Page 28 of Yours Always (The Enduring Hearts #1)

Edenfield - London, England

Sarah smoothed the skirt of her emerald green gown as she rose from her dressing table.

Maria had only just finished pinning up her hair, but a few curls had already slipped free, framing her face in soft defiance.

She didn’t bother calling her back to fix it.

There was no need to be perfect, not when the evening had already perfectly unraveled.

She turned toward the mirror, eyeing the shimmer of the fabric.

It had taken her far too long to decide on a gown for the Christmas party she was meant to attend with the Duke, but only an hour ago a note arrived in his precise, careful hand expressing his regrets claiming a head cold.

Sarah wasn’t sure if what she felt was disappointment, or relief.

Over the past few months, Sarah had come to know the Duke in a way that surprised her.

He was pleasant. Kind. Handsome beyond measure.

His sisters were a delight, and their company often made her laugh in ways she hadn’t expected.

He listened when she spoke, never rushed her, never dismissed her thoughts.

He had become, undeniably, a dear friend.

Yet, despite the ease between them, and the moments of quiet companionship and mutual respect, he had not become more.

The ache in her chest that he hadn’t, that he likely never would, was as sharp as it was constant.

Not because of anything lacking in him, but because of something missing in herself.

Something she’d given to someone else long ago.

She pressed her fingers lightly to her chest, as if to still the ache that never seemed to leave her.

Matthew had been gone for months, but the pain hadn’t lessened.

If anything, it had grown and sharpened into something she couldn’t reason or dismiss.

Maybe she could convince Benjamin to play cards after dinner with the hope that it would distract her, just enough to forget that Matthew wouldn’t be with them for Christmas this year.

She glanced at the small gold watch laying on her dressing table and sighed.

It was too late to change into something simpler now.

They would already be seated in the dining room.

She would be the most overdressed person at a table of four.

She gathered her skirts and hurried softly down the staircase, the hem whispering against her slippers.

As she neared the dining room, she stopped abruptly, struck still as if the very air had thickened. Laughter floated down the corridor. Not just her father’s baritone. Not just Benjamin’s quick-witted drawl. Another voice. Deeper. Rougher. Tinged with the familiar warmth of a Scottish burr.

Her breath hitched. She stood frozen, unable to move toward the sound or away from it.

Her pulse roared in her ears. Slowly, she leaned forward, just enough to catch a glimpse of the dining room through the crack in the doorway.

Matthew sat at the far end of the table, framed in the warm candlelight.

His shoulders looked narrower, his cheekbones more hollow.

His hair was longer now, curling gently at his collar.

His jaw was dark with scruff. And yet he smiled, that same boyish grin that had always undone her.

She couldn’t hear the words he and Benjamin exchanged, only the cadence. The teasing ease and the comfort of belonging and of home. Her hand trembled against the doorframe.

The weeks she’d spent pretending that Matthew had never mattered— gone.

The fragile lies she had clung to that said she had moved on and had made peace—shattered.

She was in love with Matthew Fenwick. And she hated him for it.

She turned too quickly, and her hip caught the edge of the side table beside her.

The porcelain vase wobbled, tipped, and fell, shattering across the stone floor in a burst of blue and white.

The laughter stopped, and chairs scraped sharply against the floorboards.

“Sarah?” her mother called. “Are you alright?” But Sarah couldn’t hear her.

She could only see Matthew, still seated at the table.

Not moving. Not speaking. Just looking—at her.

Her mother suddenly appeared at her side, reaching for her arm. Sarah flinched and bolted, fleeing down the corridor, her breath caught somewhere between her ribs. She heard footsteps behind her and the mingling of multiple voices, but one of them was unmistakable.

She ducked into the nearest sitting room and pressed the door closed behind her, her pulse thudding wildly in her ears. Why hadn’t she run upstairs? Why hadn’t she chosen a room with a lock?

The door opened and he stepped inside, tall, silent, and shadowed in the firelight. He closed the door behind him with a soft click, and then his eyes found hers. They were darker than she remembered, almost the same green as her dress. Her dress.

She instantly regretted not changing out of it. The emerald silk clung too tightly, glittered too brightly. It was too much for a simple family dinner. Too much for him to see. But secretly some part of her was glad he had a chance to see what he had left behind.

