Chapter 6
Chapter Six
The ancient stones of St. George's Church seemed to absorb the warmth from the hundreds of flickering candles that lined the nave, their golden light dancing across the faces of London's finest families gathered for Christmas Eve service.
Sarah sat behind George in the Hampton family pew, acutely aware of his steady presence as she struggled to focus on anything but the turmoil in her heart.
Her father and mother and one of her brothers were in attendance too. She wished she was sitting with George.
The events of the previous evening had left her feeling as though she were seeing the world through new eyes.
George's confession—years of hidden devotion, of quiet, steadfast love—had shattered every assumption she'd held about her place in his affections.
The memory of his touch against her cheek, the raw honesty in his grey eyes, had haunted her dreams and followed her into the morning light.
“The processional is beginning,” her mother murmured softly, as the choir's voices rose in ancient harmony.
Sarah nodded, though her attention was entirely consumed by his proximity.
When had she become so aware of him? The subtle scent of his cologne, the strength in his hands as he held the prayer book they shared, the way candlelight caught the dark gold threads in his hair—every detail seemed magnified, significant in ways that made her pulse flutter with nervous awareness.
She tried to lose herself in the familiar ritual of Christmas Eve service, in the soaring notes of the choir and the rector's melodious voice as he spoke of hope and redemption.
But her mind kept drifting to the impossible choice that lay before her: Lord Castleton and the fairy-tale romance she'd dreamed of, or George and the steady, genuine love he'd offered with such vulnerable honesty.
The church doors opened with a soft creak, admitting a draft of cold December air that made the candle flames flicker.
Sarah glanced back instinctively, her heart giving an unwelcome leap as Lord Castleton entered with obvious haste, his golden hair slightly windblown and his cheeks flushed from the winter cold.
But it wasn't Castleton who made Sarah's breath catch in her throat—it was the woman on his arm, resplendent in deep burgundy velvet that complemented her auburn hair perfectly.
Miss Lydia McCorkell moved with the confidence of someone entirely secure in her position, her pale hand resting possessively on Castleton's arm as he guided her toward a prominent pew near the front of the church.
“Sarah?” George's voice was low, concerned, and she realized she must have made some small sound of distress.
“I'm fine,” she whispered back, though her hands trembled as she gripped the prayer book. “Just... surprised to see them together again.”
George followed her gaze, his expression darkening as he took in the intimate picture Castleton and Miss McCorkell presented.
The marquess was bending close to whisper something in his companion's ear, his attention entirely focused on her response, and Lydia’s delighted laugh carried clearly in the hushed atmosphere of the church.
They looked, Sarah realized with a sinking heart, like a couple very much in love. Or at least a couple very much committed to appearing so.
The service continued around them, but Sarah found it increasingly difficult to concentrate.
Her eyes kept drifting to where Castleton sat beside Lydia, noting the easy intimacy between them, the way he automatically adjusted his hymnal so she could see the words, the protective way he helped her to her feet during the standing portions of the service.
When had she ever seen him so attentive, so naturally considerate?
Certainly not during their brief encounters in drawing rooms and at social gatherings.
With her, he'd been charming but distant, polite but preoccupied.
But with Lydia, he was transformed into the devoted gentleman Sarah had imagined him to be.
During the final hymn, as voices rose in celebration of Christmas joy, Sarah heard Lydia’s clear soprano weaving through the melody with practiced ease.
The sound was beautiful, accomplished, everything a gentleman like Castleton would want in a wife.
Sarah's own voice faltered as the comparison struck her forcefully—she was pleasant enough, but hardly remarkable.
Hardly the sort of woman to inspire grand passion in a sophisticated gentleman of the ton.
As the congregation began to file out of the church, exchanging Christmas greetings and pleasantries, Sarah found herself swept along in the general movement toward the doors.
Then he was there. George's hand settled protectively at the small of her back, guiding her through the crowd with the sort of quiet consideration she was only now beginning to fully appreciate.
“Lady Abbottsford!”
Sarah's heart sank as she recognized Lydia’s voice calling her name above the general chatter. She turned reluctantly to find both Miss Lydia and Lord Castleton approaching, their faces bright with social smiles.
