Chapter Fifteen #2
“You speak as if you believe another option exists,” she said finally, her tone neutral. “As if the Duke’s actions last night signified more than a momentary impulse or holiday high spirits.”
èibhlin met the Duchess’ gaze directly, unwilling to dissemble on a matter of such importance.
“I believe that the Duke’s actions reflected genuine feeling, Your Grace. As did my response.”
Aunt Muireall made a sound of distress, rising to pace the room in agitated movements.
“This is worse than I had feared. You have developed romantic notions about the Duke of Stonemont? Have you taken leave of your senses entirely, èibhlin? He is far beyond your reach, regardless of what liberties he may have taken beneath the mistletoe.”
“Liberties that were freely exchanged, not taken,” èibhlin corrected quietly, though she knew that her aunt was unlikely to acknowledge the distinction.
“My son,” the Duchess said, her voice carrying a note of finality, “will marry according to the requirements of his position. Whatever... sentiment... he may temporarily feel towards you, his duty to the Dukedom must ultimately prevail. To encourage or return his attention is to court inevitable disappointment, Miss èibhlin.”
The return to formal address emphasised the distance that the Duchess was placing between them — the boundary being drawn that èibhlin had dared to cross.
Yet despite the logic of the Duchess’ assessment, despite the practical wisdom that it contained, èibhlin found herself unable to accept it as the final word on the matter.
“With respect, Your Grace,” she said, straightening her shoulders, “I believe that such decisions belong to those most directly affected by them. The Duke is a man of honour and principle, not easily swayed by temporary impulse or superficial attraction. If he has shown me particular attention, I must believe that it reflects genuine esteem rather than mere holiday sentiment.”
The Duchess rose, her expression a mixture of pity and exasperation.
“You are young, Miss èibhlin, and understandably affected by recent events. I suggest that you take some time for reflection before reaching conclusions that may prove painfully incorrect. In the meantime, I think it best if you limit your participation in social engagements for the next few days. For your own comfort, of course.”
It was a polite version of house arrest, thinly disguised as concern for her welfare.
èibhlin recognised the strategy, but found herself without immediate means to counter it.
She curtsied, maintaining her dignity despite the clear dismissal.
“As you wish, Your Grace. May I be excused?”
“Of course. Miss Murchison and I have much to discuss regarding arrangements for the coming days.”
As èibhlin left the morning room, she caught a glimpse of Aunt Muireall and the Duchess already deep in conversation, their heads inclined towards each other in unprecedented cooperation.
The sight would have been amusing under different circumstances — these two women who had disagreed on virtually everything since their arrival finding common cause in their opposition to her potential happiness.
In the corridor outside, she paused, uncertain where to go.
The library offered sanctuary, but also the risk of encountering Niall, a meeting she was not yet prepared for, after the morning’s confrontation.
Her bedchamber promised privacy but also isolation, a retreat that might be interpreted as shame or regret.
The garden, then.
Despite the December chill, the walled enclosure would provide both fresh air and the solitude she needed to gather her thoughts. Collecting her pelisse from her room, èibhlin made her way through the house, avoiding the main corridors where she might encounter other members of the household.
The garden was deserted, the gravel paths swept clear of snow, the bare trees and dormant flowerbeds rimed with frost that glittered in the winter sunlight.
èibhlin walked slowly, her breath forming small clouds in the cold air, her thoughts turning over the events of the last twenty-four hours like stones in a stream.
She had known from the beginning that her connection with Niall existed outside the normal boundaries of their respective positions. A Duke and a Scottish Viscount’s daughter — it was a pairing that society would view with scepticism at best, disapproval at worst.
Yet the feeling between them had grown so naturally, so inevitably, that she had allowed herself to hope that perhaps, just perhaps, the barriers of rank and expectation might prove less insurmountable than they appeared.
Last night’s kiss had confirmed that hope, transforming it from wistful fantasy to tangible possibility.
For one perfect moment beneath the mistletoe, the world had narrowed to just the two of them, all external considerations falling away before the simple truth of their connection.
But morning had brought reality crashing back — the Duchess’ cold assessment, Aunt Muireall’s horrified condemnation, the practical obstacles that stood between them, and any future together.
èibhlin was not naive enough to dismiss these concerns entirely, yet neither could she bring herself to accept them as definitive.
She paused beside a stone bench, brushing away the frost before sitting down.
Above her, the winter sky stretched clear and blue, the sun casting long shadows across the garden as it moved towards midday.
In the distance, church bells rang, their sound carrying clearly in the still air.
In a few days it would be Christmas Eve.
In Scotland, at Felldale Castle, preparations would be underway for the holiday — evergreens being brought in from the estate woods, a Yule log being brought into the great hall as it was readied for the traditional gathering of tenants and servants, her father perhaps standing at the window of his study, looking out at the snow-covered moors, and thinking of Christmases past when his wife had still been with them.
The thought of home brought both comfort and a renewed sense of purpose.
No matter what happened in the days to come — whether she was sent to Bath as the Duchess suggested, or remained at Stonemont House in reduced circumstances — she would face it with the dignity her mother had taught her and the strength her father had instilled.
And as for Niall — the Duke of Stonemont to everyone else, but in her heart, still the boy who had taught her to skip stones and caught her when she fell — she would trust in the connection they had formed, in the feeling that had grown between them since her arrival in London.
If it was meant to endure, it would find a way through the obstacles that now surrounded them.
If not...
èibhlin refused to complete the thought.
Some possibilities were too painful to contemplate, even in the privacy of her own mind. Instead, she rose from the bench and continued her walk, gathering her determination around her like a cloak against the winter chill.
What was Niall doing now? She might not yet be ready to face him, but her heart yearned to know his thoughts, his feelings, to understand how well – or not – those feelings aligned with her own.
The days ahead loomed, likely difficult in ways that she could not yet imagine. But she would face them with clear eyes and an honest heart, holding to herself the memory of that one perfect moment beneath the mistletoe, of the kind of connection that many search for all their lives and never find.
That, at least, could not be taken from her, no matter what the coming days might bring.