Page 14 of Yours Always
He tried to push the image of her from his mind again, eyes shining, her laughter lighting the space between her and the Duke. It hadn’t been the same smile she gave Matthew. That was the part that unsettled him most. She had given the Duke something new. “She’ll choose well,” Matthew said after a beat, pushing off from the pillar.
Benjamin raised a brow. “And you will be alright with whatever choice she makes?” Matthew didn’t answer. Not directly. He just reached for Ben, slinging an arm around his shoulders in a familiar gesture, and turned them both toward the warm golden spill of the house behind them. “If we leave Oliver unsupervised much longer,” he said, “he’ll charm every set of pearls off the ladies inside.” Benjamin laughed. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
Together they walked back toward the ballroom, but beneath the jokes and the easy banter, one quiet, unyielding thought remained in Matthew’s chest: Whatever path Sarahchose, he would make sure she walked it smiling. Even if it wasn’t toward him.
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The moonlight slanted across the floorboards, pooling silver around Sarah's bare feet as she stood before the mirror. Her ball gown hung limp and wrinkled now, its silk no longer shimmering with the illusions of the evening. She turned slightly, to one side and then the other, her brow drawn with quiet dissatisfaction.
Behind her, Maria knelt silently, her nimble fingers working the row of tiny pearl buttons down the back of the gown. She moved with practiced precision, her expression unreadable, as always. Sarah sighed, tugging half-heartedly at a stubborn ribbon at her waist. “Three weeks in society,” she muttered, “and I’m already ready to flee to France. Or Scotland.” Maria grunted—a low, noncommittal sound that could mean anything from agreement to mild disapproval, but Sarah had become fluent in its variations.
“I met two barons, a marquess, and a viscount tonight,” Sarah continued, peeling off her gloves and tossing them onto the dressing table. “And not one of them could think of anything to say beyond complimenting my gown or asking if I play the pianoforte.” Maria gave a soft hum, folding the gloves with infuriating neatness.
“And then,” Sarah added, lifting her arms so the gown could slide from her shoulders, “there washim.” Maria paused for half a breath before she slipped the gown from Sarah’s frame and onto its hanger with her usual care. Sarah caught the flicker of hesitation in the mirror and smiled faintly.
“The Duke of Kenswick,” she said softly, stepping into her nightdress and drawing it over her shoulders. “He was different. Not all empty flattery and stiff politeness.” Maria laid the gownreverently into the wardrobe without a word. “And handsome,” Sarah added under her breath, smoothing the linen with both hands. “Painfully, dreadfully handsome.”
Maria finally spoke, her voice quiet, measured, and without a trace of indulgence. “Handsome men are like storms, Miss Weston. Easy to admire, hard to survive.” Sarah breathed a soft, amused sigh,“You’re not wrong. But he was kind, Maria. And he listened. Truly listened.”
Maria moved through the room, extinguishing candles with her usual grace. At the last one, her hand paused. “And yet,” she said casually, “while you can’t stop talking about the Duke, your face only softens when you speak of Mr. Fenwick.” Sarah’s breath caught, and she twisted a corner of the bedsheet between her fingers.
Maria tilted her head slightly, her tone lighter. “I’ve known you since we were both in pigtails. I can tell when you’re hiding something.” Sarah pressed her palms over her face. “I don’t know what is wrong with me.” Sarah dropped her hands and stared out the window. “Matthew has been in my life longer than I can remember. He is familiar, and yet nothing feels like it did before.”
Maria said nothing, but the way she arched her brow slightly said everything. “The Duke is...” Sarah hesitated. “He is everything I was raised to want. Everything I was told to hope for.” Maria paused at the dressing table, fingers poised above the final flame. “You were also told,” she said softly, “that proper young ladies don’t climb trees or swim in ponds.”
A laugh burst from Sarah’s lips as she blinked hard against the sting in her eyes. Maria snuffed the last candle, leaving only the hush of moonlight behind. “You know where home is, Miss Weston,” she said gently. “You simply have to be brave enough to choose it.” And with that, no more and no less, she slipped silently from the room.
Sarah remained at the window, her forehead pressed to the cool glass, long after the sound of Maria’s footsteps faded down the hall. The gardens below shimmered quiet and serene beneath the stars, but none of it calmed the storm inside her. Every bow. Every gloved hand. Every too-practiced compliment. Each moment of this season had been polished and orchestrated to perfection. A life she was meant to crave.
