After the last spoonful of cobbler had been claimed and the fire had dimmed to glowing embers, the four of them drifted back toward the drawing room. The warmth of the meal lingered in the air and in their limbs.
“I’ll have Cook set something aside for breakfast,” Mrs. Bainbridge said, rising with a firm nod. “I doubt anyone here will want to rise early, but that’s no excuse for going hungry.”
Barrington helped her to the corridor, offering her his arm with gentlemanly precision.
Georgina and Alex remained behind, standing near the mantel. The quiet between them wasn’t silence. It was rest.
She looked up at him, her expression soft in the firelight. “That was… a lovely evening.”
“It was.”
“They feel rare. Lovely evenings.”
“They shouldn’t.”
She turned slightly toward him. “You said that like a promise.”
He met her eyes, and something in his gaze changed. It didn’t darken, not deepen. It focused, like a man making a decision in full light.
“I meant it as one.”
His hand found hers, not as a question, but as an affirmation. And then, slowly, he lifted it to his lips and pressed a kiss to the back of her fingers. Her breath caught, but she didn’t move.
He stepped closer.
She tilted her face up, no hesitation, no distance left between them.
When he kissed her, it was without preamble, without tension. Just warmth and certainty. His hand slid to her cheek, cradling it gently as her fingers curled into his coat.
It wasn’t a beginning. It was an arrival.
When they parted, neither spoke for a long moment.
His thumb traced once, barely, along her cheek, a promise he chose to keep.
“I should…” she whispered, nodding toward the stairs, though she made no move.
His thumb brushed the side of her jaw. “I know.”
She smiled then, the kind of smile that came only when a person felt safe enough to mean it.
“Goodnight, Alex.”
“Goodnight, Georgina.”
She turned and ascended the stairs, her hand grazing the banister, the echo of his kiss still warm on her lips.
The autumn sun filtered softly through the lace curtains in the breakfast room, painting delicate patterns across the tablecloth. The windows had been opened just enough to let in the scent of the garden with its damp leaves, a hint of woodsmoke, and the faint sweetness of drying lavender.
Georgina sat at the table in a pale day dress, the bodice modest and crisply pressed, her hair swept into a simple twist. A plate of toast rested untouched beside her, and a teacup cooled near her hand. She held a pen lightly between her fingers, a single sheet of parchment before her.
Dearest Eliza,
Forgive my delay. If you’re willing, shall we meet today? The park behind the bookshop at half past eleven?
—G.
She blew gently on the ink to dry it, then folded the note in half and sealed it with a small wafer. By the time she looked up, Alex had entered the room.
