Page 26 of Yours Always (The Enduring Hearts #1)

Edenfield - London, England

The long dining table had been cleared. The candles burned low, wax pooling at their bases, and the drawing room now hummed with soft conversation.

Teacups clinked gently as Sarah’s family and the Duke gathered, voices weaving in and out in practiced civility.

Sarah stood near the window, her shoulder grazing the velvet drapes, her fingers curled around the folds of her gown.

Outside, the grounds were swallowed in dusk, the shadows long and shifting.

Inside, the nerves in her stomach twisted tighter with every passing moment.

She wanted to give him an answer. He deserved clarity, and she deserved peace.

The Duke of Kenswick had been the picture of patience, unfailingly polite, perfectly composed.

Waiting for the answer he had asked for not weeks ago—but months.

He had even forgone his plans to return to the country at the close of the Season, choosing instead to remain in London and spend the summer in the quiet company of her family.

A gesture not of pressure, but of hope. Hope that time might bring her clarity. And still, she had said nothing.

Sarah wasn’t even sure what she was waiting for. For Matthew to burst in and say the words he refused to speak? For the hollow ache in her chest to harden into certainty? It hadn’t, it wouldn’t, and she was tired of waiting.

All evening she had smiled and nodded, murmured pleasantries and sipped her tea as if her heart weren’t beating out a desperate, uneven rhythm behind every word. As if she weren’t being torn apart by the absence of something that had once felt like home.

Across the room, Grace sat beside the fire, worry etched deep behind her composed expression. Benjamin, stiff in his chair, tapped a silent rhythm against his knee, his gaze flicking often to Sarah. Victoria, radiant and satisfied, engaged the Duke in conversation, her laughter a shade too bright.

The Duke was everything good and desirable.

He would never raise his voice in anger.

He would never retreat into silence or leave her standing in a ballroom with questions still ringing in her chest. He would give her dignity.

Respectability. Safety. There would be no scandal.

No shame. No heartbreak. Only a carefully built life, polished and proper.

It was everything her mother had promised would bring her happiness, and yet. .. it wasn’t.

The hour stretched thin. The Duke rose, glancing toward Robert murmuring something about the lateness of the evening.

Sarah’s breath caught. It was now or never.

She could not keep clinging to a ghost. She could not build her life around the memory of a man who had walked away without looking back.

Before she could lose her nerve, she crossed the room, her slippers silent against the rug.

“Your Grace,” she said, her voice tight, too bright. “May I speak with you for a moment?”

He turned at once, his blue eyes steady as they found hers. “Of course,” he said gently, offering his arm. She took it, leading him into the corridor outside the drawing room, toward the grand staircase. The hush wrapped around them as the door closed behind.

For a moment, they said nothing. The clock ticked in the silence, loud and steady. Sarah looked down at her gloved hands, then forced herself to lift her chin. “You once asked me a question,” her voice trembled, but she didn’t let it falter. “And the answer is long overdue.”

The Duke studied her, but he didn’t speak.

He didn’t rush her. She drew a breath, but it felt like swallowing glass.

“I would be honored,” she said softly, “to be your wife.” The Duke closed his eyes for the briefest second, exhaling as if he'd been holding his breath for days.

When he looked at her again, there was something almost reverent in his expression.

“Thank you,” he said, the words rough with feeling.

“You have made me the happiest of men, Miss Weston.”

He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. Sarah managed a small, quiet smile. She wanted to believe that in time the ache would fade. That she could learn to want what she was told she already did.

They returned to the drawing room together, arm in arm.

Victoria’s eyes found them first. She beamed, her entire frame lighting with triumph.

She rose swiftly and clasped Sarah’s free hand in both of hers, her voice thick with emotion.

“My darling girl,” she whispered. Robert stood as well, offering the Duke his hand and congratulations with calm approval.

Grace and Benjamin came slower. Sarah met their eyes and lifted her chin, daring them to say aloud what she would not let herself think. But Grace only pulled her close, arms tight, voice thick with love. “I love you, Lizzy. Always.”

“Thank you,” Sarah whispered, calm and steady, but inside, something trembled.

Because even now, even as her hand rested on the Duke’s arm and her family embraced the future unfurled neatly at her feet, her heart strained toward the man who was no longer apart of it.

And toward the part of herself she feared he had taken with him.

______________________

Grace had gone. Her mother and Benjamin had long since retired.

But sleep refused to come. Sarah wandered without a clear purpose, fingers trailing the wainscoting, steps soft as breath, her nightgown whispering against the floor with every slow turn around corners she could have walked blindfolded.

She paused outside her father’s study. The door was ajar, spilling a wedge of amber light into the corridor.

Inside, Robert Weston sat at his desk, reading glasses low on his nose, a glass of brandy at his elbow, and a neat stack of correspondence before him.

The fire crackled low behind him, painting the dark paneled walls in flickering gold.

He looked up when he heard her. His smile was quiet, unhurried.

“Come in, Sarah,” he said, voice warm. “No need to lurk like a ghost.”

She stepped inside and closed the door behind her with care.

He rose, folding his reading glasses and setting his papers aside.

With a gentle gesture, he beckoned her to the settee.

She sat and he joined her with a low sigh of comfort, patting her hand where it rested between them.

“You have made your mother very happy tonight,” he said softly.

“Quite a triumph.” Sarah gave a small smile. “I know.”

“And you, my darling girl?” he asked after a moment, his tone unchanged but more searching.

“Are you happy?” Sarah hesitated. The word sat on her tongue like something too heavy, too final.

“I am content,” she said at last. Robert studied her face, the candlelight catching every flicker of doubt behind her eyes.

“You have never been content, Sarah,” he said quietly.

“Not truly. You used to dream of adventures—of pirates and princes and slaying dragons.”

A breath of laughter escaped her, soft and laced with something like sorrow.

“I remember.” He turned toward her fully.

And in that moment, she didn’t see the esteemed gentleman that her mother proudly introduced in every drawing room.

She saw only her father—the man who once hoisted her onto his shoulders in the orchard, who taught her how to hold a sword made of sticks and believe it could fell giants.

“You’ve grown into a remarkable woman,” he said, pride deepening the lines around his eyes.

“But I wonder if you’ve forgotten how to dream.

” Her eyes welled, shining with unspoken things caught on the edge of her lashes.

“You deserve to be loved, Sarah. Not just respected, or protected, but truly loved. You deserve to feel that love for someone else in return.”

Sarah’s breath faltered, just for a moment, and still he caught it. “You don’t have to prove anything,” he added. “Not to me. Not to your mother. Not to anyone.” She nodded, blinking quickly, still unable to speak. Robert stood, then reached for her hands and drew her to her feet.

When he folded her into his arms, it felt like safety.

The press of his jacket against her cheek, the steady beat of his heart beneath it familiar, and anchoring.

She closed her eyes and breathed in the familiar scent of tobacco, ink and the faintest trace of sandalwood.

For a moment, she was still. When she finally pulled back, she offered him the brightest smile she could manage. “Thank you, Papa.”

He brushed a loose strand of hair from her cheek with the care of a man who remembered her as a little girl. “Whatever path you walk,” he said softly, “you have my blessing.”