The Risk of Falling (Harmony Lake #1)

1. Sarah

Sarah

Chicago

George VanMartin forgot our vows again. Typical.

I turned my back to the ballroom, pausing at the threshold of the Davenports’ dimly lit Blue Room.

At the far end, George stood at the center of his usual circle, sandy hair rising in a rakish tumble.

Silk whispered against silk as I twisted through the crush of people in this so-called Den of Disrepute, my gaze fixed on him.

I deliberately drifted into his line of sight.

But the green eyes that turned sensible women into fools hadn’t focused on me in years.

And if they did, what then? Rainbows? Swooning? Another kiss under the wisteria?

Perhaps he’d develop a sudden burst of devotion like Bingley for Jane. If only life obeyed Austen.

I skirted the edge of the room but ended up lodged between a tray of glittering champagne flutes and an island of out-of-place society matriarchs.

Mrs. Bergen sniffed at George. “Look at that VanMartin boy. Hopeless. And his sister. That Viola has no respect for society. She is bound to end up a spinster, along with that friend of hers, Sarah Everson.”

Spinster Town, here I come. Population: me and Viola.

I lifted a flute and slipped between the waiter and the brave souls embracing in the shadows.

At last, I merged into the outer orbit of George’s boisterous group.

My midnight-blue gown blended with the velvet curtain drawn across the door back to the ballroom.

Even my dress conspired to keep me invisible.

“I need another dance,” George’s friend Buddy said. “But not with you lot.”

“You’ll miss having an experienced partner,” a woman said.

Buddy wiggled his fingers. “Enough experience in my little finger to see us through.”

“Little finger indeed,” Macy said.

George smirked as his gaze swept past me. My stomach tightened.

“Millie?” a man suggested.

Buddy shook his head. “She might cry.”

“What about Sarah?” a man asked.

My mouth dried to dust.

Buddy craned his neck. “She’s probably over by your sister, Georgie. Haven’t danced with her in ages.”

George raked a hand through his hair, a motion I’d watched him do a thousand times.

“Frosty,” a man said with an exaggerated shiver.

Gertie pressed close to George. “She’s the original ice queen. A man needs someone warm to dance with.”

I pummeled Gertie’s back with my icy stare.

Buddy waggled his brows. “I’ll wager I can warm her up.”

A flicker crossed George’s face. “Sarah?”

My name on his lips did something inconvenient to my pulse.

George shifted a half step away from Gertie. “Buddy, my friend… leave Sarah alone.”

Why? All I ever am is alone. Even in a crowd. Especially in a crowd. I touched my lips, remembering the warm softness of his kiss back when he was mine, if only for the afternoon.

“Trying to protect her from me?” Buddy asked.

Protecting me would be… good. Right?

“No, friend. I’m protecting you.” George’s face relaxed into a small smile. “She’s like a second little sister. Just as annoying. Choose someone else.”

Something cold and final settled beneath my corset. A soft ripple of laughter circled him.

Macy gave me a curious look over Buddy’s shoulder, the sort one might give a kitten wound up in a ball of string. But I’d get myself out of this tangle with my pride intact.

My fingers strangled the champagne glass. Turn, George. See me for once in your life. Annoying? His sister? Pemberley.

Macy slid her hand around Buddy’s arm and purred, “Come on, Buddy. Wow me with your little finger. I promise not to cry.” Laughter and catcalls followed as they moved away.

I took a casual sip of champagne. It didn’t help.

A hand clamped around my elbow. I stifled a squeal. The hand yanked me out of George’s orbit, through the curtained door into the ballroom’s glare.

Viola hauled me toward the exit, her hand firm on my arm, her purple skirts swishing. We burst into the cool moonlit night and gooseflesh prickled on my bare arms.

“Never thought I’d drag you out of the Davenports’ blasted Blue Room of debauchery.”

I glanced back at the closed doors. “Satisfying my curiosity. You were dancing, and… George was in there.”

Viola rolled her eyes. “Oh, Sarah. George is the best reason to avoid the room altogether. Don’t want to trip over all the brokenhearted women he leaves in his wake.”

The night air bit at my skin, carrying the cloying sweetness of wisteria from a nearby trellis. I trailed along as Viola strode toward her carriage.

“We’ve played society’s little game enough for one night. You even ventured into that scandalous room.”

Wish I hadn’t.

I’d long since shed my ball gown, but instead of getting into bed, I searched in my closet.

Beneath a stack of hat boxes, I uncovered a crushed box wrapped in faded floral paper and tied with a pink ribbon.

I stepped from the closet cradling it in my arms. Moonlight filtered through my bedroom window and spilled across the house next door—George and Viola’s home.

Behind it lurked the wisteria arbor. A monument to my one perfect kiss.

Years ago, Viola dragged George into a game of “wedding” beneath the trailing purple blooms of wisteria.

At the ripe age of eight, I glided toward George, bouquet in hand, draped in lace that tickled my nose.

He lifted the lace with a solemnity only children can muster, and we shared a chaste kiss. Viola declared us married.

I mistook a game of pretend for destiny and let my life hinge on a single kiss.

It was easier than the real world. He’d forgotten it by dinner.

Twelve years wasted—watching, waiting. Books like Emma granted happy endings to childhood neighbors.

It could happen. I set my jaw. The fantasy ended tonight. George VanMartin would never be mine.

The fire beckoned at the far end of my bedroom. I padded across the chill floor and sank cross-legged before the hearth, the box heavy on my lap. I ran my fingertips along the smooth satin ribbon. I should heave it into the fire without looking.

