“I’m sorry,” Aoife said quickly, dropping her gaze. “I didn’t mean to…”
He held still for a moment, then nodded once. “It is all right.”
Aoife watched him from the corner of her eye as he straightened, the candlelight brushing over the network of scars. How much of him had burned that day? More than bone and flesh? Perhaps also whatever part of him had once held gentleness or mercy.
Was that the moment he changed? Was that the trauma that had shaped him?
He moved on to another instruction, another correction. His tone was almost warm now.
By the time the footmen arrived to prepare the room for dinner, Aoife’s head buzzed with rules and steps and phrases she could barely keep straight. Her back ached from holding the posture he demanded. Her fingers still tingled from where he’d touched them.
Halverton stood, smoothing down his waistcoat. “You have done well,” he said. “Better than I expected.”
Aoife blinked. “Thank you.”
He gave her a smile she had never seen before. It was unguarded, almost boyish for an instant. The scars around his mouth pulled strangely, but they softened too.
A strange flutter went through her. Unease, hope, fear. She couldn’t name it.
The dressing gong rang then.
He lingered half a second, looking like he was about to speak, then he turned and left her there in the quiet glow of the dining room.
Aoife sank into the chair once he was gone, hands pressed to her temples. Her thoughts raced between the man at the whipping post, Florence’s flowers, the scars, and the lessons she didn’t want to learn.
But above all, one thought hovered stubbornly.
Maybe Alton was right.
Halverton could be reached. She’d seen a shift tonight, a crack in the armour, a flicker of the man he might once have been.
And if she could reach him…
If she could bend him, even a little…
If she could make him see what was happening beyond his gates…
Then maybe she could help more than herself.
Maybe she could help everyone.
She drew a slow breath, steadying herself.
This was the long game.
And the game had finally begun.
Chapter 12
Clara circled her once. She’d been in Aoife’s room for hours helping her prepare for the lords’ visit. Aoife had even enjoyed herself. Clara shared stories from the house, nothing scandalous, nothing Mr Lanyon or Mrs Harrow would be distressed at her sharing. She’d laughed out loud as Clara told the tale of the time Pansy had spilt a pail of ash over the floor and the other maids had helped to clean it up before the butler saw. None of them noticed it had gone under the door to the boot room until James had walked through and traipsed black footprints all over the servants’ hall. For a moment, she could forget where they were and what they were doing, and just enjoy spending time with a friend.
Clara finished with her dress and nodded approvingly. “This gown will do very well tonight. The skirt’s cut wide to make the hips look fuller. It’s all the fashion.”
“I feel like I’m wearing the bedclothes. How are you supposed to move with so much fabric?”
“Fashion isn’t about comfort,” Clara smiled as if explaining it to a child. “It’s about status. Ladies in the capital don’t want to look like they’ve missed a meal in their lives. Soft lines and curves are a sign of wealth.”
Aoife examined herself in the mirror. The dress hid her thin frame under layers of fabric, but her face still clearly showed the signs of hunger. Her cheeks had filled out a little sinceshe’d been here, but her cheekbones were still too prominent compared to the women in the paintings.
