“Don’t give up on love, Georgie. Someday, I expect you’ll meet someone who was made to love you and only you.”
“How can you say that when you don’t believe in love for yourself?”
He met her gaze. “I actually don’t know. I simply know that you are a gift to whoever is lucky enough to be in your life. Including mine.”
They sat in the quiet, the fire crackling low, the ache in her totouch him, to confess how much she loved him, nearly overwhelming her.
Tomorrow, everything would change. London awaited.
But tonight, for one quiet hour, it was enough just to sit with him and be seen.
Chapter Thirteen
James
James was stillreeling over Georgie’s revelation about her husband the night before. James was no innocent. He knew there were men who enjoyed the company of other men, but it was always in secret. They lived under the constant threat of social ruin, imprisonment, or even execution if discovered. Homosexuality between men was not only stigmatized, it was illegal, punishable under sodomy laws in Britain. Many gay men, especially those of the gentry or professional class, married women to fulfill societal and familial expectations. From what he knew, these marriages often involved little to no physical intimacy, and may have only been platonic partnerships.
Discretion was everything. Codes, body language, and phrases in Latin or French were used to test safety. London had known meeting areas called Molly Houses, which were essentially secret pubs or lodging houses where they could find others seeking similar companionship. These places were constantly surveilled and raided. He’d always felt a deep sorrow for the men who were forced to live lives of deception.
However, he’d never met anyone, man or woman, who was in a marriage of that variety.
It made his heart hurt, thinking of sweet Georgie in her dressing gown, hearing the news that her marriage would not be at all what she expected. Like he’d said to her last night, she deserved better.
Now, he stood near the fireplace in the drawing room, absently adjusting the cuffs of his shirt as the morning light filtered through the tall windows. February had brought the crocuses and soon to bloom daffodils and early blooming cherry trees but the chill in the air remained.
Mrs. Ellsworth was seated near the hearth, her hands folded neatly in her lap, watching him with the mild patience of someone who had already accepted she’d be needed to steer this process.
“Are you certain I really need a valet?” James asked. “I’ve gotten along without one for months now.”
Mrs. Ellsworth didn’t look up from her notes. “Lord Ashford, it’s not a question. You must have one.”
He glanced at her. “It seems like a waste of money.”
Her mouth softened into something close to a smile. “You and your brother wanted to be returned to the life you were meant to have. That is happening. Now.”
“All right, fine.”
“The first interview is for the butler position,” Mrs. Ellsworth explained.
A knock came, and Mrs. Ellsworth rose to admit the first candidate. A tall, silver-haired man entered, posture straight and expression calm. He moved with quiet assurance and nodded once in greeting.
“Mr. Isherwood,” Mrs. Ellsworth said. “Formerly in service to the Earl of Stanhope.”
“Lord Ashford.” He bowed. “Thank you for receiving me.”
“Thank you for coming.” James gestured to the chair opposite. “Please.”
Mr. Isherwood sat, folding his hands over his lap.
They spoke for several minutes. He explained his experience overseeing large households, his preference for quiet efficiency over spectacle, and his ability to handle unexpected challenges with composure.
James asked few questions but listened closely. There was a steadying quality about the man. His voice was even, his gaze direct, his answers free of flattery.
“Are you aware of the history of my family?” James asked. “My father?”
“I am, my lord.”
“And it doesn’t bother you?”