But instead of excitement, she felt weightless, and untethered. A guest in someone else’s dream. Somewhere between the memory of a Duke’s steady hand and the ghost of Matthew’s voice in her ear, Sarah Weston realized that she was standing at the edge of two very different futures. And her heart was no longer entirely her own.
Chapter 9
The morning sunlightspilled gently across the drawing room floor, pooling in golden slants along the pale blue carpet and dancing off the edges of polished wood. A rare hush lingered over the house, soft and expectant, the kind of silence that wrapped itself too tightly around your ribs.
Sarah sat by the window, her embroidery forgotten in her lap, the needle caught mid-stitch. Her gaze wandered, unfocused, toward the gardens in the full bloom of spring. She didn’t see the tulips or the daffodils. She saw the soft light of dusk, the curve of a smile, and the weight of a hand slipping away too soon. Something had shifted, and though it had happened softly and quietly, she didn’t quite know what to do with the ache it left behind.
Sarah heard the distant sound of a knock at the door and voices in the hall. She glanced at the clock.Who would bevisiting at this hour?Her father had returned from Somerton that morning, but Matthew wasn’t scheduled to meet with him regarding the estate accounts until later that afternoon. Before she could rise, Maria appeared in the doorway, her cheeks flushed and her voice carrying an unfamiliar tremor of urgency. “Miss Weston,” she said, offering a brisk curtsy. “The Duke of Kenswick has arrived. He requests a word with you.”
Sarah’s fingers tightened around the embroidery hoop, then came the unmistakable sweep of silk and perfume. Her mother entered the room with practiced grace, her eyes already measuring the moment. “There you are,” she said softly. “Stand, darling. Straighten your gown. And do try to smile.” Sarah opened her mouth to speak, but there was no time.
The footman appeared and bowing low to announce the Duke of Kenswick. He looked unchanged from the night before; dark hair brushed back, perfectly tailored coat, his pale blue eyes were almost unnervingly calm. He bowed first to her mother, then to her father, who had entered quietly and now stood beside the hearth, silent.
"Your Grace,” Victoria said sweetly, gesturing to the chairs. “Won’t you sit?” But the Duke remained standing, his posture composed, and his gaze steady. “I beg your pardon for calling unannounced,” he said. “But after last evening, I could not allow the day to pass without making my intentions known.” Sarah’s breath caught in her chest. “Intentions?” Victoria repeated, her voice light, though her eyes gleamed like cut crystal.
“I respectfully request permission to pay court to Miss Weston,” the Duke said, his tone unwavering. “If she is agreeable.” A silence followed that stretched thinner with each heartbeat. Victoria’s smile blossomed, controlled, delighted, and victorious. Robert remained still, his eyes fixed on Sarah. Sarah did not look at either of them. She looked only at the Duke.
He was offering her everything she had been raised to want. A future of order, a name of power, a life carved out with certainty. There was no flaw to find in him, but the ache had returned, sharp and silent. A memory rose, unbidden: Matthew’s hand at her back, his voice low with teasing warmth. The way her name sounded when he said it, not like a prize or a possession, but like a truth.
Her hands trembled slightly in her lap. “I…” Her voice faltered, then steadied. She looked up and met the Duke’s gaze. “I would be honored, Your Grace.” His expression softened, just enough to make her wonder what he might be thinking. “You honor me, Miss Weston.” Victoria’s breath left her in a hush, long and quiet, as if it had been waiting. “What a joy,” she murmured, already lifting her hand to ring for tea. The Duke inclined his head. “I shall not stay. I wished only to speak plainly. Thank you for receiving me.”
He bowed again, and for a beat longer than necessary, his eyes lingered on Sarah before he turned and followed the footman from the room. The door clicked softly shut behind him.
“My darling girl,” her mother whispered. “All of London will be talking. What a perfect beginning.” Sarah said nothing. Her fingers found the embroidery hoop again, clutching it like an anchor. Robert came to her side and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “If this is what you want,” he said quietly. “I will support you.”
Sarah looked down at the half-finished stitching, the thread as tangled as the thoughts she couldn’t quite unknot. She was supposed to feel triumphant, but instead, she felt like a girl inside a story someone else had written. The Duke had made his intention clear, and Matthew had led her to him and quietly watched her go.
Sarah drew in a breath hoping to still the flurry in her chest. She raised her chin toward the sunlight and told herself to be grateful. She threaded the needle again with steady hands. She told herself this was the right path. She hoped that it would be true.
