Chapter Sixteen
The morning after the Ball, Niall sat in his study reviewing correspondence that had accumulated during the preparations for the festivities.
Though he appeared focused on the papers before him, his thoughts continually strayed to èibhlin — to the kiss that they had shared beneath the mistletoe, to her aunt’s swift removal of her from the scene, to the whispers that had followed him throughout the remainder of the evening.
He had not seen her since. His mother had ensured that their paths did not cross, arranging breakfast at different times and suggesting, with deceptive casualness, that he might wish to ride out early to clear his head after the late night.
A discreet knock at the door interrupted his distracted musings.
“Enter,” he called, expecting his secretary with more correspondence.
Instead, Hartwell appeared, his dignified bearing betraying only the slightest hint of concern.
“Lord Gregory Armistead is requesting a private word with Your Grace. He is most... insistent.”
Niall set down his pen, unsurprised by this development, yet still disinclined to welcome it.
“Did he indicate the nature of his business?”
“He did not, Your Grace, though he mentioned it was a matter of some urgency and delicacy.”
Of course it was.
The confrontation had been inevitable from the moment that Niall had intervened beneath the mistletoe, then compounded the offence with his own impulsive actions. Now a further reckoning had arrived, as he had known it must.
“Show him in, Hartwell. And perhaps ensure that we are not disturbed for the next quarter hour.”
“Very good, Your Grace.” The butler withdrew, returning moments later to announce the visitor. “Lord Gregory Armistead.”
Lord Gregory entered with the studied casualness of a man attempting to disguise anger beneath a veneer of social polish. His formal morning attire suggested that he had come directly from other calls, perhaps gathering intelligence about the previous night’s events from mutual acquaintances.
“Your Grace,” he said, executing a bow which was correct in form if somewhat lacking in depth. “I appreciate your willingness to receive me without prior appointment.”
“Lord Gregory,” Niall acknowledged, not rising from behind his desk. “What brings you to Stonemont House so early after last night’s festivities?”
The younger man’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
“I believe that you know the answer to that question, Your Grace. Or shall we pretend that your... behaviour... last evening requires no explanation?”
“I was not aware that I owed you explanations for my actions in my own home, Lord Gregory,” Niall replied, his tone deliberately mild, though his posture had subtly shifted to one of greater alertness. “But please, continue.”
Lord Gregory moved to stand before the desk, his hands clasped behind his back in a posture which suggested barely restrained emotion.
“Your intervention with Miss èibhlin was both unnecessary and inappropriate. She and I were merely observing a harmless holiday tradition when you chose to interrupt in a manner that could only be interpreted as deliberately provocative.”
“Harmless?” Niall raised an eyebrow. “Miss èibhlin appeared distinctly uncomfortable with your attentions, Lord Gregory. As her host, I felt obligated to provide an alternative.”
“An alternative that included compromising her reputation before half of London society?” Lord Gregory’s carefully maintained composure slipped, revealing the anger beneath. “A curious form of protection, Your Grace, that leaves a young lady’s standing in tatters.”
The barb struck home, touching as it did on Niall’s own deepest regret about the previous night’s events. Yet he kept his expression neutral, unwilling to reveal vulnerability to the younger man.
“Miss èibhlin’s reputation remains intact among those whose opinions matter,” he said evenly. “If others choose to indulge in gossip, that reflects more on their character than on hers.”
“How convenient a perspective,” Lord Gregory observed, his tone sharpening. “Though I suspect that Miss èibhlin may find it cold comfort as invitations dwindle and drawing rooms close their doors to her. Unless, of course, you intend to offer a more... substantial... form of protection?”
The question hung in the air between them, its implications unmistakable. Niall studied the younger man with new attention, noting the calculation beneath the apparent concern.
“And if I do?” he asked quietly. “What then becomes of your interest in Miss èibhlin?”
Lord Gregory’s expression flickered, his surprise quickly masked by renewed composure.
