Chapter 5
Chapter Five
The next day, George stood before the imposing facade of Hatchard's, watching Sarah through the frost-etched windows as she examined a display of leather-bound volumes.
Even in the muted winter light filtering through the glass, she was luminous—her blonde hair catching the lamplight, her expression animated with the particular enthusiasm she reserved for books and ideas.
He'd suggested this expedition ostensibly to help her find a gift for her father, but George knew his true motivation ran far deeper.
Yesterday's encounter in Hyde Park had shaken Sarah's confidence in ways that made his chest tight with protective fury.
The way Castleton had dismissed her, barely acknowledging her presence while lavishing attention on Miss Lydia McCorkell, had been a masterclass in casual cruelty.
George pushed through the bookshop's heavy door, the familiar scent of leather bindings and aged paper enveloping him like a comfortable embrace. Sarah looked up from a volume of Byron's poetry, her smile brightening the entire shop.
“George! Perfect timing. I’ve decided to choose a second gift for Castleton.
Something less personal. I was just thinking how impossible this task is.
” She gestured helplessly at the towering shelves surrounding them.
“How does one choose a book for someone whose literary tastes remain entirely mysterious?”
How indeed, George thought grimly, when that someone has likely never given serious thought to literature beyond its social utility. Aloud, he said, “Perhaps we should start with what you know of his interests? Has he mentioned any particular authors or subjects?”
Sarah's brow furrowed in concentration, and George found himself cataloguing the tiny details of her expression—the way she bit her lower lip when thinking, the slight crease between her eyebrows that appeared when she was puzzled.
He'd been memorizing such moments for years without consciously acknowledging what he was doing.
“He mentioned enjoying travel narratives,” Sarah said slowly. “And he seemed knowledgeable about French literature when the subject arose at Lady Morrison's.”
“Practical choices, then. Something that speaks to a worldly gentleman's interests without being too personal.” George moved toward the travel section, acutely aware of Sarah following close behind him.
Her lavender perfume mixed with the bookshop's mustiness created an intoxicating combination that made concentration difficult.
They spent several minutes examining various accounts of continental adventures, George offering commentary on authors he'd read while Sarah listened with the focused attention she brought to subjects that genuinely interested her.
It struck him forcefully that this—sharing thoughts about books, debating the merits of different writers—was exactly the sort of intellectual intimacy he craved with her.
While his body craved intimacies of a completely different nature.
“What about this one?” Sarah had wandered toward a different shelf and now held up a slim volume bound in deep blue leather. “Letters from France by Lady Morgan. It's recent, well-reviewed, and might appeal to his Continental interests.”
George examined the book, noting its elegant binding and respectable provenance. It was precisely the sort of gift that would demonstrate thoughtfulness without overstepping propriety—exactly what Sarah needed, even if the recipient didn't deserve such consideration.
“An excellent choice,” he said, meaning it. “Cultured but not too intimate, current but not controversial.”
Sarah's face lit with relief and pleasure. “Oh, thank goodness. I was beginning to think I'd never find anything suitable.” She clutched the book to her chest, and George felt his heart twist at her obvious gratitude for such a simple solution.
“Now then,” she continued, “since we're here, perhaps you might recommend something for my own reading? I've been craving something substantial, something I can sink into during the quiet days after Christmas.”
This was dangerous territory—discussing books with Sarah inevitably led to the sort of intimate conversation that revealed too much about his feelings. But George found himself unable to resist the opportunity to share something meaningful with her.
“What sort of mood are you in?” he asked, moving toward the fiction shelves. “Something romantic and escapist, or something more substantial and challenging?”
“Challenging,” Sarah said without hesitation. “I'm rather tired of romantic fantasies at the moment.”
The admission hung between them, laden with the disappointment of yesterday's encounter. George felt a surge of tenderness for her wounded heart, mixed with fierce satisfaction that Castleton's behavior had begun to open her eyes.
