Aoife mulled that over. A fiancée who’d left him the moment things turned hard was sure to have hurt him and changed the way he looked at relationships. Now he’d found himself a woman who couldn’t leave. She must be able to use that knowledge to her advantage, but how? Show she understood him and try to find a way to the man he was before he had his heart broken? After all, Florence must have fallen for something about the man beyond his position. Maybe Aoife could find it too.
As Clara continued her work, buttoning and lacing the dress. Aoife looked at herself in the mirror. The dress was undoubtedly stunning. A blue so deep it was almost black, with lace at the sleeves and fine bell-shaped flowers embroidered into the skirt. But it wasn’t hers. Florence had chosen the fabric. Florence had chosen the flowers. Aoife didn’t recognise them, an Eldrossi species perhaps. Did they hold a symbolism she didn’t understand? Or a meaning special to Florence and Halverton?
Halverton, it seemed, wasn’t moulding her into a lady. He was shaping her into one lady in particular.
***
The sight that met her when she entered the breakfast room stopped her short. The table was set with toast and rolls, butter carved into roses, dishes of preserves and fruit, cold meats, cheese, and smoked fish. It was more food than her family had seen in weeks.
“Good morning. Is someone else joining us?” she asked.
Lord Halverton didn’t look up from his newspaper. “Good morning, and no. No one is joining us.”
The room was bright with pale morning light that fell across the large table from tall sash windows. It smelled of coffee, smoked meat, and beeswax polish. The chairs were high-backed and upholstered, beautiful but soulless compared to her own. Aoife perched on the edge of hers.
Halverton finished the article he was reading, folded the paper, and looked at her properly.
“You look incredible,” he said, standing up. “You’ll look even better once the new silks arrive. The green will suit you especially.”
He crossed to her side of the table. Standing behind her, he brushed the hair from her neck, sweeping it across one shoulder. Aoife forced herself not to move. A silver necklace hung in the air in front of her for a moment before Halverton lowered it, fastening it behind her, his fingers warm against her skin.
The seconds stretched. He did not move. Aoife’s breathing quickened, her skin tingling as he stood behind her, not saying a word.
Brusquely, he swept the hair over her shoulder again and returned to his seat.
“You must look the part,” he said.
Aoife reached for her glass, mouth dry, buying herself a moment to decide what to say. She could not say it was beautiful; she hadn’t had a chance to see it. She knew she ought to thank him, but she could not bring herself to do so for a gift she had no use for.
“You shouldn’t have,” she said at last. It was polite, demure, exactly the sort of thing the lady in his book would say, and it had the benefit of being entirely true.
He smiled faintly.
She looked at the table again. “There’s so much food,” she said carefully. “What happens to what we don’t eat?”
Halverton shrugged. “I don’t know.” He gestured to the footman, who refilled his glass.
“You don’t know?” Aoife asked incredulously.
Halverton shrugged again.
“Could you find out?” She asked, trying not to sound rude.
The butler, standing nearby, shifted uneasily.
Halverton sighed and turned to the butler. “What happens to it?”
Mr Lanyon cleared his throat. “Anything that keeps, my lord, will be presented again tomorrow. Perishables are sent to the servants’ table. Anything spoiled goes to the pigs.”
Halverton nodded, satisfied. “See. None of it is wasted, and no one in my house goes hungry.”
No, only those on your farms.
He turned to her. “Now, stop asking questions and eat.”
A footman stepped forward. “What shall I serve you, miss?”
Aoife hesitated, heat rising up her neck.