“My interest in Miss èibhlin has been both proper and consistent, Your Grace. The Duchess herself has encouraged our connection, recognising its suitability for all concerned.”
“All except Miss èibhlin herself, perhaps,” Niall observed, remembering her evident discomfort at Lord Gregory’s attentions. “She has shown no particular enthusiasm for your suit, Lord Gregory, despite the Duchess’ encouragement.”
“A young lady’s initial reserve is hardly unusual,” Lord Gregory replied dismissively. “Particularly one raised in such... provincial... circumstances. With proper guidance, Miss èibhlin would come to appreciate the advantages of our connection.”
“Advantages for whom?” Niall’s voice hardened.
“For Miss èibhlin, who would be expected to submit to a lifetime with a man who views her heritage with barely concealed disdain? Or for yourself, gaining a wife whose exotic background provides novelty while her docility, assumed but not confirmed, ensures that your comfort remains undisturbed?”
Lord Gregory’s face flushed with anger.
“You presume to know my mind, Your Grace, when you have scarcely exchanged a dozen sentences with me since Miss èibhlin’s arrival. My regard for her is genuine, whatever you may choose to believe.”
“As genuine as your regard for her wishes?” Niall countered, rising from his chair to face Lord Gregory directly. “She made her reluctance clear last night, yet you persisted in forcing her towards a situation that she wished to avoid.”
“Forcing?” Lord Gregory laughed, the sound sharp with disbelief. “A harmless holiday tradition suddenly becomes coercion when it suits your narrative, Your Grace. One might almost suspect that your concern for Miss èibhlin stems from something more personal than mere hospitality.”
The accusation, accurate though it was, brought Niall’s simmering anger dangerously close to the surface.
He controlled it with effort, aware that losing his composure would only strengthen Lord Gregory’s position.
“My concern for Miss èibhlin stems from knowing her far better than you do, Lord Gregory,” he said, his voice low and controlled.
“We were acquainted as children during my visits to Scotland. I have seen her in her natural environment, free from the constraints of London society. I know her character, her intelligence, her spirit — qualities you seem to regard as defects to be corrected, rather than strengths to be valued.”
Lord Gregory’s eyes narrowed, reassessing the situation with new understanding.
“So that explains it,” he said slowly. “A childhood attachment, rekindled upon her arrival in London. How charmingly sentimental, Your Grace. Though hardly a sufficient basis for the Duke of Stonemont to compromise his position for the daughter of a minor Scottish peer.”
“My position suffers no compromise from recognising worth where it exists,” Niall replied, the words emerging with a certainty that surprised even him. “Miss èibhlin brings qualities to any connection that far outweigh considerations of rank or fortune.”
“The ton may take a different view,” Lord Gregory observed, his tone taking on a note of warning.
“As might the Earl, my father, whose influence extends to circles even a Duke might find valuable. Your actions last night have already caused considerable comment, Your Grace. A continued association with Miss èibhlin, particularly one that suggests serious intentions, would invite scrutiny that neither of you might welcome.”
The threat, veiled but unmistakable, confirmed what Niall had already suspected — that Lord Gregory’s interest in èibhlin had as much to do with thwarted pride as genuine attachment.
The realisation brought with it a sudden clarity, a certainty about his own feelings and intentions that had been building since the moment of their reunion.
“I appreciate your concern for my standing, Lord Gregory,” he said, his voice steady despite the emotions churning beneath the surface.
“But I find myself increasingly indifferent to scrutiny based on artificial constraints rather than genuine merit. Miss èibhlin possesses character, intelligence, and dignity that would grace any position, including that of Duchess.”
Lord Gregory stared at him, momentarily speechless at this direct acknowledgment of what had previously been only implied. When he found his voice again, it held a mixture of disbelief and calculation.
“You cannot be serious, Your Grace. The Duchess would never countenance such a match. Nor would society understand it, regardless of Miss èibhlin’s personal qualities.
