Chapter 8 #2
The sight that greeted her as she opened the morning room door nearly took her breath away.
George had indeed transformed her modest space into something magical—the table groaned under the weight of delicacies arranged with obvious care, winter flowers had appeared from somewhere to brighten the room, and a cheerful fire crackled in the grate, chasing away the December chill.
But it was George himself who made Sarah's heart catch in her throat.
He stood beside the window, still in his greatcoat, his dark hair slightly disheveled as if he'd been running his hands through it.
When he turned to face her, the relief and tenderness in his grey eyes was so profound it made her knees weak.
“Good morning,” he said softly, his voice carrying none of the awkwardness she'd expected after the previous night's revelations and his note. “Merry Christmas, Sarah.”
“George.” His name came out as barely more than a whisper. “You didn't have to do all this.”
“Yes, I did.” His response was immediate, absolute. “No one should spend Christmas alone, especially not someone who brings such joy to others.”
The simple statement hit her like a physical blow, threatening to undo the careful composure she'd spent the morning building. “I'm hardly joyful company at the moment,” she managed.
“Your perfect company,” George replied, moving toward her with that careful, measured way he had when he sensed she might bolt. “You're honest and real and exactly who I want to spend Christmas Day with. I’ll call on Alice and Calum later.”
Sarah felt tears threaten again, but these were different from the bitter ones she'd shed in the garden. These carried warmth, gratitude, a recognition of something precious being offered without conditions or expectations.
“I sent my regrets to the Castleton estate,” she said, needing him to know she'd made her choice.
Something fierce and satisfied flashed across George's features. “Good. You deserve far better than to spend your Christmas watching that performance.”
The vehemence in his voice surprised her. George was always so controlled, so diplomatic in his opinions of others. But when it came to her pain, apparently his usual restraint deserted him entirely.
“Mrs. Davies says you've brought enough food for an army,” Sarah said, desperate to lighten the mood before her emotions overwhelmed her again.
George's smile was rueful. “I may have gotten carried away. I wanted to make sure we had everything you might possibly enjoy.”
As if summoned by his words, Mrs. Davies appeared with fresh tea, bustling about the room with obvious pleasure at having such elaborate refreshments to serve. “Will there be anything else, Lord Hampton?”
“This is perfect, thank you,” George replied, but his attention remained fixed on Sarah. “If Sarah is in agreement, Mrs. Davies, please feel free to give the staff the rest of the day off. I'm sure they have their own Christmas celebrations to attend to.”
The housekeeper beamed. “That's very generous of you, my lord. We'll leave you to enjoy your breakfast in peace.”
Once they were alone, George moved to pull out Sarah's chair with courtly grace. “Shall we see if Gunter's finest can improve this Christmas morning?”
“You know this is rather scandalous even though you are a good family friend. My parents are not at home. I’m unchaperoned.
” Sarah settled into her seat, acutely aware of George's closeness as he helped arrange her napkin.
When had she become so conscious of him?
When had his simple presence begun to feel like both comfort and temptation?
“I’m not concerned with scandal. You know how I feel.” He walked toward her, and she felt her body flare to life.
Changing the subject, she said, “This is extraordinary,” surveying the feast before them. “You've remembered everything I've ever mentioned enjoying.”
“I remember everything you tell me,” George replied quietly, taking his own seat across from her. “Your preferences matter to me, Sarah. They always have.”
The words were simple enough, but something in his tone made them feel weighted with significance.
Sarah found herself studying his face, noting details she'd somehow overlooked before—the way his eyes crinkled slightly when he smiled, the strong line of his jaw, the elegant way he moved despite his size.
“George,” she began, then stopped, unsure what she wanted to say.
“Yes?”
“Last night, in the garden... I said some things, revealed some feelings...” She paused, gathering courage. “I hope you don't think less of me for my emotional display. I hope your letter was not written due to pity.”
George's expression grew intense, focused. “Think less of you? Sarah, seeing your honesty, your willingness to feel deeply even when it hurts—it only confirmed what I already knew about your character.”
“Which is?”
“That you're brave enough to love completely, even when the world gives you little encouragement to do so. That you refuse to become cynical despite disappointments that would crush a lesser person. That you remain generous and kind even when others fail to see your worth.”
Sarah felt heat rise in her cheeks at the conviction in his voice. “You make me sound far more admirable than I feel.”
“I make you sound exactly as admirable as you are,” George corrected gently. “The problem isn't with your character, Sarah. It's with a world that teaches women to undervalue themselves and men to overlook what's truly precious.”
They ate in companionable silence for a while, Sarah savoring not just the excellent food but the comfort of being truly seen and accepted.
George had witnessed her at her lowest point, had heard her catalog all her perceived inadequacies, and yet he was here, treating her as if she were worthy of this elaborate celebration.
“I have something for you,” George said suddenly, producing a small, wrapped package from his coat pocket.
Sarah's hands stilled on her teacup. “George, you've already done so much—”
“This is different.” His voice carried a note she couldn't identify, something between nervousness and determination. “Please. Open it.”
With trembling fingers, Sarah unwrapped the small package, revealing a slim leather-bound volume. The cover was worn with age but well-cared for, and when she opened it, she found page after page covered with George's familiar handwriting.
“What is this?” she whispered, though her heart was beginning to race with suspicion.
“One of my many journals,” George said quietly. “Spanning the last three years. All the passages that mention you.”
Sarah's breath caught as she began to read, her eyes widening as the true scope of what George was sharing began to dawn on her.
March 15th, 1817: Attended Lady Morrison's musical evening.
Sarah looked lovely in her green silk, though she seemed unaware of the admiring glances she received.
She has such an animated way of discussing books—her entire face lights up when she encounters an idea that excites her.
