Page 23 of Yours Always
“That is not fair,” he snapped. “You walked away from me in the ballroom. You silenced me in the breakfast room. You don’t want to hear what I have to say.” Sarah blinked, startled by the sharp edge in his voice. “That doesn’t mean I don’t want you near,” her voice broke brittle as glass. “You are the one I have always counted on. And now…” she swallowed hard. “...you’re just gone.” The last word fractured as it slipped off her tongue.
“I miss you, Matty,” she whispered. “Can we fix this? Can we not be friends again?” Matthew closed his eyes like the effort of holding still might shatter him. “I don’t know if I can, Lizzy,” he said quietly.
Her breath hitched. “Is this because of what happened in the breakfast room?” she asked, her voice trembling. “Because I stopped you from sharing? If you need to say it that badly, then say it. Even if it hurts to hear you say her name, I will listen.” Matthew’s brow drew together, confusion flashing across his face. “Say whose name?”
“Mary’s,” Sarah whispered.
Matthew took a step back, stunned. His mouth parted but no sound came. He looked as though she’d pulled something from beneath his ribs and held it in her hand. “That is why you stopped me?” he breathed. “Because you think I am in love with Mary? She hesitated, “Are you not?” Her words barely lifted above the noise of the ballroom behind them.
“No,” he said, the word breaking from him like a confession. “Oh, Lizzy. No.” Something wild and unsteady surged in Sarah’s chest. She took a single step forward. Matthew reached for her hands gently, his thumbs brushing over her knuckles like a man memorizing something fragile. His voice was raw with disbelief. “Lizzy, I have been such a fool...”
“Mr. Fenwick!”
The voice cleaved through the corridor like a blade. Both of them froze. Matthew flinched, his hands falling reluctantly from hers as a footman approached at a clipped pace, eyes wide. “Urgent message, sir,” he said. “It cannot wait.”
Matthew turned, jaw tight, breath caught somewhere between fury and despair. The footman hesitated. “It is from your aunt, sir.” Matthew took the letter but barely looked at it. “This is not her handwriting,” he muttered, almost to himself, before turning back to Sarah, something pleading in his eyes.
“Sarah, I am so sorry,” he said, voice unsteady. “I have to go.”
“What?” Sarah barely managed to find her voice.
“I will come to you tomorrow. We will finish this conversation.” And then, before she could answer, before she could reach for him again, he was gone. Sarah stood frozen, fists tangled in the fabric of her gown, her vision swimming. Another goodbye. Another ending with no warning, no explanation. No choice. Only silence.
Sarah turned and stepped back into the ballroom, her spine straight, her breath measured. The hum of strings and laughter wrapped around her like a veil, bright, shimmering and suffocating. The Duke spotted her at once. His expression shifted the moment their eyes met, polite detachment softening into quiet concern. He approached with unerring composure. “Miss Weston,” he said gently. “Is everything well?”
Sarah’s smile held, but it was a fragile thing, polished at the edges and hollow at the center. “Of course,” she said coolly. He studied her for a moment. “I saw you speaking with Mr. Fenwick. May I inquire what was said?”
She turned her head slightly, gaze lifting to the glitter of chandeliers above. They threw light like shards acrossthe polished floor, too bright and too cold. “Nothing of consequence,” she said, her voice smooth and clipped.
If she wasn’t mistaken, she saw a flicker of relief pass through him. It brushed against her like ice, sharp and unfeeling, so different from the storm still roaring inside her chest. She smiled again, lifted her chin and let herself be led into the glow and noise, but with every step, a silent vow echoed through her veins: Tomorrow.
Matthew promised they would talk tomorrow, and one way or another, this ache of almosts, the longing, the silence, the what-ifs, would end.
Chapter 14
The study was cloakedin dim gray light, the morning sun struggling against the heavy clouds pressing against the windows. Matthew sat slumped at his desk, staring blankly at the crumpled letter before him. His tea had long gone cold at his elbow. The clock on the mantel ticked away the minutes he could no longer feel. It had been almost a week since he had received the letter, but still he continued to read the words over and over, willing them to mean something different. It had to be a mistake.
A soft knock broke through the silence.“Mr. Fenwick?” came a tentative voice. Matthew lifted his head slowly, blinking against the pounding in his skull. His vision swam before settling on Anna, his housemaid, standing uncertainly in the doorway. Had she called his name more than once?
“Yes, Anna?” he said, his voice scratchy from disuse, forced into something steady. “You have a visitor, sir,” she said,wringing her hands in her apron. “Mrs. Weston. She wishes to speak with you.” Matthew’s stomach knotted instantly. He set down his empty glass. “Victoria Weston?” Anna nodded somberly. “Yes, sir.” He rubbed a hand across his eyes. She hadn’t visited his townhouse in years—not since....
“Very well,” he said, schooling his expression into polite neutrality. “Please show her to the drawing room, and make sure there’s tea.”
“Oh, there’s no need for all that,” Victoria Weston’s voice called smoothly as she appeared in the doorway behind Anna, brushing past the maid with her usual disregard.
Matthew rose at once, hastily shoving the papers into a pile and sliding them into a drawer. His movements were clipped, and controlled. A harsh contrast to the out of control storm currently raging inside his chest.
“I do apologize for the intrusion,” Victoria said lightly, gliding into the room with the unbothered grace of a woman who had never once apologized in earnest. “I won’t stay long.”
He crossed the room and gestured toward one of the leather chairs near the hearth. “You are always welcome, Mrs. Weston,” he said automatically. “Would you care for some tea? Anna can—”
“No need,” Victoria said with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Do not trouble yourself on my account.” Anna disappeared, though Matthew had no doubt she’d return with the tray anyway.
He watched Victoria settle stiffly into the chair. Her posture was poised as ever, but her gloved hands fussed with her buttons, nervous and uneasy. He didn’t like it. The last time she had crossed his threshold uninvited, the conversation had nearly undone him.
“I was visiting the shops and found myself passing by,” Victoria said, the words breezy but the tension under them unmistakable. “I thought I might call.”
“No matter,” Matthew said, offering her a strained smile. “I always have time for my second favorite Weston lady.” He meant it as a joke, but the shadow that flickered in her eyes anchored the humor before it could lift the air between them.
