Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
George left Alice's house in the afternoon of Christmas Day none the wiser. He'd sought out Alice's counsel on how he could propose to Sarah. Sarah loved romance and grand gestures, but he didn't know what he could do, but his sister had been no help at all.
So, he'd gone for a long ride and he’d come up with a plan. He'd invited Sarah to his home for Christmas supper. He couldn't bear being apart and wanted to marry her as soon as he could procure a special license, but he hadn't actually asked her.
After supper, finally, the moment had come. He hoped it wouldn't be a romantic failure.
“Come with me,” George said, moving toward the door with sudden purpose.
“Where?”
“The garden. There's something I need to show you.”
Sarah hesitated for a moment, then followed him through the house and out into the winter night.
He wrapped her in his own heavy coat, the intimate gesture of sharing his warmth making her pulse quicken.
The December air was crisp and clear, the sky scattered with more stars than the London atmosphere usually allowed.
George's garden was modest by the standards of the great estates, but he had always taken pride in its careful design and seasonal beauty.
Now, in the depths of winter, it possessed a stark elegance that took Sarah's breath away. Frost glittered on bare branches like scattered diamonds, and the carefully planned evergreen plantings provided structure and life even in the dormant season.
“It's beautiful,” Sarah murmured, acutely aware of George's proximity as they walked, his arm steady around her waist to guide her along the frost-slicked path.
“I designed it myself,” George said, his voice lower, more intimate in the quiet night. “Every element placed with deliberate care, built to endure through seasons of change.”
They reached the pavilion—a simple structure that provided shelter while maintaining views of the surrounding landscape.
George lit the lanterns that hung from its eaves, creating a pool of warm golden light in the winter darkness.
The flickering flames cast dancing shadows across his strong features, making Sarah suddenly breathless.
“Why are you showing me this?” Sarah asked, though her voice came out softer, more breathless than she'd intended in the garden's romantic atmosphere.
George turned to face her fully, and Sarah felt her heart skip at the intensity burning in his gray eyes.
“Because I want you to understand the difference between infatuation and love. Between the kind of shallow attraction that Castleton felt for various women this season, and what I feel for you.”
He gestured toward the carefully planned landscape around them, but his gaze never left her face.
“This garden didn't happen by accident, Sarah.
It wasn't the result of a sudden impulse or a moment of inspiration. Every tree was chosen, every path planned, every view considered. It represents years of thought, careful observation, patient cultivation.”
Sarah's breath caught as she began to understand his metaphor, but also at the way he was looking at her—as if she were something precious he'd been denied too long. “George—”
“That's what love is,” George continued, stepping closer until she could feel the warmth radiating from his body.
“Not necessarily the lightning strike of sudden passion, but the steady growth of something deeper.
It's built on knowledge—real knowledge, accumulated over time. It weathers seasons of difficulty because its roots run deep.”
He was close enough now that Sarah had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes, close enough that she could see the way his pupils had dilated in the lantern light.
“I know you, Sarah,” George said, his voice dropping to a whisper that sent shivers down her spine.
“Not some idealized version, not some fantasy I've constructed, but you.
I know that you bite your lower lip when you're concentrating—” his thumb traced across that very lip, making her gasp softly, “—and that your eyes light up when you encounter an idea that excites you.”
With each word, Sarah felt heat building low in her belly, her carefully constructed defenses crumbling under his tender assault.
“I know that you're generous to a fault with those less fortunate, and that you judge yourself far more harshly than you judge anyone else. I know that you read late into the night when you're troubled, and that you hum when you're truly happy.”
His hands came up to frame her face, his touch sending electricity through her entire body.
“I know that you're afraid of spiders but face them anyway because you hate admitting weakness.
I know that you cry at tragic endings even in books you've read before, because your heart is too generous to become callous to others' pain.”
Sarah's breathing had become shallow, her body responding to his proximity in ways that shocked and thrilled her.
“This isn't infatuation, Sarah,” George murmured, his thumbs stroking across her cheekbones. “This isn't the creation of a desperate imagination. This is love—deep, abiding, unshakeable love for exactly who you are. I want you to understand I mean forever.”
Sarah's tears spilled over, but they were tears of wonder rather than sorrow. “I know you'd never bear me false. If you're certain…”
“I've had years to be certain,” George replied, his voice rough with suppressed desire. “Years to observe, to learn, to fall deeper with every discovery. Years to dream about what it would be like to have the right to touch you like this—”
His hands slipped down to her shoulders, then lower, his palms skimming the sides of her bodice. Sarah gasped at the intimate contact, her body arching involuntarily toward his touch.
“George,” she whispered, his name a plea and a prayer.
“Years to imagine comforting you when you're sad, celebrating your joys, building a life based on genuine understanding.” His hands grew bolder, one sliding around to the small of her back while the other traced the delicate line of her collarbone.
“Years to wonder if you'd respond to me like this—”
Sarah's answer was to press herself closer, her hands fisting in the front of his waistcoat. The feel of his hard chest beneath her palms, the scent of his cologne mixed with the crisp winter air, the heat in his eyes—it all combined to make her dizzy with need.
“I'm so afraid,” she whispered against his throat, her lips brushing his skin and making him shudder. “Afraid of not being enough, of disappointing you when you realize I'm not as wonderful as you think I am.”
George's control snapped. He backed her against one of the pavilion's pillars, his body caging her in as his mouth claimed hers in a kiss that was anything but gentle. Sarah responded with equal fervor, her arms winding around his neck as she kissed him back with all the passion she'd been denying.
When they broke apart, both breathing hard, George's eyes were dark with desire. “My darling Sarah,” he said roughly, “you could never disappoint me. You're perfect for me—perfect in every way that matters.”
His hands had found the curves of her breasts through the fabric of her dress, and Sarah gasped at the sensation, her body coming alive under his touch. “George, I—”
“Marry me,” he said urgently, his thumbs brushing across the sensitive peaks until she moaned softly. “Marry me because I can't imagine my hands on anyone else, because I can't bear the thought of another man discovering these sweet sounds you make.”
The intimate words, combined with his skilled caresses, made Sarah's knees weak. “Yes,” she breathed, then louder as pleasure coursed through her: “Yes, George. I want that more than anything.”
George's answering groan was pure masculine satisfaction. He kissed her again, deeper this time, his hands exploring her curves with reverent appreciation while she pressed against him, learning the hard planes of his body through his clothes.
“I love you,” he said against her lips, his voice rough with desire and tenderness combined. “I will love you tomorrow, and next year, and when we're old and gray—but right now, I want to show you exactly how much I desire you.”
Sarah laughed breathlessly, her hands boldly exploring the breadth of his shoulders. “I love you too. And George?”
“Yes, my darling?”
“I think,” she said with newfound boldness, “that perhaps we should continue this conversation somewhere warmer. Somewhere more private.”
George's smile was wicked and full of promise. “I thought you'd never ask.”
As he swept her up in his arms and carried her back toward the house, both of them breathless with anticipation, Sarah marveled at how different this felt from her romantic fantasies. This was better—real, passionate, built on genuine love and desire rather than mere infatuation.
The wallflower had found not just her hero, but her perfect match in every way.