“In that case...” George scanned the higher shelves, his gaze settling on a volume just beyond Sarah's reach. “Ah, perfect. Mansfield Park—Austen's most complex work, I think. It deals with questions of morality and social position in ways that challenge easy assumptions.”
He stretched toward the high shelf, acutely conscious of Sarah standing directly behind him. As his fingers closed around the book's spine, he became aware of her proximity—the whisper of her breath against his neck, the warmth radiating from her small form.
“Here,” he said, turning with the book in hand, only to find himself trapped between the shelf and Sarah's upturned face, mere inches separating them.
Time seemed suspended. George could count each of Sarah's dark lashes, could see the tiny flecks of gold in her green eyes, could feel the rapid flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat. Her lips were slightly parted, and for one impossible moment, he thought she might welcome his kiss.
The urge to close that small distance was overwhelming years of suppressed longing crystallizing into this single moment of possibility. Sarah's eyes widened, not with alarm but with something that looked almost like recognition, as if she were seeing him clearly for the first time.
“George,” she whispered, his name barely audible in the quiet bookshop.
The sound of approaching footsteps broke the spell. Sarah stepped back quickly, her cheeks flushed, while George struggled to regain his composure. A clerk rounded the corner of their aisle, and the moment shattered into polite normalcy.
“Finding everything you need?” the young man inquired cheerfully.
“Yes, thank you,” George managed, his voice rougher than usual. He handed Sarah the book, careful not to let their fingers brush. “This should serve perfectly.”
Sarah nodded, not quite meeting his eyes as she clutched both volumes to her chest like a shield. “Yes, I think... I think it will do very well indeed.”
They completed their purchases in relative silence, the air between them charged with unspoken awareness. As they emerged into the December afternoon, George offered his arm with careful propriety, though every point of contact seemed to burn through their layers of wool and propriety.
“Thank you,” Sarah said quietly as they walked toward his waiting carriage. “For helping with the book selection, I mean. And for... well, for everything.”
George looked down at her, noting the confusion in her green eyes, the way she seemed to be struggling with some internal revelation. “Sarah, I—”
“Please don't,” she interrupted softly. “Whatever you were going to say, please don't. Not yet. I need to... that is, there are things I need to sort through first.”
George nodded, understanding more than she realized.
Sarah was beginning to see him as something other than Alice's protective brother, and the recognition was clearly unsettling her carefully ordered world.
He could push, could try to capitalize on the moment of awareness they'd shared among the bookshelves.
But Sarah deserved better than that—deserved the time to reach her own conclusions without pressure from him.
“Of course,” he said simply. “Shall I see you home?”
“That would be lovely,” Sarah replied, and though her voice was steady, George didn't miss the way her hand trembled slightly as she took his arm.
As his carriage carried them through London's busy streets, George allowed himself a small spark of hope.
Sarah was beginning to see him differently—he was certain of it.
The question was whether that new awareness would survive tomorrow's visit to Castleton's, or whether the marquess would find some way to rekindle her romantic fantasies.
Either way, George was no longer content to remain safely in the background of her life. The moment in Hatchard's had changed something fundamental between them, and there would be no going back to the comfortable fiction of mere friendship.
The game, as they said, was afoot.
* * *
Early evening, George stood in Sarah's front hall, cradling a slim package wrapped in brown paper and tied with simple string.
The modest presentation deliberately understated the significance of what lay within—a first edition of Elizabeth Barrett's poetry that had taken him considerable effort to acquire.
It wasn't the sort of gift one gave to a casual acquaintance, but after this afternoon's moment in Hatchard's, George was past pretending his feelings were merely fraternal.
“My lord?” Sarah's butler, Henderson, appeared with the quiet efficiency of long service. “Lady Sarah is in the drawing room. Shall I announce you?”
“Please,” George replied, though his pulse quickened with nerves he hadn't felt since his first season. Strange how a woman he'd known for years could suddenly make him feel like an untried youth.