They stood in silence, the heat between them tangible, bristling, until at last, her voice broke through the hush.

“Mr. Fenwick...” It was all she could manage.

“Miss Weston.” He bowed his head slightly, his voice low.

“Or perhaps I ought to get used to calling you Your Grace.” The smirk on his lips didn’t touch his eyes.

The title struck her like a slap, sharp, deliberate, and wounding.

“I am not in the mood for games, Matthew.” His gaze snapped to hers, steady.

“No games. I just want to talk.” But she didn’t want to talk.

She wanted to scream. To run. To kiss him until the world dissolved and she forgot he had ever left.

She hated that she didn’t know which she wanted most.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. The words came sharp and brittle. He blinked, visibly startled by the question. “You ran away so quickly. I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“No,”she said, stepping back, her shoulder catching the wall behind her. “Not here in this room. Here in London. You said you weren’t coming back.”

“Would you rather I hadn’t?”

Yes. No. I don’t know.

The thoughts curled in her chest like smoke. “As I recall,” she said coldly, “what I want is of no consequence.”

“Lizzy, please—”

“Sarah,” she interrupted. “Sarah will do just fine.”

She could see her words had hit a wound, though he tried to hide it. He stepped forward, hand lifted in offering. “Can we please sit while we talk?”

“I prefer to stand.”

He dropped his hand to his side. “I owe you an apology,” he said. “For the things I said before I left.”

“There’s no need.” Her voice was tight and controlled, nothing like the rush of nerves she was feeling inside. “You were right.” His brow furrowed. “What?”

“Everything you said. I refused to grow up. I refused to accept that my life was changing. I disappointed my mother. You and Benjamin were always cleaning up after me. I took Nathaniel’s affections for granted…” Matthew flinched at the Duke’s name. “...and it was time I stopped.”

Matthew held her gaze, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.“Regardless of any truth,” he said, his voice rough, “I shouldn’t have said it the way I did.”

“But you meant it.”

“I regret it.”

“Which part?” She stepped forward now, chin lifted, refusing to let him look away. “Do you regret calling me selfish? Naive? Or is it the part where you pushed me into accepting the Duke’s proposal that you regret the most?” She saw his throat work as he swallowed.

“I wasn’t myself. I need to explain.”

Sarah nodded once.

“My aunt died, and with her passing came a letter. A will that she had hidden. My uncle had a son to a mistress, and everything he owned he left to that boy; my inheritance, my father’s business, all of it.

” Sarah’s eyes widened in shock, but she said nothing.

“I went to Scotland to fight for it, and to try and salvage what I could. When I came back, I sold my townhouse and I bought back the business.”

“You sold your home?” she whispered.

“I had no choice.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wasn’t thinking clearly. I was drowning. I thought if I let you go, it would be easier.”

“Easier for whom, Matthew?”

He didn’t answer. The silence that followed was thick and weighted with everything neither of them dared to say.

The air between them seemed to still. She could hear the quiet crackle of the fire in the hearth, the distant creak of old timbers shifting in the walls, and the faint hitch of her own breath as it caught in her throat.

He looked at her, but not the way he once had. Not with teasing. Not with fondness. With ache. With restraint. With the terrible knowledge of what he had lost. Her fingers curled at her sides. The space between them was only a few feet. But it felt like a chasm.

“Are you happy?”

“What?” His question had caught her off guard.

“You accepted the Duke’s proposal.” The words hung there low, quiet, undeniable.

Not a question. Not a plea. Just a fact.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Her voice rose, too quickly.

“He is a good man. Kind. Honest. He loves me.” Each word landed like a shield she couldn’t stop raising, as if listing his virtues could explain the ache still lodged in her chest.

“But do you love him?”

The question struck like lightning sudden, searing, and too direct to dodge. Sarah froze. Her face paled, the breath catching sharp in her throat. “How dare you,” she whispered. Not loud or angry, simply wounded. “You have no right to ask me that.”

He stepped forward, instinctive, aching. “Lizzy, please—” The nickname pierced through her like a thread pulled too tight. It used to mean safety. It used to mean home. Now it felt like a lie.