Page 22 of Yours Always (The Enduring Hearts #1)
She found him at last near the east corridor, standing half in shadow, his gaze fixed grimly on the marble floor as though locked in battle with something invisible and brutal. Relief, and something she wasn’t ready to admit, crashed through her chest. “Matthew,” she called softly.
He straightened at once, tension snapping through his spine. His posture turned rigid and formal. A version of him she barely recognized. “Miss Weston,” he said lightly. He offered her a practiced bow, and Sarah faltered.
Miss Weston.
Not Lizzy.
Not even Sarah. The words struck like a slap.
She closed the distance between them, lifting her chin, confusion and hurt coiling like smoke in her chest. “What is wrong?” she asked, keeping her voice steady by sheer force of will.
“Nothing,” he said curtly, and too quickly to be believable.
Sarah’s hands clenched at her sides. She ignored the curious glance of a passing footman and stepped squarely in front of him.
“You are lying,” she said. The corner of Matthew’s mouth twitched with the ghost of a smile. “You should return to the Duke,” he said, his voice rough now. “He is looking for you.” Sarah lifted her chin higher. “And I was looking for you.”
For a heartbeat, something raw flickered across his face. He wavered, but only for a moment, then the mask returned. “Matthew,” she whispered, her breath catching. “What has happened to us?” He shifted, folding his arms tightly over his chest. “I am not sure what you mean.”
“You know exactly what I mean,” she said, her voice urgent. “You were always there, like a part of me, yet these past few weeks every time we speak it feels like...” she broke off, breath catching. Then, barely above a whisper. “Torture.”
Matthew looked away, his jaw tight. “Not every moment,” he said hoarsely. “Then why do you avoid me?” she demanded. “Why do you disappear? We can’t even finish a conversation without you walking away.”
“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 across the 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.