The Duke of Stonemont requires a wife whose rank and connections complement his own, not a provincial girl whose chief distinction is a remote Scottish title that few in London have even heard of. ”
“And yet,” Niall replied, with a small smile that contained no humour, “it is precisely that ‘provincial girl’ who has captured my attention and regard in a way that no amount of rank or connection could achieve. Curious, is it not, how the heart refuses to be governed by practical considerations?”
“The heart?” Lord Gregory’s laugh was sharp with genuine amusement. “Now you sound like a lovesick boy rather than the Duke of Stonemont. Next, you’ll be composing sonnets to her eyebrows and sighing beneath her window.”
“I doubt either would be necessary,” Niall observed dryly. “Miss èibhlin has never struck me as a young woman who requires such dramatic demonstrations of regard.”
Lord Gregory’s amusement faded, replaced by a calculating assessment that Niall found more concerning than his earlier anger.
“So, you are serious,” he said finally. “You genuinely intend to pursue Miss èibhlin despite the obvious unsuitability of the connection.”
“I intend,” Niall replied carefully, “to allow my actions to be guided by genuine feeling rather than artificial convention. Beyond that, my intentions towards Miss èibhlin are a matter between her and myself.”
“A diplomatic evasion,” Lord Gregory observed, “but clear enough in its implications. Very well, Your Grace. I shall withdraw my interest in Miss èibhlin, since it appears that the field is already occupied by a more... determined... competitor.” He moved towards the door, then paused, turning back with an expression which suggested that their conversation was not yet concluded.
“A word of caution, however. The ton forgives much from a Duke, but even Ducal privilege has its limits.”
Niall regarded him with a raised eyebrow.
“And your point is?”
Lord Gregory shrugged.
“Should you proceed with this... unconventional... attachment, you may find certain doors closing that have previously stood open. My father, in particular, has strong views on the importance of suitable alliances. He was initially hesitant about her suitability for me – and he most definitely will regard her as unsuitable for a Duke.”
“Thank you for your concern,” Niall replied, his tone making it clear that the sentiment was anything but genuine. “I shall bear it in mind.”
With a final nod which managed to be both correct and faintly insolent, Lord Gregory departed, leaving Niall alone with the implications of the exchange. He moved to the window, gazing out at the winter garden where frost still glittered on the bare branches, despite the advancing day.
Their confrontation had forced into the open what he had been reluctant to fully acknowledge even to himself — that his feelings for èibhlin had progressed far beyond nostalgic friendship or casual interest. Somewhere between her arrival at Stonemont House and their kiss beneath the mistletoe, she had become essential to him in a way that he could no longer deny or diminish.
Lord Gregory’s warnings about social consequences were not without foundation.
The ton would indeed regard such a match with surprise at best, disapproval at worst. His mother would oppose it with all her considerable influence, and certain circles might well become less welcoming as a result.
Yet as Niall considered these practical obstacles, he found them increasingly insignificant compared to the simple truth revealed beneath the mistletoe.
èibhlin — with her quiet dignity, her intelligent conversation, and her genuine warmth — had awakened something in him that had lain dormant throughout his years of duty and responsibility.
The connection between them, rekindled from childhood acquaintance, but deepened into something far more profound, offered a kind of partnership which he had not thought possible within the constraints of his position.
The realisation brought with it both certainty and resolve.
Whatever obstacles might arise — his mother’s opposition, society’s incomprehension, Lord Gregory’s veiled threats — he would not abandon the possibility that had opened before them.
Some chances came but once in a lifetime, some connections transcended the artificial boundaries of rank and circumstance.
And èibhlin Murchison, daughter of a Scottish Viscount and possessor of his heart, was worth whatever consequences might follow from acknowledging that truth.
With that resolution firmly in mind, Niall turned from the window, his decision made. The time for hesitation had passed. Now was the moment for action, for demonstrating through deed what words alone could never fully express.
Niall would do, now, not what obligation, expectation, or his Mother’s dictates asked, but only what was driven by his own heart.