Chapter 6 #2
It was a graceful retreat, and Sarah caught a flicker of respect in Castleton's eyes even as Lydia’s smile sharpened with satisfied triumph.
George offered his arm, and Sarah took it gratefully, allowing him to guide her through the crowd and out into the blessed cold of the December evening.
The shock of winter air against her overheated cheeks was almost painful, but it cleared her head enough to focus on putting one foot in front of the other.
They walked in silence to her family and their waiting carriage, Sarah's mind still reeling from the complete destruction of every romantic fantasy she'd been nurturing. Each step, a monument to her own naivety and poor judgment.
“Sarah,” George said gently as he helped her into the carriage, “I'm so very sorry.”
The kindness in his voice nearly undid her completely. Sarah pressed her lips together, determined not to break down until she was safely home, away from any possibility of public humiliation.
“Were you expecting this?” she asked.
George was silent for a long moment, his hands clasped tightly. “I had heard rumors,” he admitted finally. “Whispers at the club about Castleton's financial situation, about his need to marry well. I wasn't certain, but...”
“But you suspected.” Sarah nodded, feeling strangely calm now that the worst had happened. “And yet you helped me choose gifts for him, listened to me prattle on about my hopes and dreams...”
“Because your happiness mattered more than my suspicions,” George said quietly. “Because I hoped I was wrong, and if I wasn't... well, I wanted to be there when you discovered the truth.”
Sarah turned to study his profile in the dim lamp light. “You're too good to me, George. Too patient and understanding. Any other man would have simply told me what he suspected and saved us both this embarrassment.”
“I'm not any other man,” George replied, his voice carrying a weight of meaning that made Sarah's breath catch. “At least, not where you're concerned.”
“Are you coming Sarah,” her mother called.
“One moment mother,” she replied. “George,” she said softly, her voice barely audible above the street noise.
“Yes?”
“Tomorrow is Christmas Day.”
“It is.”
Sarah took a shaky breath, feeling as though she stood at the edge of a precipice with nothing but faith to guide her next step. “I find myself suddenly without plans for the celebration.”
George turned to look at her fully, hope and wariness warring in his expression. “Sarah—”
“Would you...” She paused, gathering her courage. “Would you like to spend Christmas Day with me? Quietly, just the two of us? My family will still attend the Castleton’s. I think I should very much like to have a friend beside me tomorrow.”
The word 'friend' felt inadequate for what she was really asking, but it was all she could manage in her current emotional state. George seemed to understand, because his smile was gentle and infinitely patient.
“I can think of nothing I'd like more,” he said simply.
As the family carriage carried her through the London night toward an uncertain but suddenly hopeful future, Sarah allowed herself to acknowledge what her heart had perhaps known all along: that the greatest gift she could receive this Christmas wasn't the passionate romance she'd dreamed of, but the steady, faithful love that had been offered to her with such quiet devotion.
The fairy tale she'd been chasing had turned to ash in her hands, but perhaps—just perhaps—something far more precious was waiting to take its place.
The carriage ride home passed in a blur of gas-lit streets and muffled Christmas Eve sounds—carolers in the distance, the warm glow of windows where families gathered around their fires.
Sarah sat in silence, her mind still reeling from the complete destruction of every romantic dream she'd harbored about Lord Castleton.
They arrived home and walked slowly up the steps, slipping inside, leaning back against the closed door.
The house was quiet around her—her parents had retired for the night, her brother had taken the carriage on to God knew where, the servants had retired early in honor of the holiday, leaving her alone with the wreckage of her illusions.
For several minutes, Sarah simply stood in the darkened foyer, still wearing her pelisse and gloves, unable to summon the energy to move.
The events at the church played over and over in her mind: Lydia’s triumphant announcement, the shocked gasps of the congregation, Castleton's uncomfortable expression as his secret was revealed to the world.
Engaged. The word echoed in her thoughts with cruel finality.
All this time, while she'd been agonizing over the perfect gift, practicing conversation topics, dreaming of a future that included his charming smile and elegant manners, he'd been courting another woman entirely.
