“Hmm.” He reached for the third sample. His touch was surprisingly delicate for such work-hardened fingers. “And this one?”
“A subtle tartan-inspired design in burgundy and navy. Less ornate than what’s currently favored in Town but elegantly masculine.” She glanced up to find him watching her rather than the paper. “It would pair well with mahogany furnishings.”And you.
The fourth sample was simpler—a textured paper in a warm cognac shade. “This would create a particularly inviting atmosphere for evening. The texture absorbs candlelight beautifully.” She presented the final sample, a rich crimson-flocked damask. “What do you think?
James leaned over them, studying each one. His finger absently traced a deep knife scar on the table, one of many that told stories of countless meals prepared for generations of the Ashford family.
Georgiana slid three paint samples from the portfolio. “If none of these appeal, we might consider a painted finish instead. A deep green-blue for elegance, this warm gold for brightness, or this terracotta for warmth.”
James straightened suddenly, running a hand through his disheveled hair, leaving it standing at odd angles. “You favor the burgundy.”
Georgiana blinked. “I… yes. How did you know?”
“Your voice softened when describing it.” His eyes met hers, unexpectedly perceptive. “Why that one?”
She hadn’t expected him to notice, much less care about her opinion. “It suits the manor’s character, in that it’s traditional but not outdated. And it would complement the eastern exposure without darkening the room.” She hesitated. “It also seems to suit you.”
His eyebrow rose. “Does it?”
“Dignified without ostentation.” The words escaped before she could reconsider them. “Masculine but elegant. Like you, my lord.”
“High praise.” Chuckling, he glanced down at his soiled shirt. “Though perhaps misplaced at the moment.”
“Clothes do not make the man. Your character remains, no matter what you’re wearing on the outside.”
He simply gazed at her for a moment, his eyes soft. “You’re kinderthan I thought you’d be.”
She laughed. “What do you mean? And should I be insulted?”
“I don’t know. When we first met, you came in so fierce and determined, I was afraid we might be at odds. I’ve been known to be stubborn and fierce myself.”
“It was only that I was nervous. About the lie about my gender, mostly. I over-compensated, I suppose.”
“Well, the world’s not dealt us fair hands, but here we are just the same. Scrappers.”
She returned his smile, feeling shy but also understood. “Scrappers. Yes.”
James returned his attention to the samples, his fingertips resting on the burgundy paper. “What else? The bed, for example?” He glanced back at her, his eyes twinkling. Was he flirting with her?
A shiver went down the back of her spine.
She told herself to stay composed. Acting like a lovesick schoolgirl would not help her cause. “Dark walnut four-poster with navy wool for winter, something lighter for summer. White linens with this subtle pattern at the edges.” She pulled out a small fabric swatch.
“Yes, these are lovely. You’ve captured my taste very well. I’m not sure how.” Something unexpectedly gentle had entered his voice, at odds with his rough appearance. He tapped the blue sample once, leaving a faint smudge on its edge. “This one is right. As are the rest of your suggestions.”
“Very well.” Georgiana began gathering the samples, conscious of his gaze. “I’ll put the orders in tomorrow before I come out.”
“Mrs. Honeycutt will arrive tomorrow. Do you think she’ll approve of our work here in the kitchen?” James asked.
“You’ve done very well, my lord. I’m impressed.”
“Good. Because Mrs. Honeycutt’s not the type to suffer fools. She’s been known to make grown men cry.”
“Surely not?”
“You’ll see,” James said, grinning. “She’s marvelous.”
A boom of thunder rattled the pans hanging overhead.
