And there she was.
Georgiana stood with her back to him, her cloak wrapped tightly around her shoulders. The pale gray wool made her seem wrought from the morning mist itself. In her hand, she held a small leather-bound book. Her sketch journal.
“The garden calls to restless souls, it seems,” he said softly.
She turned, and he caught the faint curve of a smile. “Indeed it does. The stillness helps me think.”
“May I share your sanctuary?”
She gestured to the bench beside her. “I should welcome the company.”
They settled together, and for a time neither spoke. The silence between them felt fragile, as if the wrong word might shatter whatever tentative peace they’d found. She traced idle patterns on her journal’s worn leather cover, and he found himself studying the way the soft light caught her fair hair.
“When I was a child and my mother and father were at odds, which was often, I used to steal away to our garden. It was where I first started to draw. Sometimes Cecily would join me. I think she grew to love flowers and trees during those times.”
He looked out across the dew-silvered hedges. “I have always found peace outside, even during the hard years at the Langstons.” He paused, then found himself speaking words he’d never shared. “I spent so many years feeling utterly alone, convinced that isolation was my natural state. That perhaps some people are simply meant to walk through life without connection.”
Her hands stilled on the journal. “You have never struck me as someone who belongs alone.”
“No?” He turned to study her profile. “For the longest time, I believed I had nothing to offer another person. That the damage in me ran too deep.” He drew a breath. “But lately, I’ve begun to wonder if I was wrong. If perhaps solitude isn’t a virtue, but simply… fear.”
Without hesitation, her gloved hand found his where it rested on the stone bench. The simple touch steadied him more than any words could have. “Fear can masquerade as many things. Wisdom. Practicality. Self-protection.”
He looked at her then, truly looked, and saw understanding in her eyes. Not pity, but recognition. “You speak as one who knows something of fear disguised.”
A rueful smile touched her lips. “I’m doing my best to choose courage instead. However, it must be said—you’ve made that choice easier.”
The air itself seemed to hold its breath, weighted with what neither dared speak.
James felt the pull of her. Not merely her beauty, though that stirred him profoundly, but something deeper. The quiet strength that had carried her through loss, the gentle humor that surfaced despite her trials, the way she saw past his carefully constructed walls to whatever goodness might still remain.
“Do you want to speak about last night?” James asked.
Her eyes met his, and he saw uncertainty there, perhaps even hope. “I… yes. I think we should.”
Relief flooded through him. “Georgie, I fear there may have been a misunderstanding. What I said about a man discovering other ways to secure happiness—”
“My lord?” Mrs. Ellsworth’s voice carried across the garden. “Forgive the interruption, but a letter has arrived for Miss Georgiana. The messenger said it was urgent.”
James bit back his frustration as the housekeeper approached, holding out a cream-colored envelope. Georgiana’s face went pale themoment she saw the handwriting.
“Thank you, Mrs. Ellsworth.” Her voice sounded unsteady. Perhaps even terrified.
The housekeeper departed, and James watched with growing concern as Georgiana stared at the letter as if it contained a serpent.
“Georgie? What is it?”
With trembling fingers, she broke the seal and unfolded the paper. As she read, the color drained completely from her face. Her hands began to shake.
“No,” she whispered. “No, he cannot—”
“What’s wrong?” James reached for her, but she jerked back, the letter fluttering to the ground.
“I must go. I must—Cecily needs to know—” She was already backing away, panic clear in her voice.
“Georgiana, wait. Tell me what’s happened.”
But she had already turned and fled toward the house, leaving James alone with his unfinished explanation and a growing dread about what that letter contained.
