Georgiana’s hand trembledas she set down her teacup, the delicate porcelain clicking against the saucer with more force than intended. The cramped inn room felt smaller with each passing hour, made more so by the weight of what lay ahead. Beside her, Cecily bent over a sheaf of notes, her pen scratching industriously across the paper.
“There,” Georgiana murmured, forcing steadiness into her voice as she reviewed the proposal one final time. The figures swam before her tired eyes—labor costs, materials, timeframes. Everything hinged on Lord Ashford’s approval. Everything hinged on her ability to convince a man who had every reason to distrust her that she could restore his family’s legacy.
The scent of tallow candles and old wood permeated their small chamber, mixing with the faint aroma of the beef stew drifting up from the taproom below. Georgiana’s stomach growled from hunger.
“You’ve done excellent work today,” she said, glancing at her sister. Cecily’s cheeks were flushed with purpose, her eyes bright despite the late hour. “Shall we venture downstairs? I find I’m rather famished.”
They had spoken little of the morning’s events, other than Lord Ashford’s thunderous expression when he discovered George Fairfax was, in fact, Georgiana. She had anticipated his fury, had even plannedfor it. The deception sat uneasily in her chest, but what choice did a woman have in this world?
Robert would have understood, she thought, gathering her shawl about her shoulders. Her late husband had been a master of necessary compromises.
The taproom below buzzed with conversation and the clink of pewter mugs. Georgiana selected a table near the hearth, grateful for the warmth that seeped through her wool dress. The fire cast dancing shadows across the rough-hewn walls, and she found herself studying the flames as she waited for their ale.
“What manner of man do you suppose his lordship to be?” Cecily asked, her voice pitched low beneath the tavern’s din.
Georgiana considered the question, turning her pewter mug between her palms. The metal was warm from the ale within, and she savored the simple comfort of it. “A complicated one. He carries his wounds like armor—necessary protection, but a heavy burden.”
She had seen it in the rigid set of his shoulders as he’d toured them through the manor, the way his jaw tightened when he spoke of his father. Ten years old when he witnessed that horrible injustice. The very thought made her stomach turn.
“The gossips say Sebastian, the eldest, disguised himself as a gardener to infiltrate the Wentworth estate,” Georgiana continued. “He sought proof of their father’s innocence.”
“And found love instead,” Cecily said softly. “How romantic.”
“Romance is a luxury we can ill-afford,” Georgiana replied, though the words tasted bitter. She had learned that lesson well enough in her marriage to Robert—a union of convenience that had bloomed into deep friendship, if not passion.
The memory of their wedding night still had the power to steal her breath. Robert’s halting confession of his preference for men, her own tears of disappointment, the long conversation that had followed.I cannot love you as a husband should, he had said, but I can offer you partnership. Knowledge. Freedom of a sort.
And he had kept that promise. Every evening spent hunched over architectural drawings, every lesson in structural engineering, every patient explanation of load-bearing calculations had given her a trade, a means of independence. She would not squander that gift.
The taproom door swung open, bringing with it a gust of January air and the tall figure of James Ashford. Georgiana’s breath caught as he surveyed the room, his gaze landing upon them. Snowflakes clung to the shoulders of his greatcoat, and his hair—that fascinating shade between gold and brown—curled damply at his collar.
“Oh dear,” Cecily whispered. “Do we bid him join us?”
The question became moot as James approached their table, hat in hand. Up close, Georgiana could see the way the cold had heightened the color in his cheeks, could catch the faint scent of winter air and a note of sandalwood, perhaps, or cedar.
“Mrs. Fairfax. Miss Cecily.” His voice carried that same measured courtesy from the morning, though his eyes seemed less guarded now. “I trust you’ve found comfortable lodgings?”
“Indeed, my lord. Pray, will you not join us?” Georgiana gestured to an empty chair, acutely aware of how her pulse quickened at his proximity.Foolish woman. You’ve no time for such nonsense.
“If I shall not intrude upon your evening.”
“Not at all.”
He settled into the chair with fluid grace, and Georgiana found herself studying the long lines of his fingers as he signaled for the serving girl. Those hands had once pulled pints and wiped down tables. A gentleman reduced to common labor by circumstances beyond his control. She understood that particular desperation all too well.
The serving girl fairly fluttered as she took his order, her cheeks pink with more than the tavern’s warmth. Georgiana felt an unexpected stab of something that might have been jealousy, which was ridiculous. She had no claim on Lord Ashford’s attentions.
“A warming meal for such a bitter evening,” James observed once their bowls of stew had arrived. Steam rose from the rich broth, carrying the scent of herbs and tender beef.
“Do you find yourself missing the tavern life?” Cecily asked, her voice carrying that particular sweetness that made men lean closer.
James dabbed at his mouth with his napkin, considering. “Aye, more than I anticipated. The work itself, and the rhythm of daily tasks gave me a sense of satisfaction.”
“And the people?” Georgiana asked. “You spoke of your cook with such fondness.”
A genuine smile transformed his features. “Mrs. Honeycutt is formidable. My sister Sophia calls her ‘a force of nature,’ which is a charitable way of saying she brooks no nonsense from anyone. She’ll have the manor’s kitchen running like a military operation within a fortnight.”
“Will she adapt well to country house management?” Georgiana asked. “The scale seems quite different from tavern cooking.”
