Page 10 of Yours Always
Sarah watched Matthew as he walked away to join Benjamin and the other men gathered near the riverbanks. She barely had time to draw a breath before she heard her mother’s voice at her side. “There you are, darling.” Victoria’s tone was pleasant, but Sarah caught the undercurrent, and the subtle tightening around her eyes. Sarah turned, smoothing her skirts. “Just taking the air, Mama.”
Victoria’s gaze swept casually over the gardens, the promenading couples, and the scattering of carriages. It lingered, almost imperceptibly, on Matthew’s retreating figure. “If you’re inclined to stroll,” she said, sweet as spun sugar, “there are plenty of suitable young gentlemen who would be delighted to offer you their arm.” Sarah blinked. “I wasn’t looking for company, Mother.”
“Be that as it may,” Victoria said, slipping her arm through Sarah’s and guiding her smoothly along the path, “it is important to be seen, especially now. Several respectable families have expressed interest since your debut. It would be unwise not to encourage them.” A knot tightened low in Sarah’s stomach. “It was only my first ball.”
“Precisely.” Victoria’s smile was razor-sharp. “First impressions are the most lasting.” They moved with the rhythm of society, past the blooming hedges and willow branches bowing toward the water. Ladies tittered behind lace fans; gentlemen doffed their hats and exchanged pleasantries. Sarah hardly noticed.
Victoria’s voice softened, with the hush of something not meant for everyone’s ears “You mustn’t give too much of your time to those who cannot offer you a secure future. There are men who admire you, men of fortune and name, who deserve your attention.” There was no need to speak Matthew’s name. It hung between them like a shadow. He was cherished. Familiar. Dear. But not acceptable. Not for her.
Sarah kept her gaze forward, her throat tightening. Victoria gave her hand a gentle pat. “I only want the best for you, Sarah.” Sarah managed a small smile, thin and brittle, but passable. Gratitude and rebellion warred in her chest. “I know, Mama,” she said softly. “And when the right man comes along, I promise I’ll recognize him.” Victoria’s smile deepened in satisfaction, though something sharp and assessing flickered behind her eyes. “Of course you will,” she said warmly. “You’ve always had a good heart, my dear. I only hope you’ll let it be guided by sense as well.”
She leaned in and kissed Sarah’s cheek, the scent of her perfume lingering in her wake as she turned and glided toward a waiting acquaintance. Sarah stood still, and the path shifted gently beneath her feet. The music of laughter, the rumble of distant carriages, and the rustle of silk brushed past. Her eyes drifted back toward the river. There stood Matthew. Shoulders relaxed, head tipped back in laughter, his hair ruffled by the breeze. His coat collar sat slightly askew, an imperfection that made him look infuriatingly, heartbreakingly real.
He had made no declarations. He hadn’t even looked at her today with anything more than the fondness of an old friend. He wasn’t the man her mother imagined for her, but he was the only one who made her feel like herself. Sarah turned from the water, her chin lifting with quiet resolve against the ache blooming in her chest.
If she was foolish enough to dream, she would have to do it in secret. Because dreaming of Matthew Fenwick could cost her everything.
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The drawing room at Lord and Lady Ashcombe’s townhouse shimmered with candlelight, gold-framed mirrors reflecting the glow and multiplying the murmur of conversation and laughter. Chess sets stood polished on small tables, and the soft strains of a pianoforte drifted through the air. It was a pleasant scene, by all accounts. But Matthew found himself standing rigid at the edge of it, one hand resting on the back of a carved chair, watching.
Sarah stood near the hearth, her gloved hands clasped lightly before her, as a semicircle of eager young men subtly sparred for her attention. She wore a gown of soft lilac silk, the color making her look even more delicate, her golden curls pinned high with a scattering of tiny pearls. She smiled and laughed as propriety dictated, but the sound was a shade too bright. Matthew could see the tension in her shoulders, the practiced brightness in her smile, and the way her eyes kept flitting toward the door as though calculating an escape. His pulse tightened… among the close press of flirtations and veiled intentions, she looked utterly trapped.
He edged closer, under the guise of inspecting a chessboard laid out by the window, though his attention was fixed firmly on Sarah. “… and I told the old fellow, if he couldn’ttell the difference between a stallion and a mare, he had no business in the stables!” one of the men, a baron’s son with too much drink and too little sense, finished his story with a guffaw, prompting polite laughter from the others.
Sarah’s lips curved in a small, strained smile. “That is quite the story, Lord Rigby,” she said lightly. Another young man, this one with a narrow mouth and an eye for fortunes, leaned closer. “Tell me, Miss Weston,” he said, his tone too smooth, and far too familiar. “Do you possess the same adventurous spirit as your sister? I’ve heard many stories from her season…”
Before the words could hang too long in the air, Matthew stepped forward. His voice carrying just enough weight to cut cleanly through the laughter. “I would advise you, Lord Hampton, to mind your words in Miss Weston’s company. She may not have a title, but she is a lady, and your insinuations are both unwelcome and unwarranted.” The laughter stilled, the air tightening around them. Hampton flushed, his mouth opening, but no words came.
