The first to emerge from the carriage was Lord Montbrass. Aoife recognised him even before Halverton murmured his name. He was tall but soft, his coat straining across a generous belly. His cheeks were flushed from travel or drink. It was hard to tell which.
“Halworth! Haversham!” he boomed, waving broadly before settling at last on, “Ah, Halverton, yes. Knew it was one of those. All the same in the Empire’s eyes, eh?”
He laughed, a deep, jovial sound.
Halverton smiled, but it didn’t meet his eyes. Aoife felt a wicked sense of satisfaction at the mispronunciation of his name for a change.
“And who might you be?” Lord Montbrass asked, addressing Aoife.
“This is my fiancée, Eva,” Halverton said smoothly, deliberately using the Eldrossi version of her name.
Aoife tried to school her features. She knew Halverton expected her to marry him eventually, but she’d never thought he’d used the term fiancée. She didn’t see things that way.
Lady Montbrass descended from the carriage with practised grace. She wore a gown of rose-gold satin, the fabric soft as a petal. Her cheeks were full and glowing, her hair threaded with pearls. She smiled warmly at Aoife, even as her assessing gaze swept over her, appraising and politely curious.
“Such a lovely young woman,” Lady Montbrass said to her husband, though loud enough for everyone to hear. “And in emerald! Quite a statement.”
“Thank you,” Aoife managed, hoping she sounded as Eldrossi as Halverton wished.
The next figure looked out of the carriage door.
“It is you,” Lord Severcombe said, leaping down from the carriage. He was shorter than Montbrass but carried himself with rigid dignity. His coat was deep navy, trimmed with silver braid, and a signet ring glittered on his gloved hand as he held it out to Halverton to shake.
“I would never have believed it at Bayforth. I thought you were destined for greatness, not a small backwater province.”
Halverton forced a smile. “A mere stepping stone, I assure you.”
Finally, Lady Severcombe appeared, draped in layers of lavender silk and lace. Her powdered cheeks were dusted with lilac to match her gown, and she wore enough jewels to shame a treasury.
“Oh, how charming,” she breathed, surveying the manor’s façade. “Remote, of course, but there’s a certain rustic dignity to it.”
Aoife wasn’t sure whether that was praise.
A young man of roughly Aoife’s age was the last to appear. He was as finely dressed as the rest of them, but not quite as at ease. As he approached, it was Lord Montbrass who spoke, “Bayforth is on break so my son, Lord Oswin Montbrass, will be joining us. I do hope that’s not a problem.”
“Not at all,” Halverton replied, and he entirely meant it. After all, it was the staff who would now have to prepare a bedroom, change the seating, and conjure an extra serving out of thin air. Aoife thought about the food that would have gone to the village that would now go to feeding this boy, and her jaw clenched behind her smile.
The group clustered together at the foot of the steps like a bouquet of rich flowers.
Behind them, the household staff bowed and curtsied in unison.
Aoife stood at Halverton’s side, trying not to fidget under the weight of so many eyes. Their clothes gleamed, their faces were full, their laughter rose easily, unburdened by worry.
And for the first time, she understood exactly how wide the gulf was between her world and theirs.
The party moved indoors for pre-dinner drinks, their voices rolling ahead of them. The sconces were lit although it was still light outside, and the drawing room glowed gold and soft.
Lady Montbrass and Lady Severcombe drifted immediately toward the walls, admiring portraits and porcelain, cataloguing the worth of the room by eye. Their jewels caught the light, scattering colour across polished frames.
The lords stood near the mantel, glasses in hand. Aoife could hear their conversation from across the room: the elder Lord Montbrass’s booming laughter, Halverton’s smoother, more measured responses.
Aoife kept to the edge of the room, sipping her wine, trying to look composed.
That was when Lord Severcombe slipped away from the group.
He approached her with a smile that didn’t touch his pale eyes. “You must be Miss Eva,” he said, letting his gaze travel over her. “A pleasure.”
Aoife dipped her head. “My lord.”
