Chapter Fifteen
Morning light filtered through the curtains of èibhlin’s bedchamber, casting pale patterns across the floor.
She had slept little, her mind replaying the events of the previous evening in an endless loop — Niall’s intervention with Lord Gregory, their waltz together, the moment beneath the mistletoe when everything had changed.
The kiss.
The scandalised gasps.
The Duchess’ cold fury and Aunt Muireall’s rigid outrage.
After being swept from the corridor, èibhlin had been secluded in a small anteroom for nearly an hour, subjected to her aunt’s scathing condemnation of her ‘wanton behaviour’ and ‘complete disregard for propriety’.
She had then been escorted back to the ballroom by Sir Thomas, who had come to tell Aunt Muireall that their absence was causing more gossip.
He had surprised her with his kindness amid the storm.
“Courage, my dear,” he had murmured, patting her hand as they approached the ballroom. “These tempests blow themselves out eventually. Hold your head high in the meantime.”
She had taken his advice, maintaining her composure through the remainder of the Ball, despite the whispers that followed her movements, and the pointed distance maintained by many of the guests who had previously been cordial.
Lord Gregory had avoided her entirely, though she had glimpsed him in heated conversation with his father, his face flushed with what appeared to be equal parts anger and humiliation.
The Duchess had been icily polite when their paths crossed, her every word and gesture conveying disapproval, without actually expressing it directly.
And Niall — Niall had been occupied with his duties as host, their eyes meeting occasionally across the crowded room, his expression revealing nothing to casual observers, though she could read concern and something deeper in his gaze.
Now, as Lucy entered with a breakfast tray, èibhlin braced herself for whatever the new day might bring. The lady’s maid’s expression was sympathetic as she set the tray on a small table near the window.
“Good morning, Miss,” she said, moving to draw back the curtains fully. “The Duchess asked me to inform you that she would like to speak with you in the morning room at ten, if you’re feeling well enough to come down.”
It was not a request but a summons, delicately phrased to maintain the fiction of concern. èibhlin nodded, sitting up against the pillows as Lucy arranged the breakfast tray across her lap.
“Thank you, Lucy. I shall be down at ten.”
The maid hesitated, clearly debating whether to say more.
“It’s all over the household, Miss,” she finally admitted, her voice lowered, though they were alone in the room. “What happened last night beneath the mistletoe. Mrs Graves had to send one of the younger maids to the kitchen when she wouldn’t stop giggling about it during morning duties.”
èibhlin felt her cheeks warm at this confirmation that her indiscretion had indeed become common knowledge, not just among the ton, but throughout the household.
“I suppose I should have expected as much,” she said, attempting a lightness she did not feel. “Nothing remains private for long in a house this size.”
“If I may say so, Miss,” Lucy ventured, straightening the bedcovers with careful attention, “many of the staff think it quite romantic. His Grace rescuing you from Lord Gregory, then... well...”
“Then creating an even greater scandal,” èibhlin finished wryly. “I’m not certain ‘romantic’ is how the Duchess or my aunt would describe it.”
“No, Miss,” Lucy agreed, a hint of mischief in her eyes, despite her proper demeanour.
“Though Sir Thomas Thornfield was overheard last night saying that mistletoe has been causing such difficulties since ancient times, and that perhaps the tradition should be retired if people insist on taking it so seriously.”
The comment, so typical of Sir Thomas’ pragmatic humour, brought a genuine smile to èibhlin’s face.
“Sir Thomas is a voice of reason amid the chaos, it seems.”
After finishing her breakfast and allowing Lucy to help her dress in a morning gown of pale blue, èibhlin steeled herself for the confrontation ahead. The clock had not yet struck ten, but she preferred to be early rather than risk appearing reluctant to face the consequences of her actions.
The morning room was empty when she arrived, the fire burning brightly against the December chill.
èibhlin moved to the window, gazing out at the garden where servants were removing the lanterns that had illuminated the previous night’s festivities.
The scene looked oddly bereft in the cold light of day, like a stage set being dismantled after the final performance.
The door opened behind her, and she turned to find not just the Duchess entering, but Aunt Muireall as well. Both women wore expressions of stern displeasure, their usual mutual antagonism apparently set aside in the face of èibhlin’s transgression.
