"My lady," she said, bobbing a curtsy. "We did not expect you so soon. The master's room is prepared, but yours—"
"I will share my husband's room," Georgiana said before Sebastian could speak. "It is more economical."
Sebastian raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
Thus began Georgiana's new life.
The first week was chaos. Georgiana rose at dawn each day and did not stop moving until long after dark. She interviewed the servants, dismissed the drunk butler, renegotiated contracts with local suppliers, and discovered that the estate had been operating at a loss for 6 years. She wrote letters to Sebastian's creditors, offering partial payments and firm promises. She organized the household accounts into a system so clear and logical that the housekeeper wept with relief.
And she met the horses.
They were beautiful. There was no denying it. 12 thoroughbreds, each one a masterpiece of bone and muscle and breeding. Sebastian kept them in a stable that was better maintained than the main house, with a staff of grooms who treated the animals like royalty.
Georgiana walked through the stables on the third day, a notebook in her hand, and tried to feel nothing.
"This is Apollo," Sebastian said, stopping before a stall containing a massive black stallion with a white star on its forehead. "He won the Derbyshire Cup last year. He is worth 8,000 pounds."
"He is worth whatever someone will pay for him. I will not sell him."
"You may not have a choice."
They had this argument every day. Sebastian was reasonable about everything else—the household economies, the negotiation with creditors, the plan to bring his sisters home—but the horses were a wall he would not breach.
On the fourth day, the girls arrived. Beatrice and Charlotte Hale were delivered by the Bath coach, accompanied by a sour-faced chaperone who departed the moment she had collected her fee. Georgiana met them in the front hall, her hands dusty from cleaning the library, her hair coming loose from its pins.
Beatrice was 14, tall and serious, with her brother's gray eyes and a mouth that seemed permanently disapproving. Charlotte was 12, smaller and rounder, with a scatterbrained energy that reminded Georgiana painfully of her youngest brother.
"You are not our mother," Beatrice said, after the introductions had been made.
"No," Georgiana agreed. "I am your brother's wife. I am also hungry, and I imagine you are as well. There is stew in the kitchen and fresh bread from the village. Shall we eat first and list my inadequacies after?"
Charlotte laughed. Beatrice did not, but she followed Georgiana to the kitchen, which was the warmest room in the house. Over stew and bread, Georgiana learned that the girls had been miserable in Bath. Their school was run by a headmistress who believed that young ladies should be seen and not heard, fed and not full, educated and not curious. They had been lonely, homesick, and frightened by the rumors about their brother's debts.
"We heard he was going to prison," Charlotte said quietly, her bread forgotten. "Is it true?"
"It was a possibility," Georgiana said. "It is no longer."
"Because he married you." Beatrice's tone was sharp. "Because you brought him money?"
"Because he decided to stop running from his problems and face them instead." Georgiana met the girls' gaze steadily. "I did not bring him money. I brought him a household manager. The money was always his. He simply needed a reason to use it wisely."
Beatrice looked skeptical, but she ate her stew.
That night, after the girls had been put to bed in the newly aired guest rooms, Georgiana found Sebastian in the library. He was standing before the fire, a glass of brandy in his hand, staring into the flames.
"They are angry with me," he said without turning around.
"They are children who were sent away from their home and told their brother was a wastrel. Of course they are angry."
"Charlotte smiled at me."
"Charlotte is 12 and hungry for affection. Beatrice will take longer."
Sebastian turned. His face was drawn, older than his 30 years. "Thank you," he said, "for being kind to them."
"I was not kind. I was honest."
Georgiana closed the door behind her and leaned against it. "My lord, we need to talk about the horses."
"Not tonight."
"Yes, tonight. Your sisters are here. Your creditors have been paid. The estate is, if not solvent, at least no longer bleeding money. But the horses remain. 12 thoroughbreds eating their way through the household budget while you refuse to consider selling them. Explain to me why."
Sebastian set down his glass. He walked to the window and stood with his back to her, looking out at the dark garden.
"My father gave me Apollo," he said quietly, "when I was 18, before everything went wrong, before I started gambling, before I disappointed him, before he looked at me like I was a stranger. He gave me that horse and he said—he said, 'This is a fine animal, Sebastian. Treat him well and he will never let you down.'"