The dance began before èibhlin could mentally compose a suitable response to this presumptuous statement.
For the next several minutes, she moved through the figures of the country dance with mechanical precision, her smile fixed in place as Lord Gregory’s hand occasionally lingered a moment too long during their turns.
When the dance concluded, he retained her hand, tucking it firmly into the crook of his arm.
“Come, let us find some refreshment. The dancing has made me quite parched.”
“I really should find my aunt,” èibhlin protested, attempting to withdraw her hand without creating a scene.
“Nonsense,” Lord Gregory replied, his tone light, but his grip unyielding. “Miss Murchison appears perfectly content in conversation with Lady Harrington. She would not wish you to neglect your social duties on her account.”
He guided her with determined purpose towards the archway leading to the corridor beyond, where one of the largest mistletoe balls hung in plain sight. èibhlin’s heart began to beat faster, recognising his intent with growing alarm.
To make a scene would draw unwanted attention, yet to allow Lord Gregory to manoeuvre her beneath the mistletoe would create a different sort of difficulty. She did not, most definitely did not, wish to be kissed by him.
“My Lord, I really must insist—” she began, as they approached the archway.
“Miss èibhlin, you worry entirely too much about what others might think,” he interrupted, steering her inexorably forward. “A little seasonal tradition between friends is hardly cause for concern.”
They were nearly at the archway now, and èibhlin cast a desperate glance around the room, seeking some excuse, some interruption which might spare her from the imminent disaster – for that was the only way that she could regard it.
Her gaze collided with Niall’s across the crowded ballroom, and something in her expression must have conveyed her distress, for his posture suddenly changed, tension evident in every line of his body.
Lord Gregory paused directly beneath the mistletoe, turning to face her with a triumphant smile.
“Ah, look where we find ourselves, Miss èibhlin. How fortunate.”
His hand rose to cup her cheek, his intention unmistakable as he began to lower his head towards hers. èibhlin froze, torn between the desire to avoid a public scene and her deep reluctance to accept even a ceremonial kiss from a man whose company she barely tolerated.
“I believe Miss èibhlin has promised me the next dance.”
Niall’s voice, cool and authoritative, cut through the moment like a blade. He stood beside them, his expression carefully controlled, though his eyes held a dangerous glint that èibhlin had never seen before.
Lord Gregory straightened, his face flushing with poorly concealed irritation.
“Your Grace. I was not aware of any such arrangement.”
“And yet it exists,” Niall replied, extending his hand to èibhlin. “Miss èibhlin?”
Relief flooded through her as she quickly placed her hand in his, stepping away from Lord Gregory with perhaps more haste than grace.
“Yes, of course. Thank you for reminding me, Your Grace.”
Lord Gregory’s mouth tightened, his gaze moving between them with sudden, sharp assessment.
“How convenient that the Duke himself should appear at precisely this moment. One might almost suspect deliberate timing.”
“One might suspect many things, Lord Gregory,” Niall said, his tone deceptively mild. “The wisdom lies in knowing which suspicions merit voicing aloud.”
The warning was unmistakable, and Lord Gregory, after a moment of visible calculation, executed a stiff bow.
“Another time, then, Miss èibhlin. I shall look forward to continuing our... conversation... later this evening.”
As he withdrew, èibhlin released a shaky breath, her hand still resting in Niall’s.