“Mrs. Honeycutt could organize a siege if required. I’ve no doubt she’ll master whatever challenges Ashford Manor presents.” James’s eyes crinkled with humor. “Though I pity any servant who thinks to slack under her watch.”
As the evening progressed, Georgiana found herself relaxing despite her better judgment. The ale had warmed her from within, and James proved to be unexpectedly easy company. When he turned his attention to Cecily, asking about her plans for the Season, Georgiana studied his profile in the firelight—the strong line of his jaw, the way his eyes gentled when he spoke to her younger sister.
“The Season depends rather heavily upon our current circumstances,” Cecily admitted, her cheeks coloring. “I’ve a modest dowry, but whether it shall prove sufficient…”
“You undertook your husband’s profession to secure your sister’s future?” James’s gaze returned to Georgiana. There was no judgmentin his tone, only understanding.
“Among other reasons,” Cecily said. “Georgiana possesses remarkable talent. She’s not merely maintaining Robert’s business. She’s improving upon it.”
“No easy feat for a woman in such a field,” James said. “I begin to understand the necessity of your creative correspondence.”
Heat crept up Georgiana’s neck. “Would you have engaged my services otherwise?”
“In all honesty? No.” His directness was refreshing, even if the answer stung. “But I’ve learned that desperation teaches one to value results over conventions. And I confess myself curious to see what you’ll make of the old place.”
“I pray I shall not disappoint you.”
“I suspect disappointment is the least of my concerns.” Something in his tone made her pulse quicken. “Tell me of your plans. How shall we tackle such an undertaking?”
They spoke at length of practical matters—labor requirements, material sourcing, the coordination of various tradesmen. James listened intently, occasionally asking pointed questions that revealed his own keen understanding of such projects.
“I noticed you’ve been residing in the master’s chambers.” Georgiana immediately regretted the observation. It seemed too intimate, too suggestive of her having noted his sleeping arrangements.
“The cot serves well enough for now.” James shrugged, as if it was of no consequence. “Though I confess I look forward to proper furnishings.”
“We shall begin there, then. And the kitchen quarters—they’ll require immediate attention if Mrs. Honeycutt is to work her magic.”
“Agreed. Mrs. Ellsworth, our former housekeeper, returns tomorrow. She’ll prove invaluable in organizing both staff and local laborers.”
“Former?” Cecily asked.
“She worked for us when we were children. When she heard of our change in circumstances, she came calling. It was quite something to see her again after all these years. We were very fond of her. It is a dream come true to welcome her back to the manor.”
Georgiana could not help but feel moved by his sentimental streak. As they discussed timelines and priorities, she found herself stealing glances at James’s hands as he gestured, noting the way his voice deepened when he spoke of restoring the village’s prosperity. This was a man who had learned to care for others, who understood responsibility born of hardship.
Dangerous thoughts,she warned herself.You’ve worked too hard for independence to surrender it now.
But when he insisted on settling their account and walked them to the foot of the narrow stairs leading to their chambers, she could not ignore the flutter in her chest as he bid them goodnight.
“Until tomorrow, then.” His eyes lingered on her face. “The beginning of our grand endeavor.”
“Indeed,” Georgiana said, her voice steadier than she felt. “Good evening, my lord.”
She climbed the stairs with measured steps, acutely aware of his presence below until the taproom door closed behind him. Only then did she allow herself to exhale fully, one hand pressed to her rapidly beating heart.
“He’s rather magnificent, isn’t he?” Cecily whispered as they prepared for bed.
“He’s our employer,” Georgiana said. “Nothing more.”
A few minutes later, as she lay in the narrow bed, listening to Cecily’s soft breathing and the wind rattling the windows, sleep remained elusive. Her mind churned, not with worry over the project itself, but with thoughts of the man who’d commissioned it.
James Ashford was a contradiction that unsettled her. She’d heard tales of his reputation as a rough tavern keeper who’d never backeddown from a fight, yet tonight he’d been nothing but courteous. The raw emotion she’d witnessed in his father’s study lingered in her memory, as did the way his voice had gentled when speaking to Cecily.
With a soft sigh, she slipped from bed and padded to the small table beneath the window. When restless thoughts plagued her, drawing had always provided solace. It offered a way to focus her mind on form and shadow rather than fruitless worry.
She opened her sketchbook, her pencil moving almost of its own accord. The precise recall that had always seemed natural to her—though she’d learned it was quite rare—allowed her to capture James as he’d stood in his father’s study. The slope of his shoulders beside the cracked hearth, the rigid line of his jaw as he’d struggled with old grief.
Her father had possessed artistic talent as well, though he’d used it only to occupy his restless nature during the long decline that preceded his final, devastating choice. The gambling debts. The scandal. The gunshot that had stolen not only his life but their future. In one terrible night, her promised Season had vanished along with their home and security.
