Page 20 of The Lady of the Lamps (Vows in Vauxhall Gardens #1)

B eatrix felt as though she might be sick as she knocked on the door to her father’s—now the new Lord Haxbury’s—study. She had promised him a decision within a week, and she had made it. Now she just needed to inform him.

He smiled at her when she entered, and she hoped that signaled the possibility of happiness in their future.

“Lord Haxbury. May I speak with you?”

“Of course. Take a seat. And I think, with us living so closely, you really ought to call me ‘Thomas’.”

The name stuck in her throat, but of course, he was right. They could not stand on ceremony forever.

“Thomas.” She tried it out as she sat down. She ought to tell him to drop the ‘Lady’ from her own name, but she could not quite bring herself to. “I have thought long and hard about your proposal. And I do agree, it is the most sensible option for both of us.”

His eyes lit up. “Marvelous. I knew you were a sensible girl. Now, I may be able to procure a special license, but—”

Beatrix bit her bottom lip. “I have one request. I really do not wish to wed until I am out of mourning.” She gestured to her black dress—something she knew she would be expected to give up once she became a wife. No one wanted a wife who started their marriage mired in grief.

She knew the grief would not magically leave her when she started wearing colors again. And yet it felt disrespectful to her father not to observe a proper mourning period.

Thomas leaned back in her father’s—his—chair and furrowed his brow. “How long did you intend to remain in mourning for?” His tone made it clear her request was an inconvenience, but she did not intend to back down.

“I had thought six months,” she said, but at the sound of Thomas’s protests, she quickly added, “But I would be content with three.”

“Well,” Thomas said, loosening his cravat slightly.

“Three months…could be feasible. It is not really appropriate though, for us to live here alone, unwed. Before it was unusual, but when we are betrothed, it will court scandal. And you understand that I have been very careful to choose a wife who will not bring scandal to my new title.”

Beatrix nodded, more aware than ever that she had been selected for her breeding and her good behavior, and not her personality at all.

“I had thought about that, my l—Thomas. I do have an aunt I could ask to stay, although she lives in the north and would take some time to arrive. And when she writes, it seems she is not well enough to travel very far. Perhaps we could hire a female companion, or…”

Thomas stroked his chin, although there was no hair there to be seen. “My sister does not live far from here. I have not seen her in several years…but she might be persuaded to stay with us, so that everything is above board.”

Beatrix smiled. Perhaps his sister could be a friend in this strange new life she was living in. “An excellent plan. Then we agree on the betrothal, and a wedding in three months?”

“We do. I think we should have a glass of port to celebrate, don’t you? And to toast the future Lord Haxbury, whose arrival we will all look forward to.”

The thought made her feel rather sick, but there was no backing out now. She knew that an heir was what he wanted—and she did want children herself. It was just that, from the very little she knew about how a baby came to be, she did not like the idea of procreating with Thomas.

At least she would have three months to get used to the idea.

Thomas picked up his quill and returned to his documents the moment he had finished his glass of port, even though Beatrix’s was still quite full. “I must send word to my sister immediately, and get the arrangements in order. I’m sure you understand…”

It was clearly a dismissal, and she stood with her glass of port and awkwardly left the room.

Back in the parlor, which had always been a room she had inhabited far more than her father, she sat in the window seat and sipped her port, which tasted more like a drink of commiseration than one of celebration.

She had spent her life looking for magic, and she’d thought she’d found it that night in Vauxhall Gardens, on the precipice of adulthood.

But she knew now that it was a childish fantasy.

She would have to find the magic in life for herself, for she certainly was not going to get it from the heir to her father’s title, or from daydreaming about a match that was not to be.

*

With most of the ton having left for the countryside, the club was quiet. Spencer wasn’t really sure why he’d come. He didn’t want to see anyone particularly, and he knew his friends had already left for the house party. But he could not bear to sit at home with his own thoughts any longer.

Since Lady Beatrix’s visit, and that kiss, he’d found it hard to get her from his mind.

His preoccupation with her in the day seemed to lead to worse nightmares once he retired to bed, although he did not understand the connection.

