Chapter Fifteen
James
The storm had passed by morning, leaving the grounds soaked and steaming under a brittle crust of early sunlight.
James stood at the window in his bedchamber, sipping coffee and watching the mist rise from the distant fields.
The manor had the hushed stillness of a household not yet fully awake, but the quiet did nothing to settle his restless thoughts.
He hadn’t slept well.
The previous evening’s scene in the drawing room kept looping through his mind, but not the parts he’d expected to dwell on.
Not her laughter or the way her eyes shone in the firelight, but that final, terrible moment when everything had gone wrong.
The way her face had drained of color. The crack in her voice when she’d said she understood what he was suggesting.
But what in blazes had he suggested?
He’d replayed their conversation a dozen times, examining every word.
He’d been speaking of marriage—hinting at it as delicately as he could manage.
When he’d said a man might discover other ways to secure happiness, he’d meant other than remaining a bachelor forever.
Other than his previous resolution never to wed.
So why had she looked at him as if he’d insulted her?
James exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand down his jaw. The confusion gnawed at him worse than the sleeplessness. He’d thought they understood each other. Thought she might welcome his tentative overtures toward something more permanent between them.
Instead, she’d fled as if he were some sort of predator.
A knock at the door interrupted his brooding.
“Enter,” he called.
Digby stepped inside, impeccably dressed despite the hour, carrying a silver tray with fresh linens.
“Good morning, my lord. Shall I assist you with your toilette?”
James set his cup aside. “Yes, thank you, Digby.”
As the valet moved efficiently about his duties, James found himself grateful for the man’s steady presence. If anyone might have insight into the mysterious workings of the feminine mind, it would be Digby.
“Digby,” he said as the man laid out his fresh shirt. “May I ask you something?”
“Certainly, my lord.”
James hesitated, uncertain how to frame his question without impropriety. “When a gentleman believes he’s made his honorable intentions clear to a lady, yet she reacts as if he’s offered her some form of insult instead…”
Digby’s hands stilled on the waistcoat. “Ah.”
“Have I said something wrong without realizing it? Something that could be misinterpreted?”
The valet’s expression remained perfectly neutral, though James caught the slightest hint of understanding in his eyes.
“In my experience, my lord, the most well-intentioned words can sometimes be heard quite differently than they were meant. Particularly when delicate matters are discussed with excessive subtlety.”
“You think I was too subtle?”
“I think, my lord, that a lady of refinement might require rather more explicit assurance of a gentleman’s honorable intentions than he realizes. Especially if there are social considerations at play.”
James frowned as Digby helped him into his shirt. “Social considerations?”
“A lady of modest circumstances might be more sensitive to implications of impropriety, my lord. More likely to assume the worst rather than the best of a gentleman’s suggestions.”
The pieces began falling into place with sickening clarity. Of course. He’d been thinking of their class difference as an obstacle to overcome, but she might see it as proof that marriage was impossible. That he could only be offering something far less honorable.
“Good God,” he breathed. “She thinks I was propositioning her.”
“It would explain the lady’s distress, my lord.”
James closed his eyes, mortification washing over him. No wonder she’d run. No wonder she could barely look at him over dinner.
“How do I fix this, Digby?”
The valet fastened his waistcoat with practiced hands. “I believe, my lord, that this particular misunderstanding calls for absolute clarity. No more subtle hints or delicate implications.”
James nodded grimly. He’d spent so much time trying to be a gentleman that he’d forgotten sometimes being direct was the more honorable course.
He would have to find her today and make his true intentions unmistakably clear—before she convinced herself he was a complete scoundrel.
*
Later that morning, he went out to the gardens, hoping to find Georgie. He had the feeling she’d been avoiding him since last night. She hadn’t joined them for breakfast and she wasn’t in her usual place in the study. Cecily had hinted that she might be out for a little fresh air.
The air outside was damp and rich with the scent of turned earth and wet grass. Mist clung to the hedgerows, and the first shoots of tulips poked up from the ground. He followed the gravel path through the orchard, past the boxwood maze, and toward the stone bench beneath the ancient hawthorn tree.
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 the moment 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.
*
After the midday meal, James found Mrs. Ellsworth in the stillroom, her sleeves rolled to the elbows as she bound dried lavender into neat muslin sachets.
“Here you are with yet another task,” James said, pausing in the doorway. “You work too hard.”
She glanced up, her weathered face brightening. “Idle hands are the devil’s playground, as your dear mother was fond of saying.”
A genuine smile touched his lips as he entered, trailing his fingers along the worn wooden worktable. “Did she truly say that, or have you invented maternal wisdom to suit your purposes?”