It was perfection. Creamy, herb-kissed, with that bright citrus note she’d been perfecting for weeks. In the kitchen, he would have praised it, watched her cheeks flush with pleasure, maybe stolen a second helping directly from the pot while she scolded him for poor manners.
Here, it tasted like ash.
The claret was probably worth more than most families saw in a year. James drained half the glass in one swallow, hoping for warmth, for courage, for anything to fill the hollow ache spreading through his chest. Through the tall windows, he could see the east lawn and the blooming of the cherry trees.
A laugh echoed faintly from below where the rest of them were eating together. The sound felt like a knife between his ribs.
The lamb arrived, pink and perfect, accompanied by vegetables arranged like artwork. James cut into it with mechanical precision, each slice exactly as Digby had demonstrated. Chew. Swallow. Reach for his glass. Repeat. Like a clockwork gentleman, all moving parts and no soul.
His fork scraped against china, the sound sharp in the cavernous silence. Somewhere in this house, real people were sharing real conversation, their voices overlapping in the comfortable chaos of belonging. And here he sat, lord of nothing but empty space and echoing loneliness.
And he missed Georgiana’s company so much it took his breath away.
James pushed back from the table so abruptly his chair scrapedagainst marble. The untouched lamb grew cold, the perfect vegetables congealed in their artful arrangement. He stared down at the waste of it all—the ceremony, the isolation, the suffocating weight of propriety.
He dropped his napkin over the ruins of his meal and walked out, leaving the ghosts of dead Ashfords to finish dinner alone.
Chapter Sixteen
Georgiana
The manor wasquiet as Georgiana padded barefoot down the corridor in her dressing gown, her slippers barely making a sound on the worn rugs. She hadn’t been able to sleep. The anticipation of London, the looming responsibilities, Julian’s letter burning in her mind, and her growing, confusing feelings for James.
When she reached the drawing room, she paused in the doorway. James sat in one of the wingback chairs by the fire, his coat discarded and a book forgotten on his lap. His posture was relaxed, one ankle resting over the opposite knee, a half-empty glass of wine in hand. The flickering light from the hearth gilded the sharp lines of his jaw and caught in his intense, watchful eyes that seemed to see too much. He looked up at her arrival, his expression softening. Her breath caught.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” James asked, sounding gruff.
She shook her head, stepping into the room. “I thought perhaps a fire would quiet my thoughts.”
He gestured to the chair opposite. “Join me.”
She curled into the seat, drawing her robe tighter across her chest. This was entirely inappropriate for her to be with him in her night clothes but she didn’t even care. Not anymore. She just wanted to be wherever he was.
“Thank you for inviting Mother to stay here tonight. She claims the inn was simply too loud to sleep properly and she wants to lookher best.” Georgiana chuckled, rolling her eyes.
“Your mother is a difficult woman, but she is not without her good qualities,” James said.
“Such as?”
“She has excellent taste.”
“And loves to spend other people’s money,” Georgiana said.
The fire snapped and whispered between them, and she was acutely aware of how the light played across his features, how his breathing seemed to deepen as he watched her settle.
“Hard to believe we leave tomorrow.” His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around his glass. “London beckons.”
“Yes. I’d like to say I was looking forward to it but I’m not. I’d rather stay here and continue our work together.”
His eyes sharpened slightly. “Is your reluctance about London connected to that letter you received this morning? You seemed quite distressed by it.”
Heat flooded her cheeks. She could never tell him about Julian—about the assault, about how powerless and ashamed she felt. “Just some unpleasant correspondence from my past. Nothing that need concern you.”
Something shifted in his expression, a subtle withdrawal that made her chest tighten. “I see.”
The silence stretched between them, no longer comfortable but weighted with unspoken tension. She watched him take a longer sip of wine, his jaw working as if he were chewing on something bitter.
“It’s for Cecily,” he said finally, his voice cooler now. “And it’s only a few months. We’ll be back here before you know it.”
