Chapter Twenty-Two #3
Her voice, clear but trembling slightly, followed.
“I, Georgiana, take thee James, to my wedded Husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth. ”
And then, it was done. After months of yearning and longing, she was his wife.
When the vicar pronounced them husband and wife, James did not hesitate.
He reached for her veil with shaking fingers, lifted it, and kissed her gently.
He would save passion for later that night.
For now, he wanted his friends and family, as well as the lady before him, to know how he worshiped her.
James and Georgiana turned to face the congregation. Married at long last.
He bent his head and whispered, “Shall we go home, Lady Ashford, and celebrate?”
“Yes,” she whispered back, smiling through her tears.
They stepped out into the waiting spring, the air sweet with blossoms and possibility, the bells ringing their promise through the hills.
*
The reception spilled from the gardens into the orchards, where long trestle tables groaned beneath platters of roast beef and lamb, glazed ham studded with cloves, and golden capons that had been turning on spits since dawn.
Bowls of creamed turnips and buttered parsnips sat alongside trenchers of fresh bread, wheels of aged cheese, and jellies that caught the light like amber.
The wedding cake—a towering confection of almond paste and candied fruits soaked in brandy—held court at the center table, surrounded by smaller sweet treats: syllabubs, marchpane, and delicate biscuits dusted with sugar.
Bunting and paper lanterns swayed overhead, casting gentle light as dusk settled over the celebration.
The air was sweet with the scent of roasting meat, fresh herbs, and lavender from the nearby hedgerows, all mingling with the warm laughter of guests and the lively strains of a small country ensemble.
Two violins, a flute, and a cello played beneath a rose-draped awning, their music weaving through conversations and the gentle clink of pewter cups filled with ale and wine.
Villagers sat alongside manor staff at the long tables, social distinctions softened by the joy of the occasion.
The baker’s wife shared stories with one of the parlor maids, while old Tom from the stables raised his cup in yet another toast to the newlyweds.
Children darted between the tables, their faces sticky with honey cakes, while their mothers called gentle warnings that went largely unheeded.
Cecily and Nathaniel had claimed a spot near the musicians, tapping their feet to the rhythm as they shared a plate of syllabub.
Lavinia held court with a cluster of village women, all of them debating the merits of various hat feathers with the serious consideration usually reserved for matters of state.
Mrs. Ellsworth sat with the vicar’s wife and several townspeople, her cup of tea in hand, offering gentle smiles to everyone who passed.
Mrs. Honeycutt was not shy, flitting about, taking compliments about her food as if she expected nothing less.
Even Isherwood looked marginally relaxed, though he still supervised the servers with the careful eye of a man who believed celebration was no excuse for slovenly service.
As the evening deepened, couples began to gather before the makeshift dance area that had been cleared near the musicians. The fiddlers struck up a country dance, and soon the space filled with whirling skirts and stomping feet as villagers and gentry alike joined hands in the familiar steps.
James stood at the edge of it all, his glass forgotten in his hand.
Ashford had risen again, not merely restored, but revived.
And in the heart of it all stood Georgiana—laughing with Sophia beneath a flowering pear tree, her cheeks flushed, her hair falling loose from the intricate twist she’d started the day with.
The golden light from the lanterns caught the silk of her gown, making her glow like candlelight.
She caught his gaze, and without a word, began to move toward him.
He met her halfway, took her hand, and together they stepped away from the revelry. Beyond the lanterns and the tables and the joyous din of celebration, the orchard grew quiet. The music softened, shifting to a gentle air—something old and wistful, meant for waltzing beneath the stars.
They found each other’s arms easily.
Georgiana rested her cheek against his shoulder, and James closed his eyes for a moment, breathing her in. She smelled of the rosewater he had come to know so well.
“You look very pleased, Lord Ashford,” she murmured.
“I married you, which makes me very pleased indeed.”
Her laugh was soft, secret. “I still can’t quite believe it.”
He tilted his head and considered. “Yes, it feels like a very good dream. But it’s all real. And I am the luckiest man alive.”
She leaned back just far enough to meet his gaze. “I am the lucky one.”
They swayed together as the notes drifted through the orchard.
Behind them, the murmur and music of celebration continued—the scrape of chairs, bursts of laughter, the calling of the country dance.
But here in the hush beneath the trees, it was just the two of them, no longer haunted by ruins or regrets.
He kissed her softly and whispered, “Shall we go inside?”
“Soon,” she said. “One more dance. I want to savor this moment.”
So they stayed, wrapped in twilight and music, as the stars came out and the trees rustled gently overhead. In the distance, the celebration continued, their friends and neighbors and staff united in joy, dancing and feasting under the lanterns until the candles burned low.
Tomorrow would bring responsibilities and letters and tenants and plans.
But tonight, there was only joy.
*
The door closed softly behind them, and suddenly they were alone in James’s chambers—now, truly, their chambers. At least as far as the night was concerned.
Candles flickered softly across the room, casting dancing shadows on the oak-paneled walls.
The bed had been turned down, revealing crisp white linens scattered with rose petals.
A small fire crackled in the hearth, warming the space and filling it with the scent of applewood.
On the side table sat a bottle of champagne and two crystal glasses, alongside a single white rose in a silver vase.
Georgiana stepped farther into the room, a smile spreading across her face. “James, how lovely.”
He moved behind her, his hands settling gently on her upper arms. “I wanted everything to be perfect for you. For us.”
“It’s beautiful,” she said, turning in his arms with bright eyes. Her hands came up to rest against his chest, and he could feel the excitement thrumming through her. “But you know what would make it perfect?”
“What?” His voice was already roughening.
“If you stopped being quite so much of a gentleman.” She rose up on her toes, her lips brushing his ear. “I’ve been wanting you for months, James Ashford. Burning for you. And now you’re finally mine.”
The bold declaration sent heat racing through his veins. “Georgie, my God. You may give me a heart attack.”
“I know what I want. And it is you.” Her hands moved to his cravat with sure fingers. “All of you. Desperately.” She pulled back to meet his gaze, her eyes sparkling with determination and desire.
He caught her hands, bringing them to his lips. “Here I am. All of me. And I am fairly desperate myself.”
She smiled with newfound mischief. “Though I confess, I have no idea how to get out of this gown without Mrs. Ellsworth’s help.”
He laughed, the sound rich and warm. “Allow me.”
Her boldness seemed to free something in both of them. She helped him with his waistcoat, her touch growing more confident with each button, each layer, removed. When his hands found the fastenings of her gown, she didn’t shy away but watched his face with fascination.
Silk pulled at her feet. “I used to wonder what it would be like to have someone look at me the way you’re looking at me now.”
“How am I looking at you?” James asked.
“Like I’m everything you’ve ever wanted.”
“Because you are.” He lifted her in his arms, marveling at the trust and desire shining in her eyes. “God, Georgie, you are everything.”
She kissed him as he carried her to the bed, bold and sweet and utterly without reservation. When rose petals scattered beneath them, she laughed—a sound of pure joy that made his heart soar.
“I love you,” she whispered against his lips. “Show me how to love you.”
With gentle hands and whispered endearments, he did exactly that, and she met him with an enthusiasm and courage that was purely, wonderfully Georgiana.
The fire settled to glowing embers. Outside, the moon climbed over Ashford Estate, silvering the orchard and the lawn below, blessing the beginning of their new life together.