Chapter Two
Georgiana
Georgiana’s hand trembled as 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 planned for 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.”
“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 judgment in 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 backed down 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.
She shaded the drawing carefully, adding depth to James’s profile. Perhaps that shared experience of loss was what drew her to him. She recognized in him someone who understood what it meant to have everything stripped away by forces beyond one’s control.
Setting the sketch aside, she gazed out at the frost-covered window. Tomorrow would bring early rising and whatever challenges James Ashford might present. But tonight, she allowed herself this moment of quiet fascination with a man who’d surprised her in ways she hadn’t expected.
One thing remained certain—he wanted his home restored, and she intended to give him exactly that.