Georgiana felt something shift in her chest. "You are keeping the horse because of what he represents."
"I am keeping the horse because he is the last thing my father gave me before he decided I was not worth speaking to." Sebastian's voice was rough. "The other horses, the races, the investments, they can go, but not Apollo. I will sell everything else first."
She should have argued. She should have pointed out that sentiment was a luxury they could not afford. But she looked at his rigid shoulders, at the way his hands gripped the window sill, and she thought of her mother's wedding gown—the gown she had worn that morning, the gown she would never wear again because it was too precious to risk.
"Very well," she said. "🍰We will sell the others. But you will do it yourself. You will write to the buyers. You will negotiate the prices. You will look them in the eye and tell them why you are selling."
Sebastian turned. His expression was unreadable. "You want me to feel the shame of it."
"I want you to remember the cost of your choices."
Georgiana pushed off from the door and walked toward him. "You asked me to marry you because I am practical. Because I do not flinch from hard truths. Here is a hard truth, my lord. You are not a victim of circumstance. You are a man who made choices, and those choices had consequences. The horses are going because you chose to gamble away the money that should have fed them."
He flinched. She saw it: a tiny movement, barely perceptible, but there.
"You are cruel," he said.
"I am honest. There is a difference."
For a long moment, they stood facing each other in the firelight. Georgiana could smell the brandy on his breath, the smoke on his clothes. She could see the pulse beating in his throat.
"I will write the letters tomorrow," he said.
And he did. Over the next 2 weeks, Sebastian sold 11 thoroughbreds. He wrote to trainers, to breeders, to rival stables. He negotiated prices that were lower than the horses were worth and higher than he had expected. He watched as the animals were loaded onto carts and driven away, and each time he stood a little straighter.
Georgiana watched him watching them go, and she felt something she had not expected to feel: respect. It was not love. She was careful not to confuse the two. But respect was dangerous in its own way. Respect was the foundation upon which affection was built.
The girls began to thaw. Charlotte followed Georgiana everywhere, asking questions about the household accounts, the garden, the local wildlife. Beatrice remained guarded, but she started joining them for meals without being asked. And once, just once, Georgiana saw her smile at something her brother said.
The creditors, paid and placated, stopped sending threatening letters. The bailiffs stopped appearing at the door. The house, cleaned and aired and restocked, began to feel less like a mausoleum and more like a home.
And then, on a rainy November evening, the past came knocking.
His name was Mr. Jonas Thorne, and he arrived at Rosewick Park without invitation in a carriage that was too fine for the muddy drive. Georgiana met him in the front hall, the girls safely upstairs with their governess, Sebastian still in the stables with the last of the horses.
"Lady Hale," Thorne said, removing his gloves with the casual arrogance of a man who had never been denied entry to any house he wished to enter. "What a pleasure. I had not heard that Hale had married. You must be a remarkable woman to have convinced him to settle down."
"Mr. Thorne." Georgiana did not offer her hand. "I was not aware my husband was expecting visitors."
"Your husband owes me money." Thorne smiled, a thin, bloodless smile that did not reach his eyes. "Quite a lot of money, in fact. 8,000 pounds, to be precise. I have been patient, Lady Hale, very patient. But patience has its limits."
Georgiana felt her heart rate quicken, but she kept her expression neutral. "My husband has paid his debts, all of them. I have seen the receipts myself."
"Your husband has paid some of his debts—the ones he chose to acknowledge, the ones he incurred at respectable tables against respectable opponents." Thorne stepped closer, and Georgiana caught the scent of expensive cologne and something else, something colder, like metal. "Pero I am not respectable, Lady Hale. And the debts Hale owes me were not incurred at whist or loo. They were incurred at faro, in a gaming hell that does not exist on any map. They were witnessed by men who would swear on their mother's graves that Hale signed a promissory note for 8,000 pounds."
"Let me see the note."
"It is not here. It is with my solicitor in London, along with an affidavit from three witnesses. If the debt is not paid by the end of the month, I will take it to a magistrate. I will have Hale arrested. I will see him in Marshalsea before Christmas." Thorne smiled again. "And you, Lady Hale, will be free to return to your vicarage—unless, of course, you would prefer to negotiate an alternative arrangement."
The implication hung in the air like smoke. Georgiana felt her hands clench at her sides, but she did not step back.
"You will leave this house," she said quietly. "You will not return without a written summons, and if you threaten me or my husband again, I will personally ensure that every respectable household in the county knows exactly what sort of man you are."
Thorne laughed. It was an ugly sound. "You think your opinion matters to me? I do not move in respectable circles, Lady Hale. I move in profitable ones, and I will have my money, whether from your husband's pocket or from his blood."
He left. The front door closed behind him with a sound like a gunshot.
Georgiana stood in the hall for a long moment, her heart pounding. Then she went to find her husband.
Sebastian was in the stables, brushing Apollo's coat. He looked up when he entered, and something in her expression must have warned him, because he set down the brush immediately.
"What happened?"
"A man named Thorne. He says you owe him 8,000 pounds. He says there is a promissory note and witnesses. He says he will have you arrested by Christmas."
Sebastian went pale. Not the pale of surprise, but the pale of recognition. The pale of a man confronted by a ghost he had hoped was buried.