“Miss Lydia,” Sarah managed, offering a curtsy that felt stilted and awkward. “Lord Castleton. How lovely to see you both.”
“Indeed!” Lydia’s smile was warm enough, but Sarah caught something calculating in her gaze as it swept over Sarah's appearance. “I was just telling Lord Castleton how much I'm looking forward to meeting you properly tomorrow at the Christmas gathering. We shall have such fun getting acquainted!”
The words were perfectly pleasant, but something in her tone made Sarah's stomach clench with foreboding. Beside her, she felt George tense, his protective instincts clearly aroused by whatever he'd heard in the other woman's voice.
“Yes, well,” Castleton said, though he seemed slightly uncomfortable with his companion's enthusiasm. “It should be a delightful celebration. Mother has planned quite an elaborate feast, and there will be dancing after dinner...”
His voice trailed off as Lydia laid a possessive hand on his arm, her smile taking on a quality that made Sarah think of a cat who'd cornered a particularly plump mouse.
“Oh, but darling,” Lydia said, her voice carrying just loudly enough for nearby conversation to falter, “surely you haven't forgotten? We must tell them our wonderful news!”
Sarah felt the world tilt slightly as Castleton's face flushed with what looked like embarrassment or perhaps panic. “Lydia, perhaps this isn't the appropriate moment—”
“Nonsense!” Lydia laugh was bright and carrying, drawing the attention of everyone within earshot. “It's Christmas Eve, after all. What better time to share our joy?”
The silence that followed was deafening. Sarah could hear her own heartbeat thundering in her ears as Lydia’s words registered their full import. Around them, other members of the congregation had begun to gather, drawn by the drama unfolding in their midst.
“Lord Castleton has asked for my hand in marriage,” she announced, her voice ringing with triumph. “Papa gave his blessing just this morning, and we plan to announce it formally after Christmas. Isn't it wonderful?”
The collective gasp from the assembled crowd seemed to echo endlessly in the church's vaulted ceiling.
Sarah felt as though someone had struck her a physical blow, the breath leaving her lungs in a painful rush.
The expensive cufflinks in her reticule seemed to burn against her side, a tangible reminder of her foolishness, her complete misreading of Castleton's character and intentions.
“Congratulations,” she heard herself say, the words emerging with surprising steadiness despite the chaos in her chest. “How... how very happy you both must be.”
Castleton at least had the grace to look uncomfortable, his gaze flickering to Sarah's face with what might have been regret or embarrassment. “Thank you, Lady Sarah. That's very kind of you to say.”
“Oh, but you simply must still come tomorrow!” Lydia continued, apparently oblivious to the devastation she'd just wreaked.
“It will be such a wonderful opportunity to celebrate together.
After all, we're practically going to be neighbors—your family’s estate borders Lord Castleton's northern holdings.”
That’s why Sarah had thought this dream of a marriage to Castleton was meant to be.
She thought he’d suddenly realized the woman who lived next door all these years was his dream too.
Sarah's vision began to blur at the edges, whether from unshed tears or simple shock she couldn't tell.
The church suddenly felt stifling, the press of bodies and the weight of pitying stares too much to bear.
“Sarah.” George's voice cut through her distress like a lifeline, low and urgent. “We should go.”
She turned to him gratefully, seeing nothing but steady strength in his grey eyes. No pity, no condescension, just the unwavering support that had somehow become as natural as breathing.
“Yes,” she managed, her voice barely above a whisper. “Yes, I think... I think I need some air.”
“Of course,” George said, already moving to shield her from the curious stares of the congregation. “Lord Castleton, Miss Lydia, if you'll excuse us—”
“But surely Lady Abbottsford isn't unwell?” Lydia’s voice carried a note of false concern that made Sarah's spine stiffen with pride. “I do hope you'll still be able to join us tomorrow?”
The question hung in the cold December air, and Sarah realized that every person within earshot was waiting for her response.
She could feel their collective curiosity, could practically hear them composing the gossip they would share over their Christmas dinners about poor Lady Abbottsford and her obvious disappointment.
“I'm afraid I find myself rather indisposed,” Sarah said, drawing on every ounce of dignity she possessed. “Perhaps another time, when you're both more... settled in your new circumstances.”