All he knew was that he awoke two or three times a night screaming and thrashing, trapped in his sheets, begging for his brother’s life.

Seeing his brother die once had been hard enough. But reliving it every night, sometimes more than once, in his dreams was harrowing. If only there was some remedy…but the nightmares were getting worse instead of better.

And so he did not sleep well at night, and during the day he spent time alone in his study, trying to focus on paperwork but instead finding his mind wandering to Lady Beatrix.

Why had she come to his home that day? Was it truly just to inform him she was to be betrothed? She’d had no obligation to do so, since there was nothing officially between them. If she felt the spark that he did…well, she had not let on.

And that was probably for the best, since he could not, would not, ask her to be his wife.

But he had kissed her…and she had not pulled away, or berated him. That kiss would be seared onto his soul until the day he died.

He was on his second whisky when a group of gentlemen, none of whom he recognized thanks to his reclusive ways, settled at the table beside him. Their chatter was rather ribald, and he did not listen closely to what they were saying until he heard a name he recognized.

“I bet he couldn’t believe his luck,” a fair-haired man said, a slight slur to his words. “From what I heard, he didn’t have much to his name. A few gambling debts, a small house in the middle of nowhere, never even met his titled family… And all of a sudden he’s an earl! Just like that.”

“Was Haxbury old? I didn’t know him,” a dark-haired gentleman asked.

“He wasn’t young…but he wasn’t ancient. In poor health for a while though, I heard.”

“What a shame not to have a son to inherit, or a younger brother or someone more closely related. No offense to the new Lord Haxbury, but I shouldn’t like to think of my title and everything I’ve worked for going to someone I’d never met.”

Although it was the name of Haxbury that had pricked Spencer’s ears, the sentiment struck him harder than he would have expected.

Would Jack have been pleased to know that the title had been passed to his younger brother, when he himself should have inherited it?

And how would he feel about Spencer’s inability to marry, knowing that he would never have children to inherit the title, but would instead pass it on to some unknown cousin after his own death? Just like Lord Haxbury…

“No, only a daughter. And did you hear? She’s to marry the new earl—once she’s out of mourning.”

One of the gentlemen—Spencer didn’t want to look over obviously to see which—let out a low whistle. “Well that’s nice and neat, isn’t it? She inherits nothing, but marries the heir. Makes sense.”

“Yeah, it does. But how old is the new Lord Haxbury, do we know?”

“Approaching forty, I heard. And Haxbury’s daughter must only be five-and-twenty, although she’s never wed.”

Spencer leaned a little closer as the conversation turned to Lady Beatrix.

“The daughter of an earl, unwed? Does she have some deformity? Or some terrible character flaw?” the fairer gentleman asked.

Spencer clenched his fists under the table, feeling angry at the way they were discussing her. Although he himself could not understand why she hadn’t been married to someone younger and far more eligible many years earlier.

Some part of him had been pleased when they’d met again in Vauxhall Gardens that she didn’t have a husband, and yet now he regretted that selfish thought. If she had been married when her father had died, she wouldn’t have had to make a quick choice about her future.

Maybe then she wouldn’t be marrying the new Lord Haxbury—whom Spencer found he did not like.

And yet she deserved to have a marriage to someone who could look after her, give her children, someone whole and healthy without ghosts haunting him.

“No, she’s quite pretty I believe. But she was involved with Trentham—do you remember him?”

“The notorious rake? Killed in a duel?”

“That’s the one.”

“Well, that’ll certainly damage marriage prospects.”

“She was betrothed to him when he died, from what I remember. So he was going to do the right thing—well, until he got involved drunkenly in that duel.”

Spencer stood abruptly, his chair scraping the wooden floor, and stalked from the room.

He’d heard enough. He did not wish to hear those men gossiping about Lady Beatrix, and nor did he believe what they were saying.

It was better to leave before his anger caused him to make a scene.

He struggled to control his emotions these days.

One moment he was spooked by a loud bang; the next he felt furious at the words of a friend, or a stranger.

And he didn’t want to make a scene. What was the point? Lady Beatrix was marrying Lord Haxbury. She would have children with him, and the title of Haxbury would pass to her sons, and everything would continue as it ought to.