“Good morning, Your Grace, Aunt Muireall,” she said, dropping into a curtsey that acknowledged their authority while maintaining her own dignity. “You wished to speak with me?”
“Indeed,” the Duchess replied, settling herself in a chair near the fire and gesturing for èibhlin to take the seat opposite. “I believe that we must discuss the events of last evening and their... implications... for your position in society.”
Aunt Muireall seated herself with rigid posture, her thin hands clasped tightly in her lap.
“Your behaviour was utterly beyond the pale, èibhlin,” she declared, dispensing with preamble. “I have never been so mortified in all my years. What your father would say if he knew—”
“He need not know,” the Duchess interjected smoothly. “Not yet, at least. If we manage this situation with appropriate discretion, perhaps the damage can be contained.”
èibhlin looked between the two older women, struck by the strange alliance that had formed between them.
Despite their many differences, they had found common cause in their disapproval of her actions.
“I understand that my behaviour was unconventional,” she began carefully, “but I do not believe—”
“Unconventional?” Aunt Muireall’s voice rose sharply.
“It was scandalous! Allowing the Duke to kiss you in so public a manner, with complete disregard for propriety or reputation! You have placed yourself in an impossible position, èibhlin. What respectable gentleman would consider offering for you now?”
The question hung in the air, its answer so obvious that it need not be stated aloud. èibhlin felt a flush of both embarrassment and defiance rise to her cheeks.
“I did not ‘allow’ anything, Aunt Muireall,” she said, her voice steadier than she had expected. “What occurred was mutual, a moment of genuine feeling that perhaps transcended social convention but was not in any way improper in its intent.”
“Intent matters little in such situations,” the Duchess observed, echoing almost exactly what she had said to Niall the night before. “Society judges by appearance, and the appearance was that of a young lady permitting liberties far beyond what custom allows, even beneath the mistletoe.”
“Several ladies have already sent notes this morning, making their excuses for previously accepted invitations,” Aunt Muireall added, her expression grim. “Your reputation has been compromised, èibhlin. The damage may be irreparable.”
“Unless,” the Duchess said thoughtfully, “we take immediate steps to counter the impression created last night.”
èibhlin glanced at her sharply, wary of whatever strategy the Duchess might be contemplating.
“What sort of steps, Your Grace?”
“A period of retirement from society would be advisable,” the Duchess replied, her tone suggesting that this was a generous concession rather than a punishment.
“Perhaps a visit to my sister in Bath? The waters there are said to be most beneficial for the nerves, and by the time you return, the worst of the gossip will have subsided.”
“And in the meantime,” Aunt Muireall added, with surprising eagerness, “we might cultivate Lord Gregory’s continued interest. He was understandably upset by last night’s... incident... but his father assures me that a sincere apology might yet salvage the connection.”
èibhlin stared at her aunt in disbelief.
“You cannot be serious? After his behaviour last night, forcing me towards the mistletoe despite my clear reluctance—”
“Forcing?” The Duchess’ eyebrows rose sceptically. “Lord Gregory merely observed a charming tradition. It was my son’s intervention, and subsequent actions, that transformed a harmless seasonal custom into a source of scandal.”
“His subsequent actions were prompted by my clear distress at Lord Gregory’s unwelcome attentions,” èibhlin countered, unable to contain her frustration any longer.
“Lord Gregory has shown himself to be a man who values his own consequence above all else, who views me as a curiosity to be acquired, rather than a person to be respected. I could never consider such a man as a potential husband, regardless of his rank or fortune.”
Aunt Muireall drew in a sharp breath, her expression scandalised.
“Listen to yourself, èibhlin! Such pride, such presumption! Lord Gregory is the son of an Earl, heir to extensive estates and ancient lineage. What right have you to dismiss him so casually?”
“The same right any woman has to determine her own future happiness,” èibhlin replied, rising from her chair in a surge of emotion she could no longer suppress.
“I will not be bartered or manoeuvred into a connection that brings me nothing but misery, simply because it appears advantageous from the outside.”
The words — so similar to those that Niall had spoken to his mother the night before — hung in the air between them. The Duchess studied èibhlin with new attention, her expression thoughtful rather than angry.