Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Sarah woke to the sound of church bells ringing across London, their joyous peals announcing the arrival of Christmas Day.
For a moment, she lay still in her bed, listening to the familiar melody and trying to summon the happiness that should accompany such a glorious morning.
But the events of the previous evening crashed back into her consciousness like a cold wave, and she pulled the coverlet over her head with a groan of despair.
Lord Castleton was engaged. To Miss Lydia McCorkill.
The announcement had been made publicly, dramatically, be it in front of a small handful of fashionable London.
And she, Sarah Abbottsford, had been standing there like a complete fool, thinking of the expensive, carefully chosen gift—a gift that now seemed to mock her with its presumption.
The memory of Lydia’s triumphant smile made Sarah's cheeks burn with fresh humiliation.
How the woman must have enjoyed delivering that devastating blow, watching Sarah's face crumble as her romantic dreams disintegrated in the space of a single sentence.
The gossips would feast on this story for weeks—poor Lady Abbottsford and her obvious disappointment, losing her suitor to a mere Miss with a fortune, her transparent attachment to a gentleman who had never shown her any particular regard.
Sarah forced herself to sit up, pushing her tangled hair back from her face.
The morning light streaming through her bedroom windows was crisp and golden, the sort of perfect Christmas morning that should have filled her with anticipation.
Instead, she felt hollow, scraped clean by the events of the previous night and the brutal self-examination that had followed.
She thought of George finding her in the garden, wrapped in misery and self-pity, and cringed at the memory of her emotional outburst. How pathetic she must have appeared, weeping over a man who had never made her any promises, railing against a world that had committed no crime beyond failing to see her as the heroine of some grand romantic tale.
Kind and intelligent Sarah. The words she'd spoken in bitter mockery echoed in her mind.
Perhaps that's all she would ever be—a pleasant companion, a reliable friend, but never the sort of woman who inspired passionate devotion.
The realization should have devastated her, but this morning it simply felt like an acceptance of reality.
A soft knock at her bedroom door interrupted her brooding. “Come in,” Sarah called, expecting to see her lady's maid with the morning chocolate.
Instead, her housekeeper Mrs. Davies peered around the door, her expression carefully neutral in the way that meant she had news Sarah probably didn't want to hear.
“Begging your pardon, miss, but there's a note come from the Lord Hampton. A footman's waiting for a reply.”
Sarah's stomach clenched. Was this a note from George saying he thought it best to step away for a while?
“Thank you, Mrs. Davies. Please tell the footman I'll send a response shortly.”
The housekeeper nodded and withdrew, leaving Sarah alone with the task of reading a missive from a man she’d disappointed with her appalling behavior last night.
She opened the note as if a big axe was going to chop of her head.
My dearest Sarah, 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 last night 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.
I have been in love with you for longer than you can possibly imagine. Not the gentle affection of a friend, not the protective fondness of an honorary brother, but the deep, abiding love of a man for the woman who has become essential to his very existence.
I know this may come as a shock, and I do not expect any particular response from you.
I simply cannot allow another day to pass without your knowing that you are seen, Sarah.
You are valued beyond measure by someone whose regard has nothing to do with your dowry or your social connections.
You are cherished for your quick wit and generous heart, for your passion for literature and your kindness to those who have less than you do.
You are beloved for the way you light up when discussing something that truly interests you, for the fierce loyalty you show your friends, for the quiet strength that carries you through moments like tonight with dignity intact.
If you can find it in your heart to consider me as something more than Alice's protective brother, I would count myself the most fortunate man in England.
But if friendship is all you can offer, I will treasure that gift for the rest of my life and never ask for more.
What matters is that you know—you are extraordinary, Sarah Abbottsford.
You are worth fighting for, worth waiting for, worth every sacrifice a man could make.
I will be at my townhouse tomorrow if you wish to speak of this letter.
If not, I will understand and will never press the matter again.
But know that whether you choose to acknowledge my feelings or ignore them entirely, they will remain constant.
You have my heart, Sarah, whether you want it or not.
With all my love and devotion, George
Her heart began to pound deep in her chest, and she dragged in a ragged breath…tears filled her eyes as she ran her hand over the moving words as if they were gold droplets.
George. Her darling George. Her friend and almost brother…
Even after last night. Even as she had made him hunt for gifts for another man—he still said he loved her. The tears fell as she realized she loved him to. Not like a friend or a brother but as a man.
But her behavior this week meant she didn’t deserve him.
She cried for a few minutes and then gave herself a stern talking to. She’d been a ninny, but George deserved better.
She rose from her bed and quickly penned a reply to him.
She couldn’t face him today. But tomorrow—well tomorrow she’d have licked her wounds, gathered her pride and perhaps, just perhaps she could be a woman deserving of hearing words she so wanted to hear from George Montague, the Earl of Hampton.
Once she’d sent the note, she returned to bed to wallow in her misery.
The house fell quiet around her as the servants went about their Christmas morning duties.
Sarah could hear distant sounds of celebration from neighboring houses—laughter, music, the cheerful chaos of families gathering to mark the holiday.
The sounds should have been comforting, but instead they emphasized her isolation, her status as an observer of other people's happiness rather than a participant in her own.
She must have dozed, because the next thing she knew, Mrs. Davies was knocking again, this time with obvious excitement coloring her voice.
“Lady Sarah! You have a visitor, and he's brought quite the spread with him. Says he won't take no for an answer about you joining him for Christmas breakfast.”
Sarah's heart gave a small leap before settling back into resigned melancholy. There was only one person who would be so presumptuous, so determined to interrupt her planned wallowing.
“George,” she murmured, not sure whether she felt grateful or mortified at the prospect of facing him again so soon after her emotional breakdown.
“Indeed, miss. And if you don't mind me saying, he looks like a man on a mission. Shall I tell him you're indisposed?”
Sarah considered the offer seriously. It would be easier to hide away, to nurse her wounds in private rather than face George's inevitable kindness and concern. But something in Mrs. Davies's tone—a note of barely suppressed excitement—made her pause.
“What sort of spread?” Sarah asked despite herself.
Mrs. Davies's face broke into a broad grin. “Everything you could imagine, miss. Fresh rolls from Gunter's, the finest preserves, chocolates, fruit, cold meats... enough food for a proper Christmas feast. And he's arranged it all in the morning room like he was expecting to stay.”
The image was so absurdly domestic, so presumptuous and yet so thoughtful, that Sarah felt her first genuine smile since the previous evening tug at her lips.
Of course, George would arrive bearing enough food to feed a small army.
Of course, he would simply assume she would want his company on what should have been one of the loneliest days of her year.
“I suppose,” she said slowly, “it would be rude to let all that food go to waste.”
“Very rude indeed, miss,” Mrs. Davies agreed solemnly, though her eyes twinkled with suppressed laughter.
Sarah rose and moved to her dressing gown, wrapping it around herself with more care than the simple garment warranted. “Please tell Lord Hampton I'll join him shortly. And Mrs. Davies?”
“Yes, miss?”
“Thank him for... for thinking of me this morning.”
The housekeeper's expression softened. “I think that gentleman's been thinking of little else but you for quite some time, if you don't mind me saying so.”
The comment sent an odd flutter through Sarah's chest, but she pushed the feeling aside as she made her way to the morning room. Whatever George's motivations, she was grateful not to spend Christmas Day entirely alone with her regrets. She called for her lady’s maid to help her dress.