Another man, with a slightly more sober air, chuckled awkwardly trying to defuse the tension. “Ah, but surely it’s for her brother to defend her honor, Fenwick. Or are you volunteering for the role?” Matthew turned his gaze to the speaker, a polite smile brushing the edge of his mouth, though his eyes were cool. “I believe anyone with sense and decency would do the same. But yes,” he added, his tone silk-edged with steel, “I have always considered it a point of honor to stand with Miss Weston.”
He caught the flicker of surprise, and the subtle exchange of glances. He let it hang for a moment longer, he should have simply left it at that, but the fire in his chest pushed him further. “If you will excuse us,” he said, offering his arm to Sarah. “Sarah promised me a game of chess this evening.” The use of her name fell like shattered glass in a silent room. The weight of his wordsand his presence at her side settled over the group like a hush. Murmurs stirred as he led her away, her hand trembling slightly on his sleeve.
At the quiet chess table near the window, he drew out a chair for her and waited for her to sit before settling opposite. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Sarah’s hands hovered above the chessboard, brushing a loose pawn into place, her gaze fixed on the polished wood. The candlelight painted her face in soft gold, highlighting the tension that still lingered around her mouth. “You should not have done that,” she murmured, her voice barely above the hush of the pianoforte.
“I would do it again.” Matthew said quietly. He moved a pawn without looking at the board. Her lips trembled. “It was nothing,” she whispered.“It was not nothing,” he said quietly. She lifted her gaze then, her blue eyes meeting his with something fragile and uncertain, and he felt the tight coil in his chest ease slightly. “You should never have to endure such things alone.”
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Sarah sat motionless at the small table, her hands folded in her lap. The candlelight flickered over the chess board’s polished surface, the pieces arrayed as though mid-game, though neither she nor Matthew had moved beyond that first, perfunctory pawn. The room hummed around her, the low drone of conversation and laughter pressing at the edges of her hearing, but all she could hear was the rush of her own pulse in her ears.
Matthew had stood and was now beside her chair, one hand resting lightly on the back. His voice, low and steady, cut through her swirling thoughts. “I am going to fetch you some lemonade.”
She nodded, her throat too tight to reply, and watched him weave through the gathering, his tall frame unmistakable evenin the crowded room. His cravat, slightly askew, caught the glint of the chandelier as he passed beneath it. It was such a small thing, ordinary and unremarkable, and yet her chest tightened around it, her breath catching in her throat.
A chair scraped beside her, and Grace’s familiar figure settled quickly into it. Her voice, soft but urgent, broke through the haze. “Lizzy, what on earth happened?” Sarah’s lips parted, but no words came. Her gaze lingered on the path Matthew had taken, as though if she looked at him long enough, she could untangle the knot forming in her chest. “I am not sure,” she said finally, her voice barely audible above the rustle of silk and the faint strains of the pianoforte.
Grace leaned closer, her brows knitting together in concern. “Did someone say something to you? You looked so pale.” Sarah’s fingers tightened on the edge of the table. “There were… remarks. About Mary. About me.” She forced a smile that felt brittle and far from convincing. “But Matthew stepped in.”
Grace followed her gaze, her eyes landing on Matthew as he made his way towards them with a glass of lemonade balanced carefully in his hand, as though he were navigating a stormy sea instead of a crowded drawing room. “Of course he did,” she murmured, almost to herself. Sarah turned sharply to her friend, but Grace’s expression was too knowing, too gentle to challenge. “I don’t know what is happening,” Sarah whispered. “Everything is changing so quickly.”
The truth pressed at her ribs. The shadow of Mary, of whispered scandal and heartbreak, hung heavy over her. The fear of falling in love, of trusting and opening her heart, cut deeper than any drawing room slight.
And yet, when Matthew reached their table, his eyes searching hers with that quiet, steady gaze, the world around her seemed to tilt. The edges softened, the noise dimmed, and all she could hear was the faint clink of the lemonade glass against thepolished wood as he set it before her. “Here you are, Lizzy,” he said, his voice low, a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth.
She looked up at him, her lips parting, the words caught behind her teeth. Everything inside her felt tangled, raw, on the verge of something she couldn’t yet name. “Thank you,” she said softly, her voice trembling ever so slightly. Matthew’s smile deepened for a heartbeat, and then, as though sensing the weight of the moment, he turned to refill his own glass at the nearby sideboard, giving her a moment to gather herself.
Sarah watched him go, the air suddenly feeling too thick, her skin too warm, and her heart too loud in her chest.
