Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
George stared at the blank sheet of paper before him, his pen hovering uncertainly above the cream-colored stationery that bore the Hampton family crest. The fire in his study had burned low, casting dancing shadows across the mahogany shelves lined with leather-bound volumes, but he barely noticed the chill creeping into the room.
His mind was entirely consumed by the image of Sarah sitting in her frozen garden, tears streaming down her face as she declared herself a failure at everything that mattered.
The memory of her broken voice saying those words—"I'll always be just..
. kind and intelligent Sarah"—made his chest tighten with a rage so fierce it surprised him.
How dare Castleton's callous behavior make her question her own worth?
How dare society's shallow standards convince the most remarkable woman of his acquaintance that she was somehow lacking?
My dearest Sarah, he began, then immediately scored through the words with sharp, angry strokes. Too intimate. Too revealing of feelings, she wasn't ready to hear, not when her heart was still raw from Castleton's betrayal.
He tried again: Dear Lady Abbottsford, but the formal address felt wrong after what they'd shared in her garden, after she'd wept in his arms while his greatcoat wrapped around her like a shield against the world's cruelties.
George crumpled the second attempt and tossed it into the fire, watching the paper curl and blacken as he wrestled with the impossible task before him.
What did one say to the woman one loved when she was convinced she was unlovable?
How did one offer comfort without revealing the depth of feelings that might only add to her burden?
Sarah, he wrote simply on a third sheet, abandoning propriety entirely. After leaving you tonight, I find myself unable to rest knowing how deeply Castleton's actions have wounded you. Please allow me to say what I should have said years ago...
But there his pen stalled. What should he have said years ago?
That he'd been in love with her since before she'd even made her debut?
That every smile she'd bestowed on other gentlemen had felt like a dagger to his heart?
That he'd spent countless evenings at social gatherings watching her from across crowded ballrooms, memorizing the way candlelight caught the gold in her hair, the musical quality of her laugh when she was truly amused?
The truth was too much, too overwhelming for someone whose confidence had already been shattered. George set down his pen and rubbed his eyes, feeling every one of his twenty-eight years weighing on his shoulders.
He should have been braver. Noy cared about how others in society would judge him for knowing who owned his heart all these years.
He thought of Sarah as he'd first truly seen her—not as Alice's friend or an extension of his sister's social circle, but as a woman in her own right.
It had been at Alice's wedding reception, nearly six months ago now.
Sarah had been standing at the edge of the garden at Galloway Castle, watching Alice and Calum dance their first dance as husband and wife.
The expression on her face had been one of such wistful longing, such gentle joy mixed with her own quiet sadness, that George had felt something shift irrevocably in his chest.
She'd looked beautiful that day, her blonde hair crowned with flowers from Alice's bouquet, her green silk gown bringing out the color of her eyes.
But it wasn't her appearance that had stolen his breath—it was the naked honesty of her expression, the way she'd allowed herself to feel deeply and completely in a world that often punished such authenticity.
He'd approached her then, offering some light comment about the beauty of the evening, and she'd turned to him with that radiant smile that seemed to light up her entire being.
They'd talked for over an hour about everything and nothing—books they'd read, places they hoped to travel, dreams they harbored for the future.
And with every word, every shared laugh, every moment of understanding that passed between them, George had fallen deeper into a love he'd never even seen coming.
The irony wasn't lost on him that he'd spent years positioning himself as the safe choice, the reliable friend who could be counted on for practical advice and steady support.
He'd been so careful never to cross the line into anything that might be construed as improper pursuit, so determined to preserve their friendship above all else, that he'd essentially invisible himself as a romantic possibility.
George picked up his pen again, his hand steadier now as purpose crystallized in his mind.
Sarah, he wrote, I cannot bear to think of you spending even one more moment believing yourself to be lacking in any quality that makes a woman truly worthy of devotion. If Castleton cannot see your extraordinary worth, then he is beneath your notice—not the reverse.
You asked me tonight why you have not received the romantic attention you deserve, and I realize now that my silence on this matter has done you a disservice. The truth is that you have been receiving such attention, constant and unwavering, but from a source you perhaps never considered.
George paused, his heart hammering against his ribs as he contemplated the words he was about to commit to paper.
Once written, there would be no taking them back, no retreating to the safety of ambiguous friendship.
Sarah would know, definitively and irrevocably, how he felt about her. She would have to make a choice.
George set down his pen and read over what he'd written, his pulse racing with the magnitude of what he'd just confessed.
The words were true, every one of them, but were they wise?
Was this really the time to burden Sarah with the knowledge of his feelings, when she was already reeling from Castleton's betrayal?
He thought of her tears in the garden, her absolute conviction that she was destined for spinsterhood, and felt his resolve harden.
Sarah needed to know that she was loved—truly, deeply, passionately loved—even if she could never return those feelings.
She needed to understand that her worth wasn't contingent on the recognition of men like Castleton, who saw women only as assets to be acquired rather than as individuals to be treasured.
If you can find it in your heart to consider me as something more than Alice's protective brother, George continued, his handwriting growing more urgent as conviction overtook caution. On a flourish he completed the letter.
George sealed the letter before he could lose his nerve, addressing it in his careful script and setting it aside to be delivered in the morning.
The die was cast now. By tomorrow evening, Sarah would know the truth that had been burning in his chest for months, and he would know whether he had any hope of winning the heart of the woman who had already claimed his so completely.
He leaned back in his chair and stared into the dying fire, imagining her reaction to his confession. Would she be surprised? Pleased? Horrified at the idea of her friend harboring such inappropriate feelings? There was no way to know, no way to prepare for whatever response awaited him.
The clock on the mantel chimed midnight, officially marking the beginning of Christmas Day.
George smiled slightly, thinking it somehow fitting that he should declare his love at the dawn of a day dedicated to hope and miracles.
If ever there was a time for taking leaps of faith, surely Christmas was it.
Tomorrow would bring whatever answers fate had in store. Tonight, it was enough to know that he'd finally found the courage to fight for the woman he loved.
Rising from his desk, George banked the fire and made his way upstairs to his chamber.
For the first time in months, he fell asleep easily, his dreams filled with visions of Sarah's smile and the possibility—however remote—that she might someday look at him with the same love that had been shining in his eyes whenever he looked at her.
Christmas morning would dawn bright and full of promise, and George Montague, Earl of Hampton, would finally discover whether the woman who owned his heart might be willing to accept the gift of his devotion in return.
The thought terrified and exhilarated him in equal measure. But as he drifted off to sleep, George found himself genuinely excited about Christmas Day for the first time since childhood. Whatever happened next, at least he would face it with complete honesty between himself and the woman he loved.
And that, he reflected drowsily, was worth any risk.