Page 21 of Miss Murchison’s Mistletoe Memories

As if summoned by their discussion, Niall appeared before them, bowing with formal courtesy.

“Mother, Miss Murchison, Miss Èibhlin. I trust that you are enjoying the entertainment?”

“Tolerably,” Aunt Muireall replied, with characteristic bluntness. “Though I find Miss Harrington’s playing rather mechanical. All technique and no soul, if you ask me.”

The Duchess’ lips thinned at this criticism, but Niall’s mouth quirked in what might have been the beginning of a smile.

“A perceptive observation, Miss Murchison. Perhaps we might persuade Miss Èibhlin to favour us with a performance? I recall that her playing had considerably more feeling.”

“Oh! I couldn’t possibly,” Èibhlin protested, alarmed at the thought of performing before such a critical audience.

“Another time, perhaps,” the Duchess said smoothly. “Niall, I have taken the liberty of promising Miss Èibhlin’s first dance to you. Lord Gregory has claimed the second.”

Something flashed in Niall’s eyes — surprise, followed by something darker — before his expression returned to careful neutrality.

“I would be honoured, if Miss Èibhlin is agreeable.”

“Most agreeable, Your Grace,” Èibhlin replied, her voice steadier than she felt.

The prospect of dancing with Niall — of being held, however formally, in his arms — sent a flutter of anticipation through her chest. Before their conversation could continue, a young lady took her place at the pianoforte, and attention returned to the performances. Niall excused himself with a bow, returning to his position by the pillar, while Èibhlin tried to focus on the music rather than the approaching dance.

After three more performances — a pianoforte piece, a vocal duet, and a rather ambitious violin solo — Lady Harrington announced that the formal portion of the evening was concluded. Servants appeared to move furniture aside, creating space for dancing, while the string quartet repositioned themselves accordingly.

“A country dance to begin, I think,” Lady Harrington declared, signalling to the musicians. “Stonemont, will you lead with your partner?”

Niall approached, offering his hand to Èibhlin with a formal bow.

“Miss Èibhlin?”

She placed her hand in his, feeling the warmth of his touch even through her gloves.

As he led her to the centre of the floor, she was acutely conscious of the eyes upon them — curious, speculative, in some cases openly disapproving. The Duchess watched with an expression Èibhlin could not quite decipher, while Aunt Muireall’s gaze held a mixture of pride and concern.

“You needn’t look so apprehensive,” Niall murmured, as they took their positions. “It is only a dance, after all.”

“Is it?” she replied softly. “It feels rather like a public examination.”

His eyes met hers, and for a moment, the warmth in his gaze banished her anxiety.

“Then we shall ensure that you pass with distinction.”

The music began, and they moved into the figures of the dance — advancing, retreating, circling, their hands touching briefly before parting again. Èibhlin was grateful for her mother’s insistence on dancing lessons, for the steps came naturally despite her nerves. Niall moved with the same fluid grace he had shown as a boy, though tempered now by the dignity of his position.

“You dance well,” he said, during a moment when the pattern brought them close together. “Better than I remember from our impromptu lessons at Greenfell Holt.”

The memory brought a smile to her lips.

“You were not the most patient teacher, as I recall. Especially when I trod on your toes.”

“You were twelve years old and determined to master the waltz in a single afternoon,” he replied, with an answering smile. “Patience was perhaps beyond me at that age.”

Their conversation was necessarily fragmented as the dance separated and reunited them, but even these brief exchanges held a warmth and ease that had been missing from their interactions since her arrival in London. For these few minutes, they were not Duke and visitor, not childhood acquaintances reunited by chance, but simply Niall and Èibhlin, moving in harmony to the music.

All too soon, the dance concluded.

Niall bowed, Èibhlin curtsied, and the moment of connection was broken. As he escorted her back to where the Duchess and Aunt Muireall stood, Èibhlin felt a curious mixture of elation and disappointment. The dance had brought them physically closer than they had been since her arrival, yet the formal constraints of the occasion had kept any real conversation impossible.

“Thank you for the dance, Miss Èibhlin,” Niall said, his voice returning to its usual formal tone. “I believe that Lord Gregory awaits his turn.”