Spent an hour debating the merits of different poets with her and found myself wishing the evening could last forever.
June 2nd, 1817: Sarah mentioned at dinner that she's been helping at the orphanage again. Her compassion for those less fortunate never fails to move me. She gives so generously of herself, never seeking recognition or praise. How many men would recognize such quiet nobility?
September 10th, 1818: Danced with Sarah at the Pemberton ball.
She laughed at something I said, and the sound was like music.
Spent the rest of the evening watching her from across the room, memorizing the way candlelight caught the gold in her hair.
Alice asked if I was feeling unwell—apparently my distraction was more obvious than I'd hoped.
Page after page chronicled moments Sarah had forgotten or never realized were significant conversations they'd shared, observations about her character, detailed accounts of George's growing awareness that his feelings had evolved far beyond friendship.
“George,” Sarah breathed, her voice barely audible. “This is... you've been...”
“As my letter said, I’m in love with you,” George finished simply. “For years, Sarah. Completely, desperately, hopelessly in love with you.”
The journal slipped from Sarah's nerveless fingers, landing on the table with a soft thud that seemed to echo in the suddenly charged silence of the morning room.
She stared at George, seeing him as if for the first time—this man who had been a constant in her life, who had offered steady friendship and support, who had apparently been harboring feelings of profound depth while she chased after shallow attractions and romantic fantasies.
“I don't understand,” she whispered. “All this time, you never said anything, never gave any indication...”
“Because I was a coward,” George replied, his voice rough with self-recrimination. “Because I valued your friendship too much to risk losing it, and because I convinced myself you could never see me as anything more than Alice's protective brother.”
Sarah's mind reeled, memories reshuffling themselves as George's confession cast them in an entirely new light. His careful attention to her preferences, his protective concern for her reputation, his patience with her romantic fixations—all of it suddenly made heartbreaking sense.
“The way you looked at me sometimes,” she said slowly, pieces of a puzzle clicking into place. “In the bookshop, when we were decorating the drawing room... I thought I was imagining things.”
“You weren't imagining anything,” George assured her.
“I've been fighting not to reveal my feelings for so long, it's become second nature.
But last night, seeing you in such pain, watching you doubt your own worth because of Castleton's falseness...” His hands clenched into fists on the table.
“I couldn't bear it any longer. You need to know that you are loved, Sarah. Deeply, truly, completely loved.”
The words hung between them, filling the morning room with a tension that was equal parts terrifying and exhilarating. Sarah felt as though she were standing at the edge of a precipice, one step away from falling into something vast and transformative.
“George,” she whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs.
“You don't have to say anything,” George said quickly. “I don't expect any particular response. I simply needed you to know that everything you think you lack, everything you believe makes you unworthy of love—none of it is true. You are extraordinary, Sarah. You are worth fighting for.”
Sarah rose from her chair on unsteady legs, moving around the table until she stood directly in front of George. He looked up at her with such vulnerable hope in his grey eyes that she felt her carefully maintained composure begin to crumble.
“All this time,” she said wonderingly, reaching out to touch his face with trembling fingers. “You've been here all along, haven't you? Loving me while I chased after men who barely saw me.”
George leaned into her touch, his eyes closing briefly at the contact. “I would have waited forever, Sarah. I would have watched you marry another man and wished you happiness, as long as you were truly happy.”
The selflessness of it, the depth of devotion he was describing, hit Sarah like a physical blow. This was what she'd been seeking without even knowing it—not the grand gestures and passionate declarations she'd imagined, but the steady, faithful love of someone who truly saw her.
“I've been such a fool,” she whispered, tears spilling over her lashes. “Looking everywhere except where I should have been looking.”
George's hands came up to frame her face, his thumbs gently brushing away her tears. “You're not a fool. You're human, and you were searching for something precious. The tragedy is that too many people convinced you to look for it in all the wrong places.”
Sarah gazed down at him, seeing not Alice's brother or her comfortable friend, but the man who had chronicled her every smile in his private journal, who had remembered every preference she'd mentioned in passing, who had arranged this perfect Christmas morning simply because he couldn't bear the thought of her spending the holiday alone.
“George,” she said, his name carrying a weight of recognition and dawning possibility.
“Yes?”
“I think,” she whispered, her heart in her throat, “I think I've been in love with you too. I just didn't recognize it for what it was.”
The hope that blazed in George's eyes was so fierce it took her breath away. “Sarah—”
“I thought love had to feel like conquest,” she continued, the words tumbling out in a rush of understanding. “Like winning some impossible prize. But being with you feels like coming home. It feels like being completely myself and being cherished for exactly who I am.”
George rose from his chair, never taking his hands from her face, until they stood close enough that Sarah could feel the warmth radiating from his body. “Are you certain? Because once you say this, once we cross this line, there's no going back to the way things were.”
Sarah's smile was radiant, transforming her entire face with its brilliance. “I don't want to go back. I want to go forward, with you, into whatever comes next.”
George's answering smile was tender and fierce and full of promises. “Then Happy Christmas, my dearest Sarah. This is going to be the beginning of everything.”
As he lowered his head to capture her lips, Sarah thought dimly that she'd finally found what she'd been searching for all along.
Not the fairy-tale romance of her girlish dreams, but something far more precious—the real, deep, transformative love of a man who had seen her clearly from the very beginning and had loved what he saw.
Christmas morning sunlight streamed through the windows of the breakfast room, blessing the beginning of their new story with golden light and infinite possibility.
The woman who had awakened convinced she was destined for spinsterhood was being thoroughly, passionately kissed by the man who had been waiting years for the chance to prove that she was worthy of every happiness the world had to offer.
It was, Sarah thought as George's arms tightened around her, the most perfect Christmas gift imaginable.