Not just any woman—a wealthy heiress whose fortune would solve whatever financial difficulties had driven him to the marriage market in the first place.
Sarah finally forced herself to climb the stairs to her bedroom, where her lady's maid had laid out her nightclothes and banked the fire for the evening. But instead of preparing for bed, she found herself drawn to the tall windows that overlooked the small garden behind the house.
The winter moonlight transformed the dormant space into something ethereal—bare tree branches creating intricate shadows on the frost-silvered ground, the small fountain at the garden's center catching glimmers of starlight in its frozen basin.
It was beautiful and desolate, much like her heart felt at this moment.
Without quite knowing how she'd made the decision, Sarah found herself wrapping a warm shawl around her shoulders and slipping down the back stairs to the garden door.
The cold air seemed to chase away her foolishness, and she welcomed it.
The numbness spreading through her limbs seemed preferable to the aching humiliation that had settled in her chest.
She walked slowly along the graveled path, her slippers crunching softly on the frost-covered stones.
The garden had been her mother's pride once, before the fever had taken her ability to use her swollen hands.
Sarah had tried to maintain it, but without her mother's loving attention, it had become merely functional—tidy but lacking the joy that had once made it a place of refuge.
Much like herself, she reflected bitterly. Adequate but unremarkable. The sort of woman a gentleman might be polite to at social gatherings but would never consider as a serious romantic prospect.
Sarah sank onto the stone bench beside the fountain, pulling her shawl tighter against the December cold. The tears she'd been holding back since the church finally came, silent at first, then building to wrenching sobs that seemed to tear from the depths of her soul.
She had been such a fool. Such a naive, romantic fool to think that a man like Castleton—a handsome Marquess, titled, sophisticated—would seriously consider a marriage with someone like her.
She had nothing to offer that dozens of other women couldn't provide in greater measure.
No great beauty, no fascinating wit, no influential family connections.
Just a modest dowry and a heart full of ridiculous dreams.
The worst part was how thoroughly she'd deceived herself.
Every polite smile, every courteous conversation, every small kindness she'd interpreted as evidence of his growing attachment.
She'd built an entire fantasy around a few casual interactions, convincing herself that she was the heroine of some grand love story when in reality she was nothing more than a minor character in his much more pragmatic tale.
“Oh, God,” she whispered into the cold night air, her breath forming small puffs of vapor. “How could I have been so stupid?”
The tears came harder now, years of loneliness and insecurity pouring out in the privacy of the winter garden.
She thought of all the balls where she'd stood along the wall, watching other women dance while she made polite conversation with the chaperones.
All the mornings she'd spent practicing accomplishments that no gentleman had ever bothered to notice.
All the nights she'd lain awake dreaming of the kind of love Alice had found with Calum—passionate, consuming, transformative.
She was nineteen years old and already resigned to spinsterhood.
The realization hit her with brutal clarity: this might have been her only real chance at marriage, at the kind of life every young woman was supposed to want.
How could George possibly want a woman so stupid.
And she'd ruined it with her romantic delusions and inappropriate gifts and pathetic attempts to make herself into something she wasn't.
“Sarah?”
The sound of George's voice made her start, her head snapping up to find him standing at the garden gate, concern etched in every line of his face. In her emotional state, she'd forgotten to lock the door, and he must have let himself in through the house.
“What are you doing here?” she managed, wiping frantically at her tear-stained cheeks.
“I was worried about you,” he said simply, moving toward her with careful steps. “I couldn't stop thinking about how you looked when we parted, and I...” He paused, taking in her obvious distress. “Sarah, you're going to freeze out here. Come inside.”
“I can't,” she said, fresh tears spilling over. “I can't face going back in there and pretending that everything is fine when it's not. When I'm such a complete failure at everything that matters.”
George reached her side and immediately shrugged out of his greatcoat, wrapping it around her shoulders despite her weak protests. The wool still carried his warmth and scent, enveloping her in a cocoon of comfort she didn't deserve.