Chapter Two #3
He had wondered, when his mother informed him of the impending visitors, what she would be like now, surprised that she hadn’t already been married off, as most girls were, well before the age of twenty.
The footman poured him a glass of port, and he sipped it, considering the subtleties of the dinner conversation just past. His mother seemed rather irritable, and intent to criticise – which was odd, given that she had agreed to sponsor the girl into society – but then, his mother was always keen to appear absolutely proper, and to exert her influence.
And certainly, Miss Murchison – the aunt, that was – appeared set to challenge his mother’s opinions at every turn.
Which would likely make the coming weeks somewhat difficult, if also a little amusing, from his point of view.
He had not expected to have to spend much time with èibhlin and her aunt, had hoped, in fact, that their presence in the house would not disrupt his life, but now that he had seen her, had felt, for an indefinable moment, a sense of connection when he had looked into èibhlin’s eyes, he wasn’t so sure that he wanted to avoid her.
He shook his head. How whimsical of him!
There was no reason to think that a person he had enjoyed the company of when they were both children would be of any interest to converse with as an adult, and, if she was anything like the majority of young women he knew, they would have no basis for interesting conversation now.
His impulsive suggestion, earlier, that she should address him as ‘Niall’ rather than anything more formal, had been born of a moment of fond recollection of that year at Greenfell Holt. It had been inappropriate, and he shifted in his seat now, a little uncomfortable about the matter.
Yet it had seemed right at the time, and he was quite sure that she would not presume.
She had seemed shocked by his words – had she expected him to have forgotten her?
To treat her as if they had never met, had never shared any pleasant moments together?
Perhaps she had expected exactly that – after all, it was what many gentlemen in his situation would have done, standing on the importance of their position, and disregarding anything from an earlier part of their life.
As I have done, in so many ways, since I came into the title.
The thought slipped through his mind, and he frowned, unhappy with the truth of it.
The weight of the responsibilities of the title, both those practical aspects, and the more intrusive social aspects, had quashed much of his natural ebullience over the last year, and he felt, mostly, a very different person from the man he had been before his father’s death.
Except, just for a few moments, today, when her presence here had caused him to remember those days at Greenfell Holt.
*****
As the Duchess and Aunt Muireall engaged in stilted conversation about the merits of various tea blends, èibhlin’s thoughts returned to the Duke — to Niall, as he had invited her to call him in private.
He remembered her.
Not just as a vague childhood acquaintance, but in detail — her preference for Homer over Virgil, her determination to match his stone-skipping prowess.
The knowledge filled her with a warm glow that had nothing to do with the sherry that the Duchess had offered upon their return to the drawing room.
Yet there was a reserve about him now, a guardedness that had not been present in the boy she had known.
The weight of his title, perhaps, or simply the passage of time and the inevitable changes that it brought.
Whatever the cause, she sensed that the easy camaraderie they had once shared would not be so easily recaptured.
When the Duke rejoined them some twenty minutes later, he maintained a polite distance, engaging primarily with his mother while directing only occasional remarks to èibhlin and Aunt Muireall. If èibhlin felt a pang of disappointment at his apparent withdrawal, she was careful not to show it.
“I fear I must excuse myself,” the Duke said after a suitable interval. “I have correspondence that requires my attention before morning.”
“Of course, Niall,” the Duchess replied. “Though I hope that you will find time tomorrow to show Miss èibhlin the library. She expressed an interest in literature earlier, and our collection is quite exceptional.”
Was it èibhlin’s imagination, or did the Duke’s eyes brighten at the suggestion?
“I would be delighted,” he said, his gaze finding hers. “If Miss èibhlin is amenable, perhaps after breakfast?”
“That would be most kind, Your Grace,” she replied, her heart quickening at the prospect of spending time alone with him — or as alone as propriety would allow.
“Until tomorrow, then.” He bowed to each of them in turn, his eyes lingering on èibhlin’s for a fraction longer than strictly necessary. “Ladies, I bid you good night.”
As the door closed behind him, èibhlin felt the Duchess’ assessing gaze upon her once more. There was something calculating in the older woman’s expression, a wariness which suggested that she had observed more than èibhlin might have wished.
“My son can be quite the scholar when his duties permit,” the Duchess remarked. “Though I fear that you may find his taste in literature rather serious for a young lady’s sensibilities.”
“My niece has never shied away from serious subjects,” Aunt Muireall said, with unexpected loyalty. “Her father’s library at Felldale is quite extensive.”
“Indeed?” The Duchess’ tone was one of polite disbelief. “How... progressive of Viscount Felldale.”
èibhlin sipped her sherry, letting the gentle warmth of it spread through her chest.
“My father believes that knowledge should not be restricted by gender, Your Grace. A philosophy my mother shared.”
“How very... modern.” The Duchess set down her own glass with a decisive click.
“Well, I am sure that you and my son will find much to discuss tomorrow. For tonight, however, I suggest that we retire early. London society keeps late hours, and you will need your rest after your long journey if you are to adapt to our schedule in the coming days.”
Taking the hint, èibhlin rose along with her aunt, thanking the Duchess for her hospitality. As they made their way upstairs, Aunt Muireall muttered under her breath about English condescension and the Duchess’ barely concealed disdain for their Scottish heritage.
èibhlin hardly heard her. Her mind was filled with the Duke — with Niall — and the strange, undeniable pull she had felt in his presence.
He had changed, yes, but beneath the formal exterior, she had glimpsed flashes of the boy she had known.
The boy who had treated her as an equal, who had engaged her mind as well as her spirit.
In the privacy of her room, as Lucy helped her prepare for bed, èibhlin allowed herself to acknowledge the truth that she had been avoiding all evening: she was drawn to the Duke of Stonemont in a way that went far beyond childhood friendship or social obligation.
It was foolish, perhaps even dangerous, and she should not allow herself to indulge the feeling.
He was a Duke, one of the highest-ranking peers in England. She was the daughter of a Scottish Viscount, a nobody in the eyes of London society. Whatever connection they had shared as children, the realities of their adult lives stood between them like an insurmountable wall.
And yet...
He had remembered the details of their conversations. He had defended her against his mother’s subtle barbs. He had looked at her with those stormy blue eyes in a way that made her heart race, and her breath catch.
As èibhlin slipped beneath the covers, she tried to temper her expectations with reason. Tomorrow’s tour of the library was a courtesy, nothing more. The Duke was being kind to the daughter of his Scottish neighbour, honouring old connections for the sake of propriety.
But as sleep began to claim her, reason gave way to something more powerful — a hope, fragile yet persistent, that the connection she had felt tonight was not entirely one-sided.
That somewhere beneath the Duke’s carefully maintained composure, Niall Smythe still existed.
The boy who had taught her to skip stones and who had listened to her opinions as if they mattered.
The boy who, perhaps, might see in the woman she had become something worth knowing again.
*****
In another wing of the grand house, the Duke of Stonemont stood at his window, gazing out at the moonlit garden, his thoughts occupied by a pair of green eyes and the echo of a laugh he had not heard in eight long years.