Surpass.
She didn’t know whether to feel relief or dread.
Halverton let his hand fall. “I do not need you to be Florence, Aoife.”
Her heart stumbled. “You… don’t?”
He smiled faintly, the smallest tilt of his mouth. “No. I need you to be perfect.”
A chill curled down her spine.
Perfect.
Never faltering, never stepping out of line as she had with her father.
She bowed her head slightly. “If that is what you want, my lord.”
Halverton studied her for a long moment. “Is it what you want?”
Her answer rose before she could think.
“It’s what I must become.”
He nodded once, satisfied. “Then we understand each other.”
Aoife lifted her gaze. She held his eyes.
“Yes,” she said, her voice calm and steady. “We do.”
Chapter 24
He found her in the sitting room the next morning, reading The Superstitions of Inis Morra. Mr Lanyon or one of the other staff must have picked it up and returned it to the bookshelf. She wouldn’t normally choose to read such nonsense, but she knew it would please Halverton, and what the author had to say on the subject intrigued her.
Aoife had arranged herself in an armchair with her feet tucked under her. She wasn’t sure it was quite right for a lady, but this morning with the skies a pale blue and a low fire burning in the grate, she found herself tempted by the comfort of it. Once or twice, she had wondered what it would be like to be born into this, to never know anything other than comfort and warmth and a full belly; wondered how much that cushioning, that lack of exposure to the outside world, had shaped Halverton.
The soft tread of boots across the carpet and the rustle of papers shifting reached her before she saw him. She didn’t look up too quickly. That, she had learned, suggested nerves. Instead, she lifted her gaze as though surprised but pleased to find him there.
“Good morning, my lord,” she said, voice composed.
Halverton paused in the doorway, eyes taking in the scene: her posture, the open book, the small cluster of fresh flowers she had chosen for her hair. Different flowers today. Her own choice.
A pleased warmth touched his expression.
“I wanted to make a good start,” she said, closing her book lightly, fingers resting on the cover. “There is much I still need to learn.”
“You improve every day,” he said, crossing the room toward her.
Aoife kept her smile modest. “I’m trying.”
“I see that.” He stopped beside her chair, fingers brushing her shoulder. “You are becoming exactly the woman I knew you could be.”
Her stomach tightened, but her face didn’t show it. “I’m glad to hear it.”
He touched one of the flowers in her hair, light and proprietary. “An alternative choice today?”
“Yes,” she said carefully. “I wasn’t sure if—”
“They suit you,” he said. “Better than the others.”