My fingers hovered. Tensed. But no.

I tugged the bow loose, lifted the lid, folded back lace, brittle with age.

It had draped my face when we said our vows.

The remnants of a bouquet crumbled in my fingers.

The trailing wisteria lived only in memory.

Beneath lay a yellowed paper with fading script: Mrs. George VanMartin, Sarah VanMartin, George and Sarah VanMartin.

My best calligraphy with flourishes. A thin blue ribbon. Relics of us.

Do it.

Tremulous fingers replaced the lid and neatly tied the bow.

I shoved the box into the fire. Ashes to ashes, then.

Goodbye, George. Red-hot tongues of flame licked at my memories.

The box caught with a hiss. The paper curled and faded away, fragile as childhood.

The fire flared, pulsing heat toward me.

Within moments, George and I were reduced to ash.

I left the too-warm hearth and pressed my cheek to the window’s cool glass. The fire crackled and popped behind me. Across the narrow side yard, a window glowed to life—George’s window. I huddled into the draperies.

He shrugged off his jacket. A moment later he returned from his dressing room in only his pants.

My sharp exhale fogged the glass. Last time I saw him shirtless, we were scrawny children on the beach. Now he was a man, and the sight tangled mortification and longing together until I clutched the drapery for support. Devilish luck, this eyeful, the night I finally decided to give him up.

George stood for a long minute in the middle of his room.

Could he feel my eyes on him? He turned, crossed to his window, and pushed the curtains wide.

I flattened against the wall, heart pounding, grasping the drapery, desperate to keep it from swinging.

Had he seen me? Of all the times to finally notice me…

I waited a full minute, then peeked one eye past the curtain. His windows stared back as dark and indifferent as the pile of ash on the hearth. He called me his sister. Pemberley.

I’d give him up tomorrow.

The day after the Davenports’ ball, I sat trapped in the parlor with my parents. My eyes burned from lack of sleep. But at least I’d finally resolved to forget George. Mostly.

Mother cooed to her prized pup. “Yes, Mipsy. The neighborhood is abuzz. An eligible young bachelor. Here for the summer. And handsome. He arrived yesterday.”

Father focused on his book. His sigh drifted like fog across the room.

Curiosity pricked my ears. I could use a distraction from George.

Mother continued. “Henry Higginbotham. Quite a mouthful, hmm?”

The parlor’s French doors opened to the veranda. Lake Michigan sparkled under low clouds hustling off to the east, away from Mother’s chatter.

“We’ll host a dinner party,” Mother said. “The Granthams will surely bring their visiting nephew. He’ll be the guest of honor.”

Across the street, people who were not stuck planning a dinner party strolled in the park.

“From Milwaukee, I think. Didn’t Mr. Grantham’s sister marry that farm equipment fellow? Must be her son.”

“Yes, Mipsy. He will be charmed by Sarah. Her voice is her best feature. If only she’d use it wisely and finally snare a suitor. She’s not beyond hope, our Sarah. Especially in her pink silk.”

I sprawled back in my chair, dreading the pink silk and its impossible neckline.

“Who should we invite? That flirt, George VanMartin, to distract the other girls.”

Of course, she would think of George first.

“And we can’t have Sarah’s singing as the only entertainment. So gauche. Viola can play the piano. Her manners will make our Sarah look refined.”

Mother lifted a gilded grooming brush. “Goodness knows I’m such a good mother to keep trying.”

I stood. Father arched an apprehensive brow.

Mother would never release me while planning a party. Though Mipsy could surely provide all the necessary feedback.

I motioned to the doors. “It’s a beautiful day.”

Mother quieted for a single breath.

I was a picture of innocence. “I think I’ll stroll down toward the tulip bed. You know the one? Near the end of the park… across from the Granthams.”

Mipsy regarded me with coal-black eyes.

Mother nodded. “Fresh air would be good for your pale complexion…”

I escaped the parlor before she could say another word, galloping down the front steps as if I could outrun her expectations. I needed to tell Viola about the new bachelor.

I hesitated before pushing through the shrubbery—my usual shortcut to Viola’s door. A stocky mustachioed gentleman strolled up her walk. I chose dignity over jumping out at him from the bushes and strode down my long front walk, the hedge rising chest-high beside me.

When I reached the street, I rounded the hedge and turned up Viola’s walk.

Surely George wouldn’t be home. This Henry fellow’s arrival felt like a sign.

At least he wouldn’t think of me as a sister.

Perhaps I’d stroll past the Granthams after all, if Viola could be persuaded.

Mother’s ramblings had ignited a twinge of curiosity, maybe even a twinge and a half.

Viola’s front door stood open. The stocky man blocked the doorway as he chatted with someone inside. Probably the butler. If I were lucky, it would be Viola. I started up the front steps.

George barreled into me.

The impact knocked the air from my lungs. I wobbled. Windmilled. Fought against gravity’s unrelenting pull.

George caught my arms. Pulled me to him. Hot breath on my cheek. A whiff of sandalwood. He was taller up close.

I teetered inches from him. The memory of his shirtless torso sprang uninvited as my hands landed squarely on his chest.

His hands burned against my skin, pinning me in place. Green eyes—too close—focused directly on me. His lips hovered near enough to steal a kiss.

No lace to lift this time.

I spread my fingers wide over his shirt, my thumb catching on a button. For the first time ever—I was in George’s arms. The very last place I should be. And I didn’t pull away.