Chapter Thirteen #2
“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice barely audible above the music which had begun once more. “Your intervention was most timely.”
“Are you well?” Niall asked, his gaze searching her face with an intensity that sent warmth flooding through her, despite the lingering distress of the moment before. “Did he—”
“No,” she assured him quickly. “You arrived before any... liberties... could be taken. Though his intentions were quite clear.”
Something dangerous flickered in Niall’s eyes.
“He has been remarkably persistent in his attentions, despite your evident lack of encouragement.”
“The Duchess and my aunt have both encouraged his suit,” èibhlin explained, as Niall led her towards where the dancers were forming up for the next set. “He likely believes that their approval supersedes my personal reservations.”
“And does it?” Niall asked, his tone carefully neutral despite the tension evident in his bearing. “Do you feel obligated to accept his attentions out of deference to their wishes?”
The question hung between them, weighted with implications that extended far beyond Lord Gregory’s unwelcome advances.
èibhlin met Niall’s gaze directly, finding courage in the warmth she saw there.
“I value their guidance,” she said carefully, “but not above my own judgment of character. Lord Gregory has revealed himself to be a man whose primary concern is his own consequence. I could never esteem such a person, regardless of his rank or fortune.”
Something in Niall’s expression altered, a tension easing even as a new intensity took its place.
He glanced towards the orchestra, where the musicians were beginning the first strains of the next piece.
“I believe that they are about to play the waltz,” he said, his voice deepening slightly. “Would you do me the honour, Miss èibhlin?”
Her heart leapt at the invitation, even as she noted the Duchess watching them from across the room, her expression a study in carefully concealed displeasure.
“I would be delighted, Your Grace.”
*****
Niall felt the familiar weight of his mother’s disapproval as he led èibhlin towards the centre of the ballroom.
He had seen the Duchess direct Lord Gregory towards èibhlin earlier, had observed the man’s determined manoeuvring towards the mistletoe-adorned archway, and had recognised èibhlin’s distress even before their eyes had met across the crowded room.
The sight of Lord Gregory’s hand rising to touch her face, and his head beginning to lower towards hers, had ignited something in Niall’s chest — a burning combination of protective fury and possessive desire that had propelled him across the room before conscious thought could intervene.
Now, as the first notes of the waltz sounded and he took èibhlin in his arms, that same feeling returned with renewed intensity.
She fitted against him perfectly, her hand resting lightly in his, her waist beneath his palm both slender and strong.
The pale green of her gown brought out the rich auburn of her hair and the remarkable golden-green of her eyes, now turned up to his with a mixture of gratitude and something deeper, something that made his heart beat faster in his chest.
“You dance beautifully,” he said, guiding her through the opening turns of the waltz. “Far better than when I attempted to teach you at Greenfell Holt.”
Her lips curved in a smile that transformed her face, bringing a glow to her features that made him momentarily forget the crowded ballroom, the watching eyes, the social constraints that defined their interaction.
“I had a good teacher, despite his occasional impatience with my childish enthusiasm.”
“Not impatience,” he corrected, drawing her fractionally closer as they moved between other couples. “Merely the frustration of a young man who lacked the words to express what he felt.”
The admission, veiled yet unmistakable, brought a flush to her cheeks that had nothing to do with the warmth of the room.
“And now?” she asked, her voice soft enough that only he could hear. “Have you found those words with age and experience?”
Niall met her gaze, aware that they had moved beyond the realm of casual reminiscence into something far more significant.
“Words remain elusive,” he admitted. “But perhaps actions might speak where language fails.”
Her eyes widened slightly, a question in their depths that he longed to answer.
But the waltz continued, carrying them through the crowded ballroom beneath the assessing gaze of London society.
Had he looked, he would have seen that his mother watched from near the orchestra, her expression a study in careful neutrality that he would have recognised as concealing deep concern, and that Lord Gregory stood by the refreshment table, his face darkened with poorly disguised jealousy as he followed their progress across the floor.
But he did not look. Everything else beyond èibhlin had ceased to matter to him.
For these few minutes, Niall allowed himself to forget everything — to focus solely on the woman in his arms, on the connection that had grown between them since her arrival at Stonemont House.
The childhood friendship that had blossomed into something deeper, the shared memories of Scotland that had created a bridge between their past and present, the quiet moments of understanding that required no words — all of it culminating in this dance, this perfect synchronicity of movement.
“I have missed our conversations,” èibhlin said, as they turned near one of the tall windows where frost patterns etched delicate designs on the glass. “Since our excursion to Wildwood Manor, it seems we have scarcely exchanged a dozen sentences.”
“My mother has been most efficient in occupying your time,” Niall replied, a rueful note in his voice. “And my own duties have been more demanding than usual in preparation for tonight.”
“I understand,” she assured him, though he could see a shadow of something like disappointment in her eyes. “Your responsibilities as Duke must always take precedence.”
The words, spoken without resentment or accusation, nonetheless struck him with unexpected force.
It was true — his responsibilities as Duke of Stonemont had defined his existence since inheriting the title. The weight of tradition, of expectation, of duty, had shaped every decision, every interaction, every aspect of his life.
Yet tonight, holding èibhlin in his arms as they moved through the pattern of the waltz, those responsibilities seemed suddenly less absolute, less defining than the simple truth of his growing feelings for her.
The realisation both liberated and terrified him, for it suggested possibilities beyond the carefully constructed boundaries of his position — possibilities that his mother would certainly oppose and that society might well condemn.
As the music began to draw towards its conclusion, Niall made a decision - one that he knew, even as it formed in his mind, would irreversibly alter the course of their relationship.
The waltz ended, and couples around them began to separate, exchanging pleasantries before moving towards new partners or the refreshment room.
Niall retained èibhlin’s hand.
“Would you care for some air?” he asked, nodding towards the corridor that led to the garden entrance. “The ballroom grows warm with so many guests.”
“Yes,” she agreed, her expression suggesting that she understood this was more than a casual invitation. “Some fresh air would be most welcome.”
He guided her towards the door, aware of eyes following their progress, of whispered comments behind fans and raised eyebrows at their departure together.
His mother would disapprove, of course, but for once, he found himself unwilling to be governed by her expectations or by the rigid conventions of their social circle.
The corridor beyond the ballroom was quieter, though not entirely deserted.
A few guests strolled between the refreshment room and the main festivities, while servants moved efficiently about their duties, ensuring that every need was anticipated and met.
Candles flickered in wall sconces, casting a warm glow over the draperies that adorned the panelled walls.
And there, suspended from the archway that led to the garden entrance, hung a large mistletoe ball — not the one from which he had rescued èibhlin earlier, but another, equally prominent and traditional in its placement.
Niall paused beneath it, turning to face her with a question in his eyes that required no words to convey.
èibhlin looked up at the mistletoe, then back at him, a flush spreading across her cheeks even as a smile of unmistakable invitation curved her lips.
“It seems that we find ourselves in a traditional position,” she murmured, her voice low enough that only he could hear. “Custom demands a response, does it not?”
“Custom,” Niall agreed, taking a step closer until barely a handspan separated them. “Though I find myself inclined towards a somewhat less... conventional... interpretation of tradition.”
Her eyes widened slightly, but she did not step back. Instead, she tilted her face up to his, a courage in her expression that he found utterly captivating.
“I have never been overly concerned with convention,” she admitted, her voice steady, despite the rapid rise and fall of her breath. “Particularly when it conflicts with more essential truths.”
The echo of Parker’s words from their earlier conversation struck Niall with peculiar force.
Without further hesitation, he closed the distance between them, one hand rising to cup her cheek in a gesture that mirrored Lord Gregory’s earlier attempt, but carried an entirely different meaning and intention.
“èibhlin,” he murmured, her name on his lips a confession in itself.
Then he kissed her.
It was not the chaste brush of lips to cheek that propriety demanded beneath the mistletoe.
Nor was it the practiced, controlled expression of interest that society might reluctantly permit between a betrothed couple.
It was a kiss born of weeks of suppressed longing, of connection rediscovered and deepened, of recognition that transcended the artificial barriers of rank and circumstance.
èibhlin responded with equal feeling, her lips soft and warm beneath his, her hand coming to rest against his chest where his heart beat a rapid, unsteady rhythm.
For one perfect moment, the world narrowed to just the two of them, surrounded by the scent of evergreens and candlewax, the distant music from the ballroom providing a backdrop to the more essential harmony between them.
A shocked gasp from nearby shattered the moment.
Niall lifted his head to find Lady Harrington standing a few feet away, her face a study in scandalised fascination, her fan raised as if to shield herself from the impropriety she was witnessing.
Behind her stood Sir Thomas Thornfield, his expression considerably more amused than shocked, and beyond him, two young ladies whose names Niall could not immediately recall, their eyes wide with delighted horror at the scene before them.
Worse still, approaching from the direction of the ballroom, her face set in lines of cold fury, was his mother herself. And beside her, looking equally outraged, though perhaps for entirely different reasons, was Miss Murchison, her thin frame practically vibrating with indignation.
Niall straightened, maintaining his protective stance beside èibhlin, whose cheeks had flushed a deep crimson though her chin remained lifted in a gesture of dignity he could only admire.
The moment of reckoning had arrived more swiftly than he had anticipated, yet he found himself strangely calm in the face of it.
Whatever consequences might follow from this public declaration — for a declaration it had undoubtedly been — he would face them without regret. For the first time since inheriting his title, he had acted not from duty or expectation, but from the dictates of his own heart.
And that, regardless of what came next, felt like freedom.