"How much remains?" she asked. "Of the 20,000, approximately four. Enough to pay the most urgent debts and keep the bailiffs from the door for another month. After that?"
He shrugged. "We shall have to economize."
"We." Georgiana savored the word. "You said you would not impose on me. You said we would live separately."
"I lied." He opened both eyes now, and there was something in his gaze—not quite apology, not quite defiance, something raw and honest that she had not expected. "I'm sorry for it. I did not intend to, but when I was drafting the marriage settlement, I found that I could not quite bring myself to include the usual clauses for separate maintenance. I told myself it was because separate households would raise questions, but the truth is simpler and less flattering."
"Which is?"
"I'm afraid of being alone." He said it flatly, without self-pity. "I have spent eight years surrounded by people who wanted something from me—money, favors, access to my father. I have not spent 1 hour of those 8 years in the company of someone who expected nothing in return. You, Miss Blythe, my lady, you expect nothing from me except what we agreed upon. And that, perversely, makes me want to give you more."
Georgiana did not know what to say to this. She was a practical woman, unused to confessions. She had spent her life managing things—budgets, schedules, disputes, ailments. She had never been anyone's confidante.
"You have a strange way of showing it," she said finally. "Including the part where you failed to mention that I am now married to a man who is still functionally bankrupt."
"Yes," Sebastian agreed. "That was poorly done. I am sorry."
He sounded sorry. He looked sorry. But Georgiana had been raised by a vicar. She knew that sorry was a word as easily spoken as "Good morning," and considerably less reliable.
"When do my sisters arrive?" she asked instead.
"I wrote to the school this morning. They should be here by the end of the week."
"And the household accounts?"
"Are in disarray. The housekeeper has not been paid in 3 months. The cook is stealing from the pantry. The butler is drunk by noon."
Georgiana closed her eyes. "You are giving me a great deal of work, my lord."
"I am giving you the opportunity to demonstrate your legendary practicality," he said. And then, after a pause, "I am also giving you the keys to the strongbox. Whatever money remains is yours to manage. I will not touch it without your permission."
She opened her eyes. He was watching her with an expression she could not read: hopeful, perhaps, or testing. She thought of the tremor in his hands, the shadows beneath her eyes. She thought of the children at St. Margaret's who would have new slates and a proper schoolmistress.
"Very well," she said. "But we begin now. Before we reach Rosewick Park, you will tell me exactly how much you owe and to whom. Every debt, every creditor, every promise you have made and broken. I will not be married to a man whose financial affairs are a mystery."
Sebastian was silent for a long moment. Then he nodded. "It will take the rest of the journey," he said. "And possibly several bottles of wine."
"I do not drink during business hours."
"Then it will take the rest of the journey and possibly several cups of tea."
Georgiana suppressed a smile. "Begin."
And he did. He told her about the gambling debts, the hundreds lost at cards, the thousands lost at the track. He told her about the money lenders and their exorbitant interest rates. He told her about the promises he had made to pay, the extensions he had requested, the lies he had told to buy himself a few more weeks.
By the time the carriage turned into the overgrown drive of Rosewick Park, Georgiana had filled five pages of her notebook with names and numbers. Her hand ached. Her head ached. But she understood now what she had married: a man who had spent years running from consequences and who had finally, finally stopped running.
"£4,000," she said as the carriage drew to a halt. "That is what remains. It is not nothing, but it is not enough."
"I know."
"We will need to sell something. The horses, perhaps."
Sebastian went very still. "The horses are worth more than the estate."
"The horses are also the reason you are in debt. Racing is an expensive hobby, my lord, and you are no longer a man who can afford hobbies."
"They are not hobbies. They are investments."
"Investments that have lost you 12,000 pounds in the past 18 months alone, by your own accounting."
He said nothing. His jaw was tight, his dark gray eyes dark with something that looked like pain. Georgiana felt a flicker of sympathy. She understood, dimly, that the horses meant something to him beyond their monetary value. But she could not afford sympathy. She could not afford sentiment.
" officielle—We will discuss it later," she said, and climbed down from the carriage.
Rosewick Park was worse than she had expected. The gardens were overgrown, the paint was peeling, and a distinct smell of damp and decay hung over the entrance. The housekeeper who met them at the door was a thin, harried woman with flour on her apron and